Journal of Biblical Literature - Society of Biblical Literature

Journal of Biblical Literature 

VOLUME 121, No. 4 Winter 2002 

The Circumscription of the King: Deuteronomy 17:16–17 

in Its Ancient Social Context 

PATRICIA DUTCHER-WALLS 601–616 

Ancestral Motifs in 1 Samuel 25: Intertextuality and 

Characterization 

MARK E. BIDDLE 617–638 

What’s in a Name? Neo-Assyrian Designations 

for the Northern Kingdom and Their Implications 

for Israelite History and Biblical Interpretation 

BRAD E. KELLE 639–666 

Experiments to Develop Criteria for Determining the 

Existence of Written Sources, and Their Potential 

Implications for the Synoptic Problem 

ROBERT K. MCIVER and MARIE CARROLL 667–687 

Wisdom for the Perfect: Paul’s Challenge to the 

Corinthian Church (1 Corinthians 2:6–16) 

SIGURD GRINDHEIM 689–709 

Jewish Laws on Illicit Marriage, the Defilement of Offspring, 

and the Holiness of the Temple: A New Halakic Interpretation 

of 1 Corinthians 7:14 

YONDER MOYNIHAN GILLIHAN 711–744 

Book Reviews 745—Annual Index 796 

US ISSN 0021–9231

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JBL 121/4 (2002) 601–616 

THE CIRCUMSCRIPTION OF THE KING: 

DEUTERONOMY 17:16–17 

IN ITS ANCIENT SOCIAL CONTEXT 

PATRICIA DUTCHER-WALLS 

p.dutcher.walls@utoronto.ca 

Knox College, Toronto, ON M5S 2E6 Canada 

The portrait of the king in Deuteronomic law (Deut 17:14–21) presents a 

distinctive view of kingship and royal authority. The role of a Deuteronomic 

king is carefully limited in ways that seem to reflect ideological interests. Various 

literary, redactional, and general social studies of “the law of the king” have 

identified key components. In particular Deut 17:16–17 sets limits on a king’s 

behavior that appear especially intriguing if only because they are so antithetical 

to usual assumptions about royal actions. But a social-scientific approach 

can set this part of the law into the social contexts of ancient agrarian monarchies 

and empires. The task of this article is, then, to ask: When we use socialscientific 

theories to examine the ideological circumscription of the king in 

Deut 17:16–17, what insights can be gained about the power politics of the 

social group espousing that ideology in the social context of the ancient world? 

Several preliminary remarks on issues of redaction, background and significance, 

and method are necessary. 

I. Preliminary Issues 

Redaction 

The focus of this article will be two verses within the law of the king, Deut 

17:16–17, more specifically, vv. 16aa, 17aa, and 17b. These lines limit the king’s 

ability to acquire horses, wives, and riches. A compositional and redactional 

study of the law of the king is beyond the scope of this article, but we can 

This article is a major revision of a paper presented at the SBL annual meeting in 1999 for a 

joint session of the Biblical Law section and the Deuteronomistic History section. The theme of the 

session was “Royal Authority in Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic History.” 

601

602 


assume the generally accepted views on such issues. Most commentators note 

the similarity in vv. 16aa, 17aa, and 17b, and many place them in the earliest 

Deuteronomic or proto-Deuteronomic layer of composition. 1 Scholars then 

make various proposals on Deuteronomic and Deuteronomistic additions that 

eventually created not only these two verses but the whole law of the king and 

the section of laws on the offices (Deut 16:18–18:22). Commentators also 

propose various dates for the redactional layers ranging from pre- or proto- 

Deuteronomic or Deuteronomistic development to exilic composition or 

redaction. 2 Along with many scholars, we will assume that the lines in question, 

if not other parts of the law of the king and the laws on offices, are part of a preexilic, 

Deuteronomic composition. 3 This assumption places the examination of 

1 Among other commentaries, see Peter C. Craigie, The Book of Deuteronomy (NICOT; 

Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1976); A. D. H. Mayes, Deuteronomy (NCB; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 

1979); Horst Dietrich Preuss, Deuteronomium (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 

1982); Patrick D. Miller, Deuteronomy (IBC; Louisville: John Knox, 1990); Moshe Weinfeld, 

Deuteronomy 1–11 (AB 5; New York: Doubleday, 1991); Eduard Nielsen, Deuteronomium (HAT; 

Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1995); Ronald Clements, “Deuteronomy,” NIB 2:271–538. See also 

more specialized studies, e.g., on the law of the king: Moshe Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the 

Deuteronomic School (Oxford: Clarendon, 1972; repr., Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1992); F. 

García López, “Le Roi d’Israel: Dt 17,14–20,” in Das Deuteronomium: Entstehung, Gestalt und 

Botschaft (ed. Norbert Lohfink; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1985), 277–97; Gerald Eddie 

Gerbrandt, Kingship According to the Deuteronomistic History (SBLDS 87; Atlanta: Scholars 

Press, 1986); Udo Rüterswörden, Von der politischen Gemeinschaft zur Gemeinde (BBB 65; 

Frankfurt am Main: Athenäum, 1987); Norbert Lohfink, “Distribution of the Functions of Power: 

The Laws Concerning Public Offices in Deuteronomy 16:18–18:22,” in A Song of Power and the 

Power of Song: Essays on the Book of Deuteronomy (ed. Duane L. Christensen; Winona Lake, IN: 

Eisenbrauns, 1993), 336–52 (originally, “Die Sicherung der Wirksamkeit des Gotteswortes durch 

das Prinzip der Schriftlichkeit der Tora und durch das Prinzip der Gewaltenteilung nach den 

Ämtergesetzen des Buches Deuteronomium (Dt 16,18–18,22),” in Testimonium Veritate (ed. H. 

Wolter; Frankfurter Theologische Studien 7; Frankfurt am Main: Knecht, 1971), 144–55; Gary N. 

Knoppers, Two Nations under God: The Deuteronomistic History of Solomon and the Dual Monarchies, 

vol. 1, The Reign of Solomon and the Rise of Jeroboam (HSM; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993); 

idem, “The Deuteronomist and the Deuteronomic Law of the King: A Reexamination of a Relationship,” 

ZAW 108 (1996): 329–46; Bernard M. Levinson, Deuteronomy and the Hermeneutics of 

Legal Innovation (New York: Oxford, 1997); J. G. McConville, “King and Messiah in Deuteronomy 

and the Deuteronomistic History,” in King and Messiah in Israel and the Ancient Near East (ed. 

John Day; (JSOTSup 20; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 271–95; Gary N. Knoppers, 

“Rethinking the Relationship between Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic History: The Case 

of Kings,” CBQ 63 (2001): 393–415. 

2 A related significant issue is the relationship between the view of kingship in Deuteronomy 

and in the Deuteronomistic History. The view that at least vv. 16aa, 17aa, and 17b are preexilic 

suggests that they either precede or are contemporary with Deuteronomistic portrayals of kingship. 

But the issues are complex and outside the scope of this paper. See especially Gerbrandt, 

Kingship; Knoppers, Two Nations; McConville, “King and Messiah”; and Knoppers, “Rethinking 

the Relationship” and the literature cited in those works. 

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

Dutcher-Walls: Deuteronomy 17:16–17 603 

the implications of Deut 17:16aa, 17aa, and 17b within a monarchic political 

situation in the seventh century B.C.E. when Judah was largely dominated by 

Assyria. 4 

Background and Significance 

There are various theories as to the background and significance of the 

limits placed on the king in Deut 17:16–17. Numerous scholars point out that 

these limits (and much of the law of the king) have a historical background in 

the sustained prophetic critiques of royal authority and royal abuses of power. A 

related proposal is that the origin of the limits is in the actual experiences of 

Israel with its kings, their powers and their excesses. 5 Against this understanding 

of the historical background, discussion of the law of the king, as a whole 

and within the laws on offices, reveals two aspects of the significance of these 

laws. (1) Deuteronomy 16:18–18:22 is significant because it places all authorities 

in the nation under the authority of Yahweh and within the covenant character 

of law for the nation. (2) The laws on offices provide for a balance of 

Roi,” 282–87; Rüterswörden, Von der politischen Gemeinschaft, 89–93; Weinfeld, Deuteronomy 

1–11, 55–57; and McConville, “King and Messiah,” 276–81. Thomas C. Römer summarizes: 

“There may be quite a consensus in critical scholarship about the seventh century B.C.E. as the 

starting point of deuteronomism” (“Transformations in Deuteronomistic and Biblical Historiography,” 

ZAW 109 [1997]: 2). 

4 While the written text of Deut 17:16aa, 17aa, and 17b will be taken as an expression of 

Deuteronomic ideology, positing a written format for the expression of an ideology is not strictly 

necessary to the task. One could posit a group within Judah’s elite classes in the seventh century 

that promoted such an ideology without a written expression of it because ideologies can be propagated 

through other material means, such as monumental architecture and ceremonial events. An 

examination of the role of literacy and writing in the expression of ideology, though beyond my task, 

is a significant, related topic. See Elizabeth DeMarrais, Luis Jaime Castillo, and Timothy Earle, 

“Ideology, Materialization and Power Strategies,” in Agency, Ideology, and Power in Archeological 

Theory, Current Anthropology 37 (1996): 15–31; and Mogens Trolle Larsen, “Introduction: Literacy 

and Social Complexity,” in State and Society: The Emergence and Development of Social Hierarchy 

and Political Centralization (ed. John Gledhill, Barbara Bender, and Mogens Trolle Larsen; 

London: Unwin Hyman, 1988), 173–91. For examples of articles that understand this type of 

expression of ideology in ancient Israel, see Carol L. Meyers, “Jachin and Boaz in Religious and 

Political Perspective,” CBQ 45 (1983): 167–78; and Keith W. Whitelam, “The Symbols of Power: 

Aspects of Royal Propaganda in the United Monarchy,” BA 49 (September 1986): 166–73. For 

works that focus on Assyrian influence through figurative and cultural forms, see Jane M. Cahill, 

“Rosette Stamp Impressions from Ancient Judah,” IEJ 45 (1995): 230–52; and Christoph Uelhinger, 

“Figurative Policy, Propaganda und Prophetie,” in Congress Volume: Cambridge 1995 (ed. 

J. A. Emerton; VTSup 66; Leiden: Brill, 1995). 

5 See, e.g., Mayes, Deuteronomy, 270; Miller, Deuteronomy, 147; Clements, “Deuteronomy,” 

418, 427; see also Knoppers, “Deuteronomist,” 331–34; and McConville, “King and Messiah,” 

276–81, who both provide a discussion of the issues and related bibliography.

604 


powers among the leaders, which limits the power of all the offices, particularly 

the king, so that the laws work together as a “constitution” for the nation. 6 

For many scholars, the law of the king, more specifically, is significant in 

placing theological/ideological (if not actual) limitations on kingship. Scholars 

discuss three broad limitations. (1) The law markedly reduces the powers of the 

king and thereby the possibilities of abuse of power. (2) The law places kingship 

within the covenantal and community character of Israel as enjoined upon it by 

Yahweh. (3) The law reminds the king that the full allegiance and loyalty of the 

whole community, and in particular the king himself, are to be given to Yahweh. 7 

The specific clauses in the law of the king in Deut 17:16–17 concerning 

horses, wives, and wealth also are seen by scholars to have various types of significance. 

All three prohibitions fit generally within an intent to limit royal powers 

and thereby abuse, and to enjoin royal allegiance to Yahweh. The limit on 

horses signifies a limit on a professional standing army as opposed to popular 

militias and has related implications concerning Yahweh’s leadership in “holy 

war.” It also entails a limit on foreign entanglements and alliances to secure 

horses for military purposes. The limit on wives signifies a move to limit foreign 

entanglements and in particular to limit temptations to apostasy that accompany 

such marriages outside the community of Israel. The limit on wealth signifies 

a limit on commerce with foreign nations and/or a limit on the king’s 

accumulation of power and status above other Israelites. 8 

What is striking about all these discussions is how much they are oriented 

to understanding the background and significance of vv. 16–17 (and the law of 

the king by extension) almost exclusively in an internal Israelite context. As 

reviewed above, the law and these verses are taken to originate in Israel’s historical 

experience with its kings and/or in prophetic critiques of kingship. The 

theological/ideological significance of the law and these verses is the limitation 

set on royal behavior within the community of Israel and under Yahweh’s 

covenant, granted that for some scholars this does limit foreign entanglements 

symbolized by military, trade, or marriage alliances. Almost absent from these 

discussions is any recognition that, in the time period during which elements of 

the Deuteronomic law of the king were being developed (the seventh century 

6 Although these authors differ on redactional issues, see in particular Miller, Deuteronomy, 

141; Lohfink, “Distribution”; Preuss, Deuteronomium, 137; and Clements, “Deuteronomy,” 417. 

7 Again, although these authors differ on redactional issues, see Craigie, Deuteronomy, 

253–54; Mayes, Deuteronomy, 272–73; Lohfink, “Distribution,” 348; Gerbrandt, Kingship, 110; 

Miller, Deuteronomy, 147; Knoppers, “Deuteronomist,” 332; and Clements, “Deuteronomy,” 

425–26. 

8 See Craigie, Deuteronomy, 255–56; Lohfink, “Distribution,” 349; García-Lopez, “Le Roi,” 

292–93; Gerbrandt, Kingship, 111–12; Rüterswörden, Von der politischen Gemeinschaft, 91; and 

McConville, “King and Messiah,” 276.


B.C.E.), Judah was either a vassal of the Assyrian empire, was briefly attempting 

to free itself from that empire, or was attempting to avoid/react to the Babylonian 

empire. While this article will not seek to discount the theories on vv. 16– 

17 that have been noted so far, it will attempt to expand the understanding of 

the internal social dynamics implied in the limitations on kingship in Deut 

17:16–17 and to place the background and significance of these verses within 

the larger social context of the Assyrian empire. 

Method 

In order to achieve the ends just noted, a social-scientific approach is necessary 

to focus on the patterns of interaction among the social actors involved, 

be they kings, elites, or empires. This approach will be complemented by the 

historical study of ancient Israel and Assyria, particularly utilizing recent work 

on political and ideological relationships within the Neo-Assyrian empire. In 

addition, because what is at issue in a law about kingship is a conceptualization 

or ideology of kingship rather than the action of particular historical kings, the 

methods used must also be sensitive to the function of ideology in social power 

relations. 

Building on the discussions of recent decades about ancient Israel’s social 

world and institutions, 9 we will use systemic and comparative theories from the 

social sciences, including macrosociology and anthropology. 10 Within systemic 

and comparative social-science theories on states and state development, two 

recent approaches have been especially helpful for examining social power 

relationships and the impact of ideology on those relationships within ancient 

social contexts. Both the theory of dual-processual evolution and that of coreperiphery 

relations are extensions and refinements of theories on early and 

developing states, which have been familiar in biblical scholarship especially on 

early Israel. 11 The usefulness for our task of these two recent theories stems 

9 The bibliography on sociological studies is extensive; for collections of relevant articles, see 

Community, Identity, and Ideology: Social Science Approaches to the Hebrew Bible (ed. Charles E. 

Carter and Carol L. Meyers; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1996); and Social-Scientific Old Testament 

Criticism (ed. David Chalcraft; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997). For a review of 

the field, see A. D. H. Mayes, “Sociology and the Old Testament,” in The World of Ancient Israel 

(ed. R. E. Clements; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 39–63. 

10 See, e.g., Gerhard Lenski, Patrick Nolan, and Jean Lenski, Human Societies: An Introduction 

to Macrosociology (7th ed.; New York: McGraw-Hill, 1995). 

11 On dual-processual evolution, see especially Richard E. Blanton, Gary M. Feinman, 

Stephen A. Kowalewski, and Peter N. Peregrine, “A Dual-Processual Theory for the Evolution of 

Mesoamerican Civilization,” in Agency, Ideology and Power in Archaeological Theory, Current 

Anthropology 37 (1996): 1–14; and Thomas Fillitz, “Intellectual Elites and the Production of Ideology,” 

in Ideology and the Formation of Early States (ed. Henri J. M. Claessen and Jarich G. Oosten;

606 


from their attention to several relevant factors: ancient monarchic societies, 

complexity within social systems, and ideology as a societal component. 

An ideology as a part of a culture’s socially constructed and shared meanings 

12 has a dual function: to provide cognitive meaning, “a more fundamental 

dogmatic dimension,” and to provide practical guides to action, “a more pragmatic, 

operative dimension.” 13 Thus, ideology is a “focussed expression of different 

shared meanings and different interpretations of the same meanings as 

they are related to specific socio-economic and political interests.” 14 A conflict 

about an ideology, or between variant ideologies, within a particular social setting 

will mirror conflict among or between social actors who have their own 

interests in power, wealth, status, and so on. 15 

To take these clauses in vv. 16–17 as a part of an expression of royal ideology 

is thus to propose that we see these lines as an expression of a particular 

“worldview” that had concomitant social, economic, and political implications 

and to propose that the ideology was fostered by a group of elites within 

seventh-century Judah. What is common to all the studies of agrarian states is 

the pattern of struggle among elites for control of the apparatus of government—either 

as a “state apparatus” or, in the form most common to agrarian 

societies, as the monarchy. 16 Thus, the circumscription of royal authority 

Leiden: Brill, 1996), 67–83. On core-periphery relations, see especially Christopher Chase-Dunn 

and Thomas D. Hall, Core/Periphery Relations in Precapitalist Worlds (Boulder, CO: Westview, 

1991); Edward M. Schortman and Patricia A. Urban, “Core/Periphery Relations in Ancient Southeastern 

Mesoamerica,” in Living on the Edge, Current Anthropology 35 (1994): 401–13; Centre 

and Periphery in the Ancient World (ed. Michael Rowlands, Mogens Larsen, and Kristian Kristiansen; 

Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987); and Resources, Power, and Interregional 

Interaction (ed. Edward M. Schortman and Patricia A. Urban; New York: Plenum Press, 1992). 

12 A variety of definitions of “ideology” have been used in sociological literature, and a number 

of conceptual debates have arisen. See, e.g., the discussion in Henri J. M. Claessen and Jarich 

G. Oosten, “Introduction,” in Ideology, ed. Claessen and Oosten, 1–23. 

13 From Myron J. Aronoff, who uses Geertz and Berger and Luckman to formulate his definitions 

(Myron J. Aronoff, “Ideology and Interest: The Dialectics of Politics,” in Political Anthropology 

Yearbook I [New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Books, 1980], 4). 

14 Ibid., 8 

15 Ibid., 25. 

16 Gerhard E. Lenski, Power and Privilege: A Theory of Social Stratification (Chapel Hill: 

University of North Carolina Press, 1984), 211; and Keith Whitelam, “Israelite Kingship: The Royal 

Ideology and Its Opponents,” in World of Ancient Israel, ed. Clements, 121. For the notion that 

“kingdom” is the appropriate term for ancient monarchies, see Paul Garelli, “L’État et la Légitimité 

Royale sous l’Empire Assyrien,” in Power and Propaganda: A Symposium on Ancient Empires (ed. 

Mogens Trolle Larsen; Copenhagen: Akademisk Forlag, 1979), 319. Different studies have defined 

the conflict as the struggles of local versus state institutions (Donald V. Kurtz, “The Legitimation of 

Early Inchoate States,” in The Study of the State [ed. Henri J. M. Claessen and Peter Skalník; The 

Hague: Mouton, 1981], 177–200), or as the struggles of kinship-based groups versus ruling elites 

(Shirley Ratnagar, “Ideology and the Nature of Political Consolidation and Expansion: An Archae-


implied in Deut 17:16–17 was probably not the only definition available, and 

conflict over how to define kingship involved both conceptual and practical elements. 

Since all groups in a situation of ideological conflict claim theological 

validation and legitimation for their views, the various definitions of kingship 

each probably claimed to be upholding “true” nationalistic and Yahwistic interests. 

17 

II. Internal Social Dynamics 

We begin a social-scientific examination of the “internal” implications of 

vv. 16aa, 17aa, and 17b by asking what are the meanings of the prohibitions 

against excessive horses, wives, and wealth, focusing on the “practical” or “realworld” 

function of the ideology—what this ideology claimed about what a king 

could or could not actually do in political and economic terms. Dual-processual 

theory was developed in reaction to evolutionary theories of state development 

that use a “simple stage typology to account for variation among societies of 

similar complexity.” 18 Instead, this theory investigates “the varying strategies 

used by political actors to construct and maintain polities” 19 that may not show 

a linear, evolutionary development but rather may show cycles of change, 

growth, contraction, and varying patterns of elite control of the state. 

Dual-processual theory identifies two broad types of power strategies used 

by elites in agrarian states. In the first, called an exclusionary strategy, “political 

actors aim at the development of a political system built around their monopoly 

control of sources of power.” 20 In competition among elites for wealth, status, 

and power, or in competition of elites against a major power holder such as a 

king, an exclusionary political strategy emphasizes the building and exploitation 

of networks of social, economic, and political connections beyond a power 

holder’s local group to build prestige and power. To develop exclusionary power 

by networking, political actors exploit, for example, military technology and 

control, patrimonial rhetoric and systems of ranked clan and descent groups, 

and trade and control of luxury and prestige goods. 21 

By contrast, the second power strategy, termed a corporate power strategy, 

aims to distribute, structure, and control power within limits set by an elite 

ological Case,” in Ideology and the Formation of Early States, ed. Claessen and Oosten, 170–86), or 

as the struggles of rulers versus commoner communities (John Gledhill, “Introduction: The Comparative 

Analysis of Social and Political Transitions,” in State and Society, ed. Gledhill et al., 1–29). 

17 I am indebted to Dr. Marvin Chaney for this insight. 

18 Blanton et al., “Dual-Processual Theory,” 1. 

19 Ibid. 

20 Ibid., 2. 

21 Ibid., 4–5.

608 


structure of corporate governance. “Power is shared across different groups 

and sectors of society in such a way as to inhibit exclusionary strategies.” 22 Not 

to be confused with an egalitarian or democratic impulse, corporate power 

strategies emphasize the domination of society by powerful, centralized formations. 

Ideologically, such a strategy “always involves the establishment and 

maintenance of a cognitive code that emphasizes a corporate solidarity of society 

as an integrated whole . . . [and] . . . emphasizes collective representations 

and accompanying ritual.” 23 

Exclusionary and corporate power strategies are not mutually exclusive 

within any one polity. Both may be pursued by political actors in varying 

degrees at the same time; or one or the other may be applied to internal or 

external social relations; or they may be used sequentially as the goals of elites, 

or the elites themselves, change. 24 

Where do the limits on the king fit within these power strategies? First, 

horses are principally used for military technology, in the ancient Near East 

particularly to pull chariots. For elites struggling against a ruler or among themselves, 

the ability to control military power was the most basic form of force by 

which to carry out one’s own strategies. Kings in particular needed an army that 

could carry out commands and secure resources. 25 Other elites generally 

wanted to limit the king’s ability to use force, at least against them, while allowing 

the kingdom to have sufficient defensive power. Because horses required a 

large expenditure for acquisition, care, and training, the prohibition against 

horses may represent a limit on the king’s ability to control a professional army. 

Keeping military technology in the hands of either military officers separate 

from the king’s private forces or in the hands of a militarized elite class limited 

the king’s power to enforce his own strategies and decisions over against these 

elites. 26 

From a sociological perspective, marriage among elites is an arrangement 

of economic, social, and political import, rather than a romantic matter. The 

number of wives, their origins in key upper-class families or clans, and the number 

of children produced, were all matters of royal status. We can highlight the 

use of marriage by elites, and kings in particular, to gain political advantage or 

establish strategic political alliances. 27 Limiting a king’s ability to arrange mar- 

22 Ibid., 2. 

23 Ibid., 6. 

24 Ibid., 8–12, where Blanton et al. apply the theory to the states of Mesoamerica. 

25 Reinhard Bendix, Kings or People: Power and the Mandate to Rule (Berkeley: University of 

California Press, 1978), 219. 

26 Lenski, Power and Privilege, 237. 

27 Gideon Sjoberg, The Preindustrial City (New York: Free Press, 1960), 149.


riages at will with key families or allies would hamper his use of an important 

strategic political tool. 28 

In a sense, “gold and silver,” or wealth, is the most transparent of the three 

limitations put on the king in Deut 17. In agrarian societies, control of the 

apparatus of government brought the possibility of enormous accumulation of 

wealth, since the whole economy was oriented toward extracting wealth from 

all productive sources and channeling it to the center, the government, monarchy, 

elites, and king. 29 A limitation on the wealth of a king translates into curtailing 

the king’s control of the economic surplus by restricting his rights to 

taxation, trade, rents, fees, plunder and confiscation, and so on. The principal 

rivals to the king’s control of wealth were other elites, particularly the holders of 

large patrimonial or prebendal estates. 30 

The prohibitions against excessive horses, wives, and wealth in Deut 

17:16–17 are specific limitations of the king’s abilities to use typical exclusionary 

power strategies. It appears that the group propagating this aspect of royal 

ideology knew very well the strategies a king can use to gain power against rivals 

to the throne and against other elites. The king was not to be allowed to seek 

exclusionary control through development of a large chariot force, to exploit 

political connections through marriage alliances, or to use trade networks and 

prestige goods to accumulate wealth. This sociological perspective thus reinforces 

the idea that the significance of these verses lies in their limitation of the 

king’s power within the state of ancient Judah. But this sociological perspective 

also emphasizes, more than most scholars have seen, the internal political 

struggles inherent in the propagation and application of such an ideological 

stance. In the background of such limits on kingship stand certain power holders 

who are acting against other elites to increase their power over the king by 

limiting his exclusionary powers. 

III. External Social Dynamics 

Historical studies that examine the impact on Israel and Judah of the 

Assyrian empire in the late eighth and seventh centuries B.C.E. form the background 

for all further work. 31 The destructiveness of Assyria’s western military 

28 This dynamic was explored without the use of sociological theory in Jon D. Levenson and 

Baruch Halpern, “The Political Import of David’s Marriages,” JBL 99 (1980): 507–18. 

29 Lenski, Power and Privilege, 212. 

30 T. F. Carney, The Shape of the Past: Models and Antiquity (Lawrence, KS: Coronado 

Press, 1975), 61. 

31 Representative works include Morton Cogan, Imperialism and Religion: Assyria, Judah,

610 Journal of Biblical Literature 

campaigns and the vassal status of Judah during much of the period, with the 

conditions that status entailed, such as payment of tribute, are well established. 

Numerous studies have also examined the effects of the political and cultural 

concomitants of Assyrian hegemony, particularly regarding the influence of 

genres of ancient Near Eastern and Neo-Assyrian treaties and oaths on biblical 

literature. These studies have focused on Deuteronomy and Deuteronomistic 

writing and on covenant forms and theology, covering topics ranging from the 

generalized study of treaty and oath formulas and structures and their impact 

on the Deuteronomic stream of tradition, to strict verbal parallels such as those 

between Assyrian and Deuteronomic curses. 32 Although the influence of 

ancient Near Eastern treaties on the form and theology of covenant in Deuteronomy 

is generally accepted, some issues remain. 33 Recent articles have studied 

further the use of Assyrian literary genres and specific verbal parallels to 

biblical literature. 34 Eckhart Otto has explored the far-reaching impact of the 

ideological, social, and economic changes that accompanied Assyrian hegemony 

on Deuteronomy, both on its principal conceptualizations in reactualiz- 

and Israel in the Eighth and Seventh Centuries B.C.E. (SBLMS 19; Missoula, MT: Society of Biblical 

Literature and Scholars Press, 1974); Moshe Elat, “The Political Status of the Kingdom of Judah 

within the Assyrian Empire in the 7th Century B.C.E.,” in Investigations at Lachish: The Sanctuary 

and the Residency (Lachish V) (ed. Yohanan Aharoni; Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Institute of 

Archeology and Gateway Publishers, 1975), 61–70; Benedikt Otzen, “Israel under the Assyrians,” 

in Power and Propaganda, ed Larsen, 251–61; Ehud Ben Zvi, “Prelude to a Reconstruction of Historical 

Manassic Judah,” BN 81 (1996): 31–44; and Roy Gane, “The Role of Assyria in the Ancient 

Near East during the Reign of Manasseh,” Andrews University Seminary Studies 35 (1997): 21–32. 

Also see such varied studies as Mario Liverani, “L’Histoire de Joas,” VT 24 (1974): 438–53; Moshe 

Weinfeld, “Zion and Jerusalem as Religious and Political Capital: Ideology and Utopia,” in The Poet 

and the Historian: Essays in Literary and Historical Biblical Criticism (ed. Richard Elliott Friedman; 

Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1983), 75–115; K. Lawson Younger, Jr., Ancient Conquest 

Accounts: A Study in Ancient Near Eastern and Biblical History Writing (JSOTSup 98; Sheffield: 

Sheffield Academic Press, 1990); Antti Laato, “Second Samuel 7 and Ancient Near Eastern Royal 

Ideology,” CBQ 59 (1997): 244–69. 

32 The bibliography is extensive, including such representatives works as William L. Moran, 

“The Ancient Near Eastern Background of the Love of God in Deuteronomy,” CBQ 25 (1963): 

77–87; R. Frankena, “The Vassal-Treaties of Esarhaddon and the Dating of Deuteronomy,” OtSt 

14 (1965): 123–54; Weinfeld, Deuteronomic School; idem, “The Loyalty Oath in the Ancient Near 

East,” UF 8 (1976): 379–414; D. J. McCarthy, Treaty and Covenant (2d ed.; AnBib 21A; Rome: 

Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1978); A. D. H. Mayes, “On Describing the Purpose of Deuteronomy,” 

in The Pentateuch: A Sheffield Reader (ed. John W. Rogerson; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 

1996). 

33 See Gary N. Knoppers, “Ancient Near Eastern Royal Grants and the Davidic Covenant: A 

Parallel?” JAOS 116 (1996): 670–97 and bibliography there. 

34 William Hallo, “Jerusalem under Hezekiah: An Assyriological Perspective,” in Jerusalem: 

Its Sanctity and Centrality to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam (ed. Lee I. Levine, New York: Continuum, 

1999), 36–50; Bernard M. Levinson, “Textual Criticism, Assyriology, and the History of 

Interpretation: Deuteronomy 13:7a as a Test Case in Method,” JBL 120 (2001): 211–43.


ing older laws within a revolutionary reform program and on particular expressions 

and laws. 35 

Perspectives from the social sciences can augment such scholarship. In 

recent years, sociology has seen the development of a theory of core–periphery 

relations, that is, of relations between a dominant, core state and the secondary, 

peripheral states on its borders. 36 This theory has identified a number of variables 

that must be taken into account in describing core–periphery relations. 

These variables include differentiation among societies at different levels of 

complexity, the nature of the hierarchical relationships where domination 

between societies exists, 37 the existence of multiple power centers or cores in a 

system, 38 the different modes of production, kinship, tributary, and so on, in the 

related states, 39 and the variables along which core–periphery relations are 

measured. 40 The most important factors include military, political, economic, 

and ideological relationships between the core and the periphery. Scholars 

have furthermore identified three principal variations in the political-economic 

structure of core–periphery systems. These are (1) a dendritic political economy, 

where goods flow directly from the periphery to the core; (2) a hegemonic 

empire, in which the core dominates its periphery by military force but does 

not necessarily incorporate the peripheral states directly; and (3) the territorial 

empire, in which the periphery is incorporated into the political system of the 

core through direct conquest, military occupation, and assimilation. 41 

The theory suggests that the Neo-Assyrian empire and its core–periphery 

relations can be characterized as a system in which the core dominated the 

periphery in certain specific ways through direct and indirect rule but which 

did not fully assimilate its outermost peripheral states into the core. 42 Assyria 

35 Eckart Otto, Das Deuteronomium: Politische Theologie und Rechtsreform in Juda und 

Assyrien (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1999). 

36 Partially developed by theorists interested in modern world systems, core–periphery theory 

has also focused on ancient and premodern states with an accompanying emphasis on the use of 

archaeological materials as a source of data. An assumed pattern of domination and development in 

the core alongside passivity and underdevelopment on the periphery has proven much too simplified. 

See such studies as S. N. Eisenstadt, “Observations and Queries about Sociological Aspects of 

Imperialism in the Ancient World,” in Power and Propaganda, ed Larsen, 21–33; Chase-Dunn and 

Hall, Core/Periphery Relations; Christopher Chase-Dunn and Thomas D. Hall, “Comparing 

World-Systems: Concepts and Working Hypotheses,” Social Forces 71 (1993): 851–86; and Schortman 

and Urban, “Core/Periphery Relations”; and various articles in State and Society, ed. Gledhill 

et al. 

37 Chase-Dunn and Hall, Core/Periphery Relations, 19. 

38 Ibid., 12. 

39 Ibid., 22. 

40 Schortman and Urban, “Core/Periphery Relations,” 413. 

41 Robert. S. Santley and Rani T. Alexander, “The Political Economy of Core-Periphery Systems,” 

in Resources, Power, and Interregional Interaction, ed. Shortman and Urban, 23–49. 

42 Eisenstadt, “Observations and Queries,” 21–33; K. Ekholm and J. Friedman, “‘Capital’

612 


represents the type where the process of expansion involved “relatively little 

restructuring of the basic structural and cultural premises of the conquered 

and/or conquerors.” 43 

Historical scholarship has identified a differentiation between those areas 

of the periphery that remained in a vassal status and those that became 

provinces. Vassals retained more local political and economic structures and 

kept their own population and elites while being placed under explicit requirements, 

particularly concerning loyalty and tribute. Provinces, on the other 

hand, were more directly incorporated into the Assyrian political, economic, 

and ideological structures, with an Assyrian governor and military presence and 

often major deportations of local populations. 44 In both cases a well-developed 

administrative system functioned to ensure Assyrian interests in its periphery. 45 

These considerations indicate that the Neo-Assyrian empire used aspects of 

both hegemonic and territorial structures in its core–periphery relationships. 

While issues remain about the impact on the periphery of the policies of 

the Assyrian empire, its relations in the seventh-century in Syria-Palestine can 

be summarized according to the primary core–periphery variables—military, 

political, economic, and ideological. Militarily, areas in Syria-Palestine underwent 

repeated invasions, vassal status, and in some cases permanent occupation, 

characteristics of a tighter core–periphery bond. Politically, Judah as a 

vassal would have experienced the typical requirements of loyalty, with the constant 

threat of more direct assertion of control. 46 Economically, the empire 

Imperialism and Exploitation in Ancient World Systems,” 41–58; Mogens Trolle Larsen, “The Tradition 

of Empire in Mesopotamia,” 75–103; J. N. Postgate, “The Economic Structure of the Assyrian 

Empire,” 193–221—all in Power and Propaganda, ed. Larsen; Hayim Tadmor, “World 

Dominion: The Expanding Horizon of the Assyrian Empire,” in Landscapes: Territories, Frontiers 

and Horizons in the Ancient Near East: Papers Presented to the XLIV Rencontre Assyriologique 

Internationale, Venezia, 7-11, July 1997 (ed. L. Milano, S. de Martino, F. M. Fales, and G. B. 

Langranchi; Padua: Sargon Srl, 1999), 55–62. 

43 Eisenstadt, “Social Aspects of Imperialism,” 22. 

44 Moshe Elat, “The Impact of Tribute and Booty on Countries and People within the Assyrian 

Empire,” in Vorträge gehalten auf der 28. Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale in Wein 6- 

10 Juli 1981, AfO 19 (Horn, Austria: Verlag Ferdinand Berger & Söhne Gesellschaft, 1982), 

244–51; Peter Machinist, “Assyrians on Assyria in the First Millennium B.C.,” in Anfänge politischen 

Denkens in der Antike: Die nahöstlichen Kulturen und die Griechen (ed. Kurt Raaflaub; 

Munich: R. Oldenbourg Verlag, 1993), 77–104. 

45 Jana Pecirková, “The Administrative Methods of Assyrian Imperialism,” ArOr 55 (1987): 

162–75; and Raija Mattila, The King’s Magnates: A Study of the Highest Officials of the Neo-Assyrian 

Empire (SAAS 11, Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 2000), 

161–68. 

46 For discussion and details, see J. Maxwell Miller and John H. Hayes, A History of Ancient 

Israel and Judah (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1986), 314–406; Gösta W. Ahlström, The History 

of Ancient Palestine from the Palaeolithic Period to Alexander’s Conquest (JSOTSup 146; 

Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993), 607–740; Larsen, “Tradition of Empire,” 97; and Tadmor, 

“World Dominion,” 56–60.


sought control over trade routes and access to raw materials, allowed certain 

trade and commercial entities to continue, and relied on tribute as its primary 

economic strategy on the periphery, all typical of a looser economic relationship 

with border states. 47 Clearly Assyria depended on its vassals and provinces 

to produce wealth, and it set up economic relations to ensure that outcome. 

Any “extra” wealth that an area might produce was by obligation due to Assyria 

and was not available to the local elites themselves unless it could be “hidden” 

from the empire. 

The ongoing publication of the state archives of Assyria allows scholars to 

learn more detail about Assyria’s relationships with its vassals. In particular, the 

seventh-century B.C.E. vassal treaties specify what behaviors and factors were 

important to Assyria regarding its vassals. 48 These treaties highlight the obligations 

put upon vassals—not to pursue any disloyal behavior, not to engage in 

treasonous behavior, not to engage in any revolt or rebellion, not to make any 

other oaths or treaties—and the positive requirement to pass on any reports of 

rumors of opposition to Assyria or its king. 49 Assyrian royal inscriptions augment 

the study of the treaties themselves by showing how royal self-presentation 

and propaganda viewed disloyalty by vassals. Oath and treaty violations 

were perceived as breaking the oath of the gods, repudiating oath agreements, 

sinning against the oath, and breaking the treaty. 50 Actions by vassals that were 

considered disloyal and were thus treaty violations were described as conspiring 

with an enemy; rebelling; renouncing allegiance; imploring the aid of 

another country; plotting with another country against Assyria; plotting defection, 

uprising, or revolution; and deciding not to pay tribute or suspending 

47 Larsen, “Tradition of Empire,” 100; Moshe Elat, “Phoenician Overland Trade within the 

Mesopotamian Empires,” in Ah, Assyria: Studies in Assyrian History and Ancient Near Eastern 

Historiography Presented to Hayim Tadmor (ed. Mordechai Cogan and Israel Eph>al; ScrHier 33; 

Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1991), 21–35; J. P. J. Olivier-Stellenbosch, “Money Matters: Some 

Remarks on the Economic Situation in the Kingdom of Judah During the Seventh Century B.C.,” 

BN 73 (1994): 90–100; Seymour Gitin, “Tel Miqne-Ekron in the 7 th Century B.C.E.: The Impact of 

Economic Innovation and Foreign Cultural Influences on a Neo-Assyrian Vassal City-State,” 

61–79; and William G. Dever, “Orienting the Study of Trade in Near Eastern Archaeology,” 111– 

19, both in Recent Excavations in Israel: A View to the West (ed. Seymour Gitin; Archaeological 

Institute of America Colloquia and Conference Papers 1; Dubuque, IA: Kendall Hunt, 1995). 

48 “Treaty of Esarhaddon with Baal of Tyre,” text and translation by R. Borger; “The Vassal- 

Treaties of Esarhaddon,” text and translation by D. J. Wiseman, both in ANESTP, 533–39; A. Kirk 

Grayson, “Akkadian Treaties of the Seventh Century B.C.,” JCS 39 (1987): 127–60; Simo Parpola, 

“Neo-Assyrian Treaties from the Royal Archives of Nineveh,” JCS 39 (1987): 161–89; Simo Parpola 

and Kazuko Watanabe, Neo-Assyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths (SAAS 2, Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus 

Project; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1988), 161–89; Bustenay Oded, War, Peace and 

Empire: Justifications for War in Assyrian Royal Inscriptions (Weisbaden: Reichert, 1992). 

49 Parpola and Watanabe, Neo-Assyrian Treaties, xv–xxv and xxxviii–xxxix. 

50 Oded, War, Peace, 87-99. 

51 Ibid.

614 


annual tribute. 51 Above all, the extant treaties witness the fanatical insistence 

on loyalty from vassals in the period. “[I]mposing oaths of loyalty on defeated 

nations was a cornerstone of Assyria’s strategy of gradual territorial expansion.” 

52 

Ideologically, Assyria understood itself to be the center of the world order 

that was established for Assyria and its king by the gods. This order was to be 

maintained by the king and the apparatus of government. 53 The non-Assyrian 

world was a region of chaos, disorder, and disobedience that was to be tamed 

and transformed by Assyrian hegemony. 54 Thus, Assyrian imperialism in relation 

to its periphery had deep ideological justifications for the imposition of 

order by warfare, conquest, control, deportation, and the entire administrative 

and economic structures of its provinces and vassals. 

Core–periphery theory identifies how such military, political, economic, 

and ideological domination by a core can have an impact on the formation and 

development of ideology within a peripheral state. Even where direct imposition 

of various kinds of control, such as ideological coercion, are not used, 

peripheral states often adjust their behavior and thinking to the core’s requirements 

and values. Motivations of elites within the periphery for this adaptation 

to the core can include fear about consequences and/or a calculation of benefit 

for themselves in the situation. 55 Recent work has modified the view that terror 

was the primary motivation among vassals for submission to the Assyrian 

empire. There is evidence that Assyrian policy regarding its periphery included 

an awareness of “benefits” that could be extended to vassals and provinces, 

such as security for local rulers and elites 56 (albeit that the periphery might 

have chosen other “benefits” if given a true unencumbered choice). Certain 

factions among the elites within provinces and vassal states sought cooperation 

52 Parpola, “Neo-Assyrian Treaties,” 161. 

53 The ideology of the Assyrian empire has been studied extensively in recent years. See, e.g., 

A. Leo Oppenheim, “Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian Empires,” in Propaganda and Communication 

in World History, vol. 1 of The Symbolic Instrument in Early Times (ed. Harold D. Lasswell, 

Daniel Lerner, and Hans Speier, East-West Center; Honolulu: University Press of Hawaii, 1979), 

111–44; Mario Liverani, “The Ideology of the Assyrian Empire,” 297–317; Paul Garelli, “L’État et 

la Légitimité sous l’Empire Assyrien,” 319–28; and Julian Reade, “Ideology and Propaganda in 

Assyrian Art,” 329–43, all in Power and Propaganda, ed Larsen; H. Tadmor, “History and Ideology 

in the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions,” in Assyrian Royal Inscriptions: New Horizons in Literary, Ideological, 

and Historical Analysis (ed. F. M. Fales; Oriens antiqui collectio 17; Rome: Istituto per 

l’Oriente, 1981), 13–33; Machinist, “Assyrians on Assyria”; Tadmor, “World Dominion.” 

54 Liverani, “Ideology,” 306–7; Oppenheim, “Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian Empires,” 

120–21; Machinist, “Assyrians on Assyria,” 83–91. 

55 Schortman and Urban, “Core/Periphery Relations,” 404. 

56 Giovanni B. Lanfranchi, “Consensus to Empire: Some Aspects of Sargon II’s Foreign Policy,” 

in Assyrien im Wandel de Zeiten (Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale 39, Heidelberger 

Studien zum Alten Orient 6; Heidelberg: Heidelberger Orientverlag, 1997), 81–87.


with Assyrian hegemony in order to secure such benefits and increase their 

own local power. 57 

This sociologically and historically informed model of core–periphery 

relations in the Neo-Assyrian empire highlights the international considerations 

that were part of the scene in seventh-century Judah—especially the military, 

political, and economic dominance of Assyria and its ideology of control of 

its periphery. The circumscription of the king in Deut 17:16–17 can now be set 

into this international social context. A king must not multiply horses, that is, 

must not increase professional military power nor seek other military alliances. 

This facet of ideology appears to adapt kingship to Assyria’s policy of military 

domination and to specific prohibitions in the vassal treaties (1) against military 

preparation that would threaten the Assyrian king or his successor, and 

(2) against any oaths or alliances with Assyria’s rivals. A king must not increase 

wives, that is, must not enter into political alliances through key strategic marriages. 

This facet of ideology appears to adapt kingship to Assyria’s policy of 

political domination and to specific prohibitions in the vassal treaties against 

any political disloyalty and against oaths or alliances beyond the established one 

with Assyria. A king must not increase gold and silver, that is, must not seek 

exclusionary control of the economic surplus. This facet of ideology appears to 

adapt kingship to Assyria’s policy of economic control of trade and economic 

wealth and to specific requirements for the payment of tribute. 

These findings indicate that the ideology of kingship reflected in Deut 

17:16aa, 17aa, and 17b appears to have adapted its own concept of kingship to 

the necessary requirements of survival for a monarch on the periphery of the 

major world empire of its time. Externally, within the context of the periphery 

of the Assyrian empire, the limits on the king deny him strategies to assert military, 

political, and economic independence and hegemony. They thus support a 

strategy of acquiescence to the domination of Assyria and an ideology that 

strictly defines the external relationships of the kingdom. 

This social-scientific perspective on the external dynamics of the limits on 

horses, wives, and wealth adds important considerations that previous scholarship 

has overlooked about the background and significance of the limits. The 

external social context is a crucial locus for understanding the genesis and significance 

of the ideology implied in the limits. These findings indicate that 

Judah’s vassal status had a profound impact on this aspect of royal ideology. 

IV. Conclusion 

Some of the intriguing implications of both the internal and external 

dynamics must be considered. When both sets of dynamics are combined, 

57 Ibid., 84–85.

616 


there is a complementarity between them that is required for both approaches 

used in the paper to be valid. The results indicate that the ideological limits on 

the king could have proceeded from a particular faction within the social context 

of preexilic Judah. 58 With an eye to Judah’s international relationships, this 

faction seems to be advocating circumscriptions on kingship so that the nation 

will maintain a loyal vassal relationship with Assyria. At the same time, with an 

eye to internal power struggles, the faction also seems to be advocating these 

same circumscriptions in order to place the king in a less powerful position relative 

to other elites internally, including the faction itself. In characteristic 

exclusionary power strategies, this in turn gives the faction further influence 

over foreign policy. The suggestion that this faction would thereby have 

received from Assyria support and other “benefits” fits well within the picture 

developed here. 59 

Further, this addition to study of the background and significance of the 

limits complements other scholarship. 60 Particularly intriguing is the interaction 

with the suggestion that these limits enjoin loyalty and allegiance to Yahweh 

from the king and, by extension, to the whole covenant community. The 

findings of this article imply that at least one faction found it possible to advocate 

that the king attempt a careful balance between being loyal to Yahweh and 

being loyal to Assyria, that is, that the king can be both a good servant of Yahweh 

and a good vassal to Assyria. 61 That two such loyalties could be proposed 

by the faction as at least compatible if not fully complementary is an intriguing 

perspective on the ideology of ancient preexilic Judah. 62 

Other implications of our findings indicate avenues for further study, 

including integrating these findings with other parts of the law of the king and 

the laws on offices in Deuteronomy, comparing the portrayal of kingship in the 

Deuteronomistic History, and comparing the ideology of kingship in the royal 

and enthronement psalms. 

58 This is an extension of my earlier work, “The Social Location of the Deuteronomists: A 

Sociological Study of Factional Politics in Late Pre-Exilic Judah,” JSOT 52 (1991): 77–94. The 

issues of defining the faction on the basis of Deuteronomy, the Deuteronomistic History, or 

Jeremiah remain to be settled, given the somewhat different approaches to kingship within these 

bodies of literature. See the sources cited in n. 2 above. These issues also clearly relate to the idea of 

“dual loyalty,” which is explored below. 

59 See Lanfranchi, “Consensus to Empire,” 84–85. 

60 See pp. 603–5 above. 

61 This implication clearly would modify the suggestion by Otto that the adoption and redirection 

of the Assyrian loyalty oath from Assyria to Yahweh were anti-Assyrian strategies for 

Judah (Otto, Das Deuteronomium, 364–65). 

62 Such “dual loyalties” may not be unique in biblical literature. Immediate and so far unexplored 

but intriguing parallels come to mind: Isa 30 regarding trust in Yahweh and avoiding an 

alliance with Egypt against Assryia, narrative sections of Jer 27–29 and 38 regarding loyal Yahwism 

and allegiance to Babylon, and the status of Nehemiah (and Ezra?) as Persian appointees and loyal 

Yahwists.

JBL 121/4 (2002) 617–638 

ANCESTRAL MOTIFS IN 1 SAMUEL 25: 

INTERTEXTUALITY AND CHARACTERIZATION 

MARK E. BIDDLE 

mebiddle@btsr.edu 

Baptist Theological Seminary at Richmond, Richmond, VA 23227 

While it is rather tenuous to speak of general consensus with respect to 

virtually every question of interest to biblical studies, several broad areas of 

agreement seem to have been reached over the past several decades concerning 

the narrative of David’s encounters with Nabal and Abigail recorded in 

1 Sam 25. First, students of the passage usually consider it a relatively selfcontained, 

unified account representing a tradition predating the Deuteronomistic 

History (= DtrH). 1 Second, a number of scholars emphasize the highly 

1 K. Budde considers 1 Sam 25:2–42 to be “aus einem Gusse und vorzüglich erhalten, ein 

wahres Kabinetstück guter Erzählung” (Die Bücher Samuel [KHC 8; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 

1902], 163). The following scholars are among those who hold similar positions: O. Eissfeldt, Die 

Komposition der Samuelisbücher (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1931), 19; J. Mauchline, 1 and 2 Samuel 

(NCB; London: Oliphants, 1971), 24–26, 167; P. K. McCarter, Jr., “The Apology of David,” JBL 99 

(1980): 493. With respect to the non-Deuteronomistic character of the account, I. Willi-Plein 

observes that the stories concerning David’s wives found in both the Narrative of David’s Rise 

(= NDR) and the Succession Narrative (= SN) do not betray the negative attitude characteristic of 

the Deuteronomist’s discussion of Solomon’s many wives, for example (“Frauen um David: 

Beobachtungen zur Davidshausgeschichte,” in Meilenstein: Festgabe für Herbert Donner [ed. M. 

Weippert and S. Timm; Ägypten und Altes Testament 30; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1995], 353). 

Scholars debate the possible exception of a portion of Abigail’s lengthy speech to David, which 

some think exhibits evidence of Deuteronomistic redaction. T. Veijola argues that Abigail’s speech 

redirects the tale (Die Ewige Dynastie: David und die Entstehung seiner Dynastie nach der 

deuteronomistischen Darstellung [AASF B 193; Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1975], 47– 

48, 51; see also L. Schmidt, Menschlicher Erfolg und Jahwes Initiative: Studien zu Tradition, Interpretation 

und Historie in Überlieferungen von Gideon, Saul und David [WMANT 38; Neukirchen: 

Neukirchener Verlag, 1970], 122; McCarter, “Apology,” 493 and n. 12). It is no longer concerned 

with the gift but with David’s future. Veijola notes that Abigail is said to fall to the ground twice and 

that v. 27 contains the only occurrence of hjp` in the narrative (the usual term is hma) and concludes 

that vv. 21–22, 23b, 24a–26, 28–34, and 39a are Deuteronomistic additions to the account. J. 

Van Seters rejects as simplistic these arguments concerning the interpolation of vv. 28–31. Without 

this material, he suggests, the account would be “rather trivial” (In Search of History: Historiogra- 

617

618 


intertextual character of the passage, especially in relation to the Ancestral Narratives 

(= AN). 2 Third, it has become commonplace to interpret 1 Sam 25 primarily 

in terms of the apologetic purposes of the so-called Narrative of David’s 

Rise (= NDR). 3 

phy in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History [New Haven: Yale University Press, 

1983], 267 n. 81). 

2 In particular, the several examples of parallels between the vocabulary of 1 Sam 25 and of 

certain narratives in Genesis have led some to attribute 1 Sam 25 to the Yahwist (Budde, Bücher 

Samuel, 163; P. Dhorme, Les Livres de Samuel [EBib; Paris: Gabalda, 1910], 236; G. Hölscher, 

Geschichtsschreibung in Israel: Untersuchung zum Jahwisten und Elohisten [Lund: Gleerup, 

1952], 376; and, more recently, H. Schulte, Die Entstehung der Geschichtsschreibung im Alten 

Israel [BZAW 128; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1972]), others to argue that the J (or JE) text was known to 

the author of the David account (most recently R. Alter, The World of Biblical Literature [San 

Francisco: Basic Books, 1992], 164), and still others even to conclude that the Yahwist and the 

author of the David account were personal acquaintances (H. Bloom, D. Rosenberg, and W. Golding, 

The Book of J [New York: Vintage, 1991] and more recently D. Rosenberg, The Book of David 

[New York: Harmony Books, 1997]). Many scholars note similarities between other portions of the 

David story in 1 and 2 Samuel and portions of the AN. The source-critical significance of these similarities 

is yet to be satisfactorily determined. Chiefly at issue is the question of whether the Genesis 

narrative influenced the author of the David story, as a conventional understanding of the composition 

history of Genesis would require, or the Genesis accounts are “parables” based on the Davidic 

history. See A. G. Auld, “Samuel and Genesis: Some Questions of John Van Seters’ ‘Yahwist,’” in 

Rethinking the Foundations: Historiography in the Ancient World and in the Bible: Essays in Honour 

of John Van Seters (ed. S. L. McKenzie and T. Römer in collaboration with H. H. Schmid; 

BZAW 294; New York: de Gruyter, 2000), 23–32; R. Boer, “National Allegory in the Hebrew 

Bible,” JSOT 74 (1997): 95–116; R.-J. Frontain, “The Trickster Tricked: Strategies of Deception 

and Survival in the David Narrative,” in Mappings of the Biblical Terrain: The Bible as Text (ed. V. 

Tollers and J. Maier; Bucknell Review 33; Lewisburg, PA: Bucknell University Press, 1990), 

10–192; C. Ho, “The Stories of the Family Troubles of Judah and David: A Study in Their Literary 

Links,” VT 49 (1999): 514–31; J. D. Pleins, “Son-Slayers and Their Sons,” CBQ 54 (1992): 29–38; S. 

Prolow and V. Orel, “Isaac Unbound,” BZ 40 (1996): 84–91; G. Rendsburg, “David and His Circle 

in Genesis xxxviii,” VT 36 (1986): 438–46; C. Smith, “The Story of Tamar: A Power-filled Challenge 

to the Structures of Power,” in Women in the Biblical Tradition (ed. G. Brooke; Studies in Women 

and Religion 31; Lewiston: Mellen, 1992), 24; M. Steussy, David: Biblical Portraits of Power (Studies 

on Personalities of the Old Testament 8; Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1999), 

90; Y. Zakovitch, “Through the Looking Glass: Reflections/Inversions of Genesis Stories in the 

Bible,” BibInt 1 (1993): 139–52; see also J. Blenkinsopp (“Theme and Motif in the Succession History 

[2 Sam. XI 2ff] and the Yahwist Corpus,” in Volume du Congrès: Genève 1965 [VTSup 15; Leiden: 

Brill, 1966], 44–57) and W. Brueggemann (“David and His Theologian,” CBQ 30 [1968]: 

156–81), who call attention to parallels between the David story and Gen 2–11. 

3 According to the “classical” form of this interpretation, the NDR expresses the redactor’s 

concerns with efforts to consolidate the Davidic dynasty during the Solomonic period. 1 Samuel 25, 

too, it is argued, reflects the redactor’s tendency to avert any criticism of David and to demonstrate 

his chosen status. See A. Weiser, “Die Legitimation des Königs David: Zur Eigenart und Entstehung 

der sog. Geschichte von Davids Aufstieg,” VT 16 (1966): 337–38, 47–48. Those who regard 

Abigail’s second address as the product of the Dtr redactor emphasize the apologetic tendencies of 

this redactional material. T. Veijola, for example, sees two themes: (1) an effort to protect David 

from “helping himself” and incurring bloodguilt, and (2) the opportunity to prophesy his “sure

Biddle: Ancestral Motifs in 1 Samuel 25 619 

This article will briefly examine these three perspectives on 1 Sam 25, will 

suggest an alternative understanding of the account, and will explore implications 

of this understanding for the question of the relationship between Genesis 

and the NDR. First, we will argue that the text displays an intricate, almost 

baroque structure that seems more consistent with literary artifice than oral 

tradition and calls into question the value of the account as a historical source. 

Second, we will show that the intertextual character of 1 Sam 25 seems to be 

almost satirical, and certainly ironic, in nature. With respect to the intriguing 

question of the direction of dependence, the intertextual intricacies embodied 

in 1 Sam 25, and in particular the resulting ironic portrayal of David, suggest 

that much of the account has been composed utilizing elements of the written 

patriarchal tradition. Third, we will suggest that the redactor responsible for 

including 1 Sam 25 in the NDR was not apparently motivated by an interest in 

exonerating David. Finally, we will reevaluate the customary early dating for 

1 Sam 25. As will be shown, given the literary character, intertextual dependence 

on the patriarchal/matriarchal tradition, and subversive agenda of 1 Sam 

25, the assumption that it predates the DtrH by several centuries must be 

abandoned. 

EXCURSUS: ON METHOD 

The term “intertextuality” finds a number of usages in the literature. In the context 

of the act of reading, it often refers to the implications of the observation that any 

reader approaches any “text” (including nonwritten texts such as films or works of 

art) as a component in a nexus of other “texts.” The act of reading establishes relationships 

between texts regardless of genetic dependence. The focus of this study, 

in contrast, will be on intertextualities which the author (a) intended as such and 

(b) expected his or her readers to recognize as such so that their reading of one or 

house” (Ewige Dynastie, 54). J. Conrad objects that the normal dating of this redactional effort to 

the Solomonic period fails to account for the fact that David’s actions would have recalled 

Solomon’s acts of violence and would have therefore been likely “to occasion unrest” (“Zum 

geschichtlichen Hintergrund der Darstellung von Davids Aufstieg,” TLZ 97 [1972]: 326–30). He 

argues that the account can better be understood as an implicit critique of the exchange of power in 

the north, especially under Jehu. J. Levenson (“1 Samuel 25 as Literature and as History,” CBQ 40 

[1978]: 24–28) and B. Halpern (J. Levenson and B. Halpern, “The Political Import of David’s Marriages,” 

JBL 99 [1980]: 507–18) argue that 1 Sam 25 reflects David’s politically savvy consolidation 

of power in the south via marriage to Abigail (who may have been David’s sister; see 1 Sam 25:42; 

2 Sam 17:25; 19:13; 1 Chr 2:16–17; see also Steussy, David, 75–76, 79; and S. McKenzie, King 

David: A Biography [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000], 55, 170–71), the wife of a Calebite 

chieftain, and in the north via marriage to Ahinoam, Saul’s wife. For a literarily oriented reading of 

this material see D. Gunn, The Fate of King Saul: An Interpretation of a Biblical Story (JSOTSup 

14; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1980), 91–102.

620 


both of the related intertexts would be shaped. 4 This study will contend that the 

author of 1 Sam 25 intended it to be read against the background of the AN, that 

the author has marked links between the two texts, and that an intertextual reading 

of 1 Sam 25 will reveal subtleties in the characterization of the leading figures, 

especially David. 5 

Efforts to assess the significance of the apparent intertextuality in 1 Sam 25 are 

complicated by the difficulty in determining whether similarities are the result of 

literary dependence (and, if so, the direction of the borrowing) or reflections of a 

common repertoire of narrative conventions. For example, as will be examined 

below, 1 Sam 25 displays a number of parallels with Gen 24. A significant body of 

scholarship argues that the Genesis text dates from a quite late period, too late to 

have been a source for the allusions in 1 Sam 25 if the latter does in fact predate 

DtrH. 6 With regard to another example of linguistic parallels between the Deuteronomistic 

history and the book of Genesis, Y. Zakovitch explains many of the difficult 

features of Gen 34 (the rape of Dinah) as “assimilations” to 2 Sam 13 (the rape 

of Tamar). 7 In contrast, R. Alter describes the phenomenon of “type-scenes” such 

as the annunciation and birth of the hero to a barren mother, the encounter at a 

well that results in a marriage, and so on. 8 

We will argue, however, that 1 Sam 25 depends genetically on the AN as evidenced 

especially (1) by Nabal’s name and function—a clear marker that the 

Samuel account is a literary conceit based on the Genesis accounts; (2) by the 

cumulative weight of the many verbal allusions, a phenomenon described by D. 

McDonald in relation to the relationship between the apocryphal book of Tobit 

4 Compare U. Broich, “Formen der Markierung von Intertexualität,” in Intertextualität: 

Formen, Funktionen, anglistische Fallstudien (ed. U. Broich and M. Pfister; Konzepte der Sprachund 

Literaturwissenschaft 35; Tübingen: Max Niemeyer, 1985), 31: “Intertextualität [liegt] dann 

vor, wenn ein Autor bei der Abfassung seines Textes sich nicht nur der Verwendung anderer Texte 

bewußt ist, sondern auch vom Rezipienten erwartet, daß er diese Beziehung zwischen seinem Text 

und anderen Texten als vom Autor intendiert und als wichting für das Verständnis seines Textes 

erkennt.” 

5 For examples of continuing interest in this more or less “diachronic” concern with genetic 

relationships between texts, see Intertextuality in Ugarit and Israel: Papers Read at the Tenth Joint 

Meeting of the Society for Old Testament Study and Het Oudtestamentisch Werkgezelschap in 

Nederland en Belgie (ed. J. de Moor; Leiden: Brill, 1998). 

6 See H. H. Schmid, Der sogenannte Jahwist: Beobachtungen und Fragen zur Pentateuchforschung 

(Zurich: TVZ, 1976), 152–53; B. Diebner and H. Schult, “Alter und geschichtlicher 

Hintergrund von Gen 24,” DBAT 10 (1975): 10–17; M. Rose, Deuteronomist und Jahwist: Untersuchungen 

zu den Berührungspunkten beider Literaturwerke (ATANT 67; Zurich: TVZ, 1981), 

133–41; J. Van Seters, Abraham in History and Tradition (New Haven: Yale University Press, 

1975), 240–42; S. Sandmel, “Haggada within Scripture,” JBL 80 (1961): 112; F. Winnett, “Reexamining 

the Foundations,” JBL 84 (1965): 14; E. Blum, Die Komposition der Vätergeschichte 

(WMANT 57; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1984), 386–89. 

7 Y. Zakovitch, “Assimilation in Biblical Narratives,” in Empirical Models for Biblical Criticism 

(ed. J. Tigay; Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1985), 188–92. 

8 R. Alter, The Art of Biblical Narrative (New York: Basic Books, 1983), 51. See especially his 

discussion of the accounts of David’s marriages (p. 61).


and Homer’s Odyssey as “density of parallels”; 9 and (3) by “the capacity of details 

in [the pretext, in this case the MP/N] to explain the [intertext, here 1 Sam 25].” 10 

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

I. Structure 

1 Samuel 25 displays an interesting parallel structure. The account begins 

with a dual introduction setting the events to be narrated in the context of the 

larger story of David (v. 1) and providing the necessary background information 

for the Nabal-Abigail-David story itself (v. 2). A corresponding chiastically 

arranged dual conclusion offers additional information concerning David’s 

marriages during his fugitive period (v. 43) and concerning the fortunes of 

David’s first wife in Saul’s court (v. 44). The placement of the se·tûmâ (s) suggests 

that the Massoretes may have analyzed the introduction and conclusion in 

a similar fashion. This dual framework raises the question of whether vv. 1, 2–3, 

43, and 44 are components of the narrative or editorial elements functioning to 

anchor the narrative in its current context and mark it as semi-independent, a 

first clue to the compositional nature of the Abigail/David account. 11 Several 

scholars note the abrupt transition from v. 1 to v. 2, the chronological and geographical 

difficulties presented by v. 1, and the somewhat extraneous nature of 

vv 43–44. 12 

The body of the narrative consists of three sections, roughly parallel in 

structure but unequal in length. All three depict the process of sending messengers, 

13 the delivery of messages, reactions to messages, reports of the success 

of the embassy, and the principles’ counterresponses. In the first act, 

David “hears” ([mvyw, v. 4) about Nabal’s sheep shearing and “sends” (jlvyw, v. 5) 

messengers seeking gifts, just as he later (act II) “hears” ([mvyw, v. 39) about 

9 D. R. McDonald, “Tobit and the Odyssey,” in Mimesis and Intertextuality in Antiquity 

and Christianity (ed. D. McDonald; SAC; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2001), 14. 

G. W. E. Nickelsburg expands and refines McDonald’s criteria of density and “interpretability” in 

“Tobit, Genesis, and the Odyssey” in the same volume, pp. 52–54. 

10 Paraphrasing McDonald, “Tobit and the Odyssey,” 14. 

11 In a study of intertextuality in modern, especially belletristic, literature, U. Broich identifies 

several possible markers of intertextuality supplemental to the text itself (“Formen der 

Markierung,” 35–38). Of these, the fifth (mottoes, forewords, postscripts) calls to mind the framework 

structure surrounding 1 Sam 25. 

12 See Budde, Bücher Samuel, 163; Dhorme, Livres de Samuel, 219–20; Eissfeldt, Composition, 

19; and J. Grønbaek, Die Geschichte vom Aufstieg Davids [1. Sam. 15–2. Sam. 5]: Tradition 

und Komposition (ATDan 10; Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1971), 178–79. 

13 David sends messengers except in the thwarted raid on Nabal’s household. Abigail acts on 

behalf of Nabal’s household, although without Nabal’s permission. Oddly enough, she receives her 

commission from “one of the !yr[n.”

622 


Nabal’s death and “sends” (jlvyw, v. 39) messengers to bring Abigail. Between 

these two movements, Abigail is told (dygh lbn tva lygybalw, v. 14) about 

David’s first embassy and Nabal’s response, and she sends the gifts David had 

requested. 14 One of the more interesting aspects of this parallel structure 15 

involves the emissaries’ reports to their principles (v. 12 || vv. 36–37): David’s 

men return from Nabal and “tell him all these things” (!yrbdh lkk wl wdgyw 

hlah) motivating him to take up arms, just as Abigail, Nabal’s wife—eventually 

—“tells him [Nabal] these things” (hlah !yrbdhAta wtva wlAdgtw) so that “his 

heart dies within him.” 

This parallel structure is imbalanced, however. The second section, considerably 

longer than the other two, involves a number of duplications and narrative 

anachronisms. The narrator twice reports that Abigail sees David 

approaching (vv. 20, 23). Abigail falls twice in obeisance before David (vv. 23, 

24). A superfluous parenthetical comment (vv. 21–22) makes explicit David’s 

inward reaction to Nabal’s insult already implied in the earlier, simpler narration 

of his actions (v. 13). Abigail’s servant quite ably and accurately discerns the 

danger for Nabal’s household inherent in the situation without benefit of the 

narrator’s revelation of David’s thought processes. In fact, Abigail’s servant does 

not even know, as the reader does, of David’s decision to arm and ride against 

Nabal. In the servant’s view, David’s initial message and Nabal’s insulting 

response contain a sufficient impetus to set into motion a very dangerous series 

of events indeed. 

The chapter also seems to have interests other than maintaining the David 

of the fugitive period clearly in focus. He first appears as the charismatic leader 

of a band of men that is not hierarchically structured. They are simply his men 

(wyvna), who share his fortunes, who ride with him to avenge an insult (v. 13). 

They owe him allegiance, but they are not members of a royal entourage . . . not 

yet. David always, and the narrator usually, refers to them as !yr[n (vv. 5, 8, 9, 

12, etc.). Nabal, Abigail, their servant, and sometimes the narrator, however, 

frequently refer to them with the more officious !ydb[ or !ykalm (vv. 10, 14, 40, 

41). It might be objected that these latter terms are often interchangeable and 

need not be understood in the technical, “bureaucratic” sense and that the narrator 

has employed them for the sake of variety. Two points in the narrative 

confirm that it does not restrict its vision to the fugitive David but foreshadows 

14 Significantly, perhaps, the language varies in the middle section. Not only is Abigail “told” 

(instead of “hearing” for herself), but she does not formally “send” the gifts ahead. She “takes” the 

goods and “places” them on the pack animals, then tells her servants to “go on ahead.” The parallels 

in this section are thematic and not linguistic. 

15 In contrast, T. Veijola notes that the encounter between David and Abigail displays a chiastic 

structure: Abigail speaks and offers gifts; David takes the gifts and responds (Ewige Dynastie, 

50).


him as the imperious king of a later period. Abigail describes David’s men not 

as comrades in arms but as courtiers and servants of the king “who walk at his 

feet” (David rides; his servants comprise the royal entourage). Later still, Abigail 

herself rides to her second meeting with David, when she becomes his 

wife, attended by a queenly entourage of maidservants “walking at her feet” (v. 

42). Veijola points out other such anachronisms. Abigail’s speech, for example, 

anticipates David’s response to her (vv. 26a, 33, 34) just as it also betrays knowledge 

of Nabal’s impending death (v. 26b). 16 

II. Intertextuality 

1 Samuel 25 exhibits a series of verbal similarities to three episodes in the 

AN: the wooing of Rebekah (Gen 24), the encounter between Jacob and his 

brother Esau (Gen 32–33), and Jacob’s secretive departure from Laban (Gen 

30–31). These allusions, together with nuances provided by the context of 

1 Sam 25 as the central component of 1 Sam 24–26, contribute significantly to 

the characterization of major figures in 1 Sam 25. They construct a nexus of 

intertextuality that results in composite portrayals of Nabal (Nabal = Laban and 

Nabal = Saul), Abigail (Abigail = Rebekah and Abigail = Jacob), and David 

(David = Jacob and David = Esau and David = Abraham/Isaac). 

The Composite Portrayal of Nabal 

The depiction of Nabal participates in an intricate system of allusions 

extending beyond 1 Sam 25 into much of the NDR. In this system, Nabal functions 

as a counterpart to Laban and, by way of comparisons between Laban and 

Saul, ultimately as a representative of Saul as well. Employing a literary “commutative 

property,” the author/redactor of 1 Samuel establishes the relationship 

Nabal = Laban = Saul, an equation already indicated by possible plays on 

Nabal’s name in Gen 31:28 and 1 Sam 26:21 (lks, cf. 1 Sam 13:13). 17 

16 Ibid., 49. 

17 Significantly, perhaps, the verb lks, “to act foolishly,” occurs only eight times in the 

Hebrew Bible: apart from the three occurrences in the Saul/Laban accounts, once in reference to 

Ahitophel (2 Sam 15:31) and twice in reference to David (2 Sam 24:10 || 1 Chr 21:8). Thus, the 

David narratives account for five of eight occurrences (the others are Isa 44:25; 2 Chr 16:9). I. 

Provan argues on the basis of 2 Sam 13–14 and 15–17 that the David of the SN “knows nowhere 

near as much in these stories as the other wise people around him” (“On ‘Seeing’ the Trees While 

Missing the Forest: The Wisdom of Characters and Readers in 2 Samuel and 1 Kings,” in In Search 

of True Wisdom: Essays in Old Testament Interpretation in Honour of Ronald E. Clements [ed. E. 

Ball; JSOTSup 300; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999], 153–73). David, who is regularly 

unable to discern the truth in a situation or to see clearly the consequences of his actions, benefits

624 

Nabal and Laban 


Parallels between 1 Sam 25 and the Jacob/Laban narratives are less striking 

and direct than those involving Abigail and her counterparts to be examined 

below, but no less intriguing. First, according to U. Broich, intertextuality may 

be marked in the “communication system outside the text” through the choice 

of names for characters. 18 Nabal’s unusual name is clearly such a literary artifice 

(surely, no parent would name a son “Fool”), a palindrome, drawing attention 

to parallels between Laban and Nabal. M. Garsiel further confirms the paronomasia 

involving lbn, hlbn, l[ylbA@b, @yyAlbn, @bl, bl, and @bal in 1 Sam 25 and 

points out that the rabbis had already identified Nabal and Laban with one 

another. 19 Furthermore, this choice of name indicates the direction of the 

genetic relationship, since it is inconceivable that “Laban” could have arisen as 

a play on “Nabal.” 

Second, both the encounter between David (through his intermediaries) 

and Nabal and the final encounter between Jacob and Laban involve the resolution 

of questions of payment for services rendered in the protection of flocks 

and of the possible theft of property. Like Jacob, David portrays himself as 

faithful in the protection of his “master’s” flock (Gen 31:6, 31–32, 36–42; 1 Sam 

25:7; cf. 25:15–16), and both ask for “something” (hm;Wam], Gen 30:31, ironically; 

1 Sam 25:7, cf. 25:15, 21) in payment. Laban and Nabal contend that the goods 

intended as payment are, in fact, their belongings, to which Jacob and David 

have no authentic claim (Gen 31:26–30, 43; 1 Sam 25:11). Both accounts stress 

the hero’s innocence of capital offense: Jacob in the matter of the stolen te·raµpîm 

(which were “not found,” Gen 31:32–33, 37) and David in the matter of Nabal’s 

death (“evil not found [in David],” 1 Sam 25:28). When Jacob departs with his 

wives, Laban’s daughters, Laban accuses him of “stealing his heart” (Gen 31:20, 

26); when Nabal’s heart becomes stone and he dies, David takes his widow as 

wife. 

Finally, the conflicts between Laban and Jacob and Nabal and David 

occur in the context of sheep shearing: 

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

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

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

from the folly of his enemies (Saul, Nabal, and Ahitophel, for example) and the wisdom of members 

of his entourage (Abigail, Hushai, for example). In this respect, David’s “wise” posture regarding 

avenging himself against Saul is a remarkable exception. 

18 Broich, “Formen der Markierung,” 39–40. 

19 M. Garsiel, The First Book of Samuel: A Literary Study of Comparative Structures, Analogies, 

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


Surprisingly, zzg only occurs another five times in Genesis–2 Kings (Gen 38:12, 

13; Deut 15:19; 2 Sam 13:23, 24). The two usages in Gen 38 concern Tamar’s 

deception of Judah, who has gone to shear sheep. 2 Samuel 13 recounts Absalom’s 

sheep-shearing celebration, at which he murders drunken Amnon. 20 

Saul and Laban 

A number of scholars have called attention to similarities in biblical depictions 

of Saul and Laban, especially in terms of their relationships to their sonsin-law 

David and Jacob. 21 A number of these parallels and allusions involve 

intertextualities between the framework of the Abigail/Nabal narrative (1 Sam 

24 and 26) and the passage (Gen 31) that is also the focal point for parallels 

between Laban and Nabal. Just as David protests his innocence of “insubordination” 

([vp) and “sin” (afj) in his dealings with Saul (1 Sam 24:12 [Eng. 

24:11]), Jacob demands that Laban specify charges of “insubordination” ([vp) 

and “sin” (afj) to justify Laban’s pursuit (Gen 31:36). In fact, the father-in-law’s 

unwarranted pursuit of the son-in-law is perhaps the major theme in both texts 

(#dr, 1 Sam 24:15; 26:18, 20; Gen 31:23; cf. 31:36). In both, the father-in-law 

seeks assurances that the son-in-law will protect the father-in-law’s progeny 

(1 Sam 24:22–23; Gen 31:44). Finally, Laban and David each invoke God to 

“judge between” the parties to the conflict (1 Sam 24:13, 16; Gen 31:53). 

Other parallels between Saul and Laban occur outside the complex of 

1 Sam 24–26. “Deceit” characterizes dealings between Saul and Laban and 

their households (1 Sam 19:17; Gen 29:25; 31:20): most notably, Saul and 

Laban deceive their prospective sons-in-law in negotiations concerning marriage 

(1 Sam 18:17–29; Gen 29:15–29); 22 in turn, their daughters outwit them to 

the advantage of their sons-in-law in instances involving te·¸raµpîm (1 Sam 19:8–17; 

Gen 31:29–35). 23 In an “inversion” of a theme characteristic of the intertextual 

just as Laban was a swindler, so was Nabal a swindler’” (Yalqut Sim>oni on 1 Sam 25, cited by Garsiel 

on pp. 130–31). 

20 Sheep-shearing time in Hebrew narratives seems to connote deception and danger. See 

Ho, “Family Troubles,” 519–20. 

21 Frontain, “Trickster,” 176; M. Garsiel, “Wit, Words, and a Woman: 1 Samuel 25,” in On 

Humour and the Comic in the Hebrew Bible (ed. Y. Radday and A. Brenner; JSOTSup 92; 

Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1990), 163; Steussy, David, 90; and others. 

22 S. McKenzie (King David) is only the most recent scholar to consider the account of Saul’s 

offer of Merab to David as wife (1 Sam 18:17–19) a late interpolation. Along with 18:1–5, 10–11, 

and 29b–30, the LXX does not attest it. Despite this likelihood, however, the interpolation—which 

establishes parallels between Laban’s deception in Jacob’s marriages to the sisters Leah and Rachel 

and Saul’s dishonesty in offering David first Merab and then Michal—evidences the interpolator’s 

recognition of the equation of Saul with Laban, which was manifested already in the NDR. See 

Frontain, “Trickster,” 176. 

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


relationship between Samuel and Genesis, Jacob’s love for Rachel (Gen 29:18) 

and Michal’s love for David (1 Sam 18:20) mirror each other. 24 The comparison 

tends to heighten the irony of Samuel’s portrayal of David, who shares many of 

Jacob’s less noble qualities but apparently does not love his wife as Jacob did. 

Saul and Nabal 

The lynchpin of this matrix of associations is the identification of Nabal 

with Saul evident in the inclusio surrounding 1 Sam 25. Indeed, as has been 

widely recognized, this identification seems to be the point of the structure of 

the complex. David’s sparing of Nabal comments on David’s sparing of Saul 

recorded in the framing doublet (1 Sam 24 || 1 Sam 26). R. P. Gordon and, 

especially, R. Polzin catalogue a total of five verbal/thematic features that link 

1 Sam 24 to the framing chapters, thereby equating Saul with Nabal: 25 (1) the 

concentration on the question of David’s status (compare Nabal’s question in 

1 Sam 25:10 to Saul’s in 1 Sam 17:55–58) centered on the portrayal of David as 

Saul/Nabal’s “son” (1 Sam 24:16; 25:8; 26:17, 21, 25; cf. also 24:12); (2) the 

observation that Saul/Nabal repaid David evil for good (1 Sam 24:18 [Eng. 

24:17]; 25:21); (3) the characterization of the disputes between Saul/Nabal and 

David as disputes (byr) to be adjudicated by God (1 Sam 24:16 [Eng. 24:15]; 

25:39); (4) the assertion that YHWH smote (#gn, 1 Sam 25:38) or will smite (#gn, 

1 Sam 26:10) David’s enemy (Laban and Saul, respectively); and (5) the motif 

of “seeking” David (1 Sam 24:3, 10; 26:2, 20), 26 which reaches its apex in Abigail’s 

wish/prediction that David’s enemy, “who seeks [his] life,” may/will 

become “like Nabal” (1 Sam 25:26; cf. 25:29). In addition to these lexical and 

thematic parallels, Polzin also points out the high incidence in 1 Sam 24–26 of 

the terms “and now” (ht[w, over one-third of all occurrences of the term in 

1 Sam appear in chaps. 24–26) and “behold” (hnh) functioning as “formal signpost[s].” 

27 

in Von Ugarit nach Qumran: Beiträge zur alttestamentlichen und altorientalischen Forschung: 

Otto Eissfeldt zum 1. September 1957 dargebracht von Freunden und Schülern (ed. W. F. Albright 

et al.; BZAW 77; Berlin: Töpelmann, 1958), 237. 

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

515–16. 

25 R. P. Gordon, “David’s Rise and Saul’s Demise: Narrative Analogy in 1 Samuel 24–26,” 

TynBul 31 (1980): 37–64; R. Polzin, Samuel and the Deuteronomist: A Literary Study of the 

Deuteronomic History, Part Two: 1 Samuel (Indiana Studies in Biblical Literature; Bloomington: 

Indiana University Press, 1989), 205–15 (contra G. A. Nicol, “David, Abigail and Bathsheba, Nabal 

and Uriah: Transformations Within a Triangle,” SJOT 12 [1998]: 135). 

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

25; 27:1, 4. 

27 Polzin, Samuel, 206.

The Composite Portrayal of Abigail 

A. Bach accurately observes that “Abigail [is] the focus of her own narrative. 

. . . All the other characters interact only with Abigail.” 28 David never 

meets Nabal in person. Once informed of Nabal’s rash reaction to David’s 

embassy, Abigail seizes the initiative, to maintain it throughout the crisis. She 

conceives and executes a plan to spare David from his own rash counterreaction. 

Ultimately, her intervention does not benefit Nabal. Instead, one can 

argue that she achieved revenge against Nabal on David’s behalf. 29 Even her 

subsequent marriage to David may have been the fruit of the idea she planted 

in David’s mind (1 Sam 25:31; see further below). Allusions to characters in the 

AN, namely, the matriarch Rebekah and the patriarch Jacob, serve to enhance 

Abigail’s stature as the key actor in the account. 

Abigail and Rebekah 


Intriguingly, Hebrew narrative does not often describe people of either 

gender in terms of their physical beauty. In fact, only thirteen people are 

described as “good-looking” in Genesis–2 Kings with the language employed in 

2 Sam 25. 30 All three of Israel’s matriarchs and five of the women in David’s life 

are distinguished for their particular beauty. Joseph, David, Absalom, Adonijah, 

and an unnamed Egyptian soldier 31 are the five men noted for their good 

28 A. Bach, “The Pleasure of Her Text,” USQR 43 (1989): 42. 

29 Assuming that some historical kernel underlies 1 Sam 25 (given the literary artifice evident 

in the narrative, a debatable assumption), S. McKenzie concludes that Nabal’s death, attributed to 

YHWH’s intervention, may in fact be traceable to “a . . . sinister cause—murder—plotted by David 

but carried out by someone else. . . . In this case, the prime suspect has to be Abigail” (King David, 

100) 30 In addition to the descriptions of “good-looking” people in Genesis–2 Kings, there are 

three references to “good-looking” cows in Gen 41 and a law concerning the attractive female prisoner 

of war taken as a wife in Deut 21:11. 1 Samuel 9:2 describes Saul as more b/f, often translated 

“handsome,” than any other man in Israel. Since it emphasizes Saul’s stature, it is unclear whether 

the text refers to Saul’s looks or to his fitness for battle. At any rate, the text does not employ the 

formulaic expression used of David, Abigail, and the matriarchs. The formulaic expression is intertextually 

significant in two respects. First, as P. Beentjes points out in a study of inner-biblical quotations, 

biblical authors employ such formulae as a means to mark intertextual relations 

(“Discovering a New Path of Intertextuality: Inverted Quotations and Their Dynamics,” in Literary 

Structure and Rhetorical Strategies in the Hebrew Bible [ed. L. de Regt, J. de Waard, and J. 

Fokkelman; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1996], 49). Second, of those described with versions of this formula, 

only Abigail and Rebekah, the matriarch whose depiction in Gen 24 represents the primary 

pretext for the portrayal of Abigail as David’s bride, “survive” their beauty unscathed. Joseph 

becomes a target of sexual predation because of his looks, as do Tamar, Bathsheba, and Abishag. 

Good looks also play a role in the fates of Absalom, Adonijah, and even David. Abigail’s beauty, in 

contrast, does not in the end endanger her; it brings ruin to Nabal. 

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

628 


looks. This concentration alone seems intertextually significant. Other commentators 

have also noted the obvious ambiguity of beauty, especially in the 

David stories. 32 Just as Joseph’s good looks attracted unwanted attention, 

beauty proves a particular danger for David’s women and contributes to the 

arrogance and ultimate downfall of two of his sons. YHWH’s advice to Samuel 

not to regard the prospective king’s outward appearance (Whaer“m'Ala, fBeTeAla', 1 

Sam 16:7) may be read as the moral of this theme in the story of David. 

Of greater interest to this study are the linguistic options. 

ha,r“m'Atp'y“ hV;ai (Sarah, Gen 12:11) 

daom] awhi hp;y: -yKi hV;aih; (Sarah, Gen 12:14) 

daom] ha,r“m' tb'fo r:[}N"h'w“ (Rebekah, Gen 24:16) 

ayhi ha,r“m' tb'/f -yKi hq;b]rI (Rebekah, Gen 26:7) 

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

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

daom] ha,r“m' tb'/f hV;aih;w“ (Bathsheba, 2 Sam 11:2) 

hp;y: t/ja; (Tamar II, 2 Sam 13:1) 

ha,r“m' tp'y“ hV;ai (Tamar III, 2 Sam 14:27) 

daom]Ad[' hp;y: hr:[}N"h'w“ (Abishag, 1 Kgs 1:4) 

ha,r“m' hpeywI ra'ToAhpey“ #se/y (Joseph, Gen 39:6) 

yairo b/fw“ !yIn"y[e hpey“A![i. . . aWhw“ (David, 1 Sam 16:12; cf. 16:18) 

ha,r“m' hpey“A![i . . . r['n" (David, 1 Sam 17:42) 

hp,y: Avyai (Absalom, 2 Sam 14:25) 

ra'ToAb/f aWh (Adonijah, 1 Kgs 1:6) 

Rachel is described with the fullest form of what seems a formulaic description: 

(daom]) ha,r“m' / ra'To (tp'y“ or tb'/f). 33 Only the descriptions of Rachel, Joseph (the 

32 See especially Meir Sternberg, The Poetics of Biblical Narrative: Ideological Literature 

and the Drama of Reading (Indiana Literary Biblical Series; Bloomington: Indiana University 

Press, 1985), 354–64. See also R. L. Hubbard, Jr., “The Eyes Have It: Theological Reflections on 

Human Beauty,” ExAud 13 (1997): 57–72. 

33 Biblical Hebrew employs several terms to describe physical beauty. Most commonly a 

form of the root hpy (“beautiful, handsome”) appears alone (adjective: Job 42:15; Prov 11:22; Cant 

1:8, 15, 16; 2:10, 13; 4:1, 7; 5:9; 6:1, 4, 10; verb: Ezek 16:13; Ps 45:3; Cant 4:10; 7:2, 7; compare Jer 

4:30; Ezek 31:7). The adjective b/f (“good”), descriptive of positive qualities in a wide range of 

semantic fields, appears alone much less frequently in reference to physical beauty (Neh 3:4 and,


Hebrew Bible’s prototype of the lk,c, individual [1 Sam 25:3], although this 

term is not used of Joseph), and Abigail employ the optional ra'To, although 

other verbal parallels between 1 Sam 25 and the AN suggest that Gen 24 provides 

a focal intertext for the Abigail story. Incidentally, the fact that parallels 

between the language of 1 Sam 25 and Genesis are not limited to texts belonging 

to one of the classical pentateuchal sources undermines the notion that 

1 Sam 25 is strictly related to J. Instead, it either knows the whole ancestral tradition, 

or the Genesis and the David story (both the NDR and the SN) have 

cross-pollinated at several stages of lengthy growth processes. 

Perhaps significantly, Abigail’s beauty, emphasized in the introduction, 

plays no overt role in the development of the plot in 1 Sam 25. Nabal’s wealth 

first attracts David’s attention. There is no indication in the text 34 that David 

knew Abigail prior to the first encounter recorded in 1 Sam 25. Even in this 

encounter, David responds exclusively to her speech. Nothing is said of David’s 

reaction to her physical appearance. In fact, the only indication that he may 

have noted her beauty comes at the end, when he sends for her to become his 

wife. Unlike the others said to be beautiful, Abigail’s beauty does not precipitate 

the events that unfold in her story. Apparently, the allusion functions primarily 

to predispose the reader to regard her in matriarchal/royal light. 

Rebekah and Abigail may also be the two most industrious women in the 

Hebrew Bible, at least judged according to the haste with which they pursue 

tasks. The verb rhm occurs a total of forty-one times in Genesis–2 Kings. Eleven 

of these occurrences are feminine forms. Of these eleven, three have Rebekah 

as the subject (Gen 24:18, 20, 46) and four have Abigail (1 Sam 25:18, 23, 34, 

42). 35 Rebekah hurries to give Abraham’s servant something to drink and to 

water the camels. Then Rebekah graciously washes the feet of Abraham’s servant 

and of his companions (wta r`a !y`nah ylgrw wylgr $jrl, Gen 24:32) weary 

from their long journey. H. Gunkel found this aspect of Rebekah’s behavior, her 

extraordinary kindness and hospitality, particularly expressive of her suitability 

as the bride chosen for the heir of the promise. 36 Abigail, in turn, hurries to 

perhaps, 1 Sam 9:2 and Esth 8:5). Human beings can also be characterized as “comely” (hwan, Cant 

1:5; 2:14; 4:3; 6:4; compare Jer 6:2; verb form, Cant 1:10), “lovely” (!y[in:, Can 1:16; 2 Sam 1:23; ![n, 

2 Sam 1:26; Ezek 32:19; Cant 7:7), and “desirable” (dm'j]m', Ezek 24:16; Cant 5:16; dm,j,, Ezek 23:6, 

12, 23). Not surprisingly, the Song of Songs contains the highest concentration and widest variety of 

such descriptions of beauty. Interestingly, however, the formula characteristic of the AN, the 

NDR, and the SN does not appear in Song of Songs. 

34 But see n. 9 above. 

35 The remaining four are Gen 18:6 (Sarah hurries to bake bread), Exod 2:18 (Reuel inquires 

how his daughters have been able to finish watering the flocks so quickly), Judg 13:10 (Samson’s 

mother hurries to tell Maon about her encounter with the messenger), and 1 Sam 28:24 (the witch 

of Endor hurries to prepare food for the weakened King Saul). 

36 H. Gunkel, Genesis: Translated and Interpreted (Mercer Library of Biblical Studies 1; 

Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1997), 251–53, 256.

630 

load donkeys with gifts and provisions for David and his men, and she hurries to 

dismount her donkey and to bow to David upon encountering him. Conversely, 

after graciously and humbly identifying herself as servant to David’s servants, 

willing even to wash their feet (ynda ydb[ ylgr $jrl hjp`l ^tma hnh, 1 Sam 

25:41), she hurries to mount and ride after David’s messengers, who have come 

to bring her to David as his bride. Both women demonstrate their industry, graciousness, 

and decisiveness. 

Whereas Rebekah encounters Isaac only once in Gen 24, Abigail’s relationship 

with David develops in two movements in 1 Sam 25. As a result, 

echoes of Gen 24 can be heard in varying degrees in the accounts of both of the 

Abigail–David meetings. The description of Abigail’s initial behavior at the first 

meeting, which is also pressed into double duty as a parallel to the account of 

the encounter between Jacob and Esau, bears verbal resemblance (lygyba artw 

(ypal lptw rwmjh l[m drtw rhmtw dwdAta, 1 Sam 25:23) to the parallel description 

of Rebekah’s behavior when she first meets Isaac (artw hyny[Ata hqbr a`tw 

lmgh l[m lptw qjxyAta, Gen 24:64). There is an intriguing parallel between 

Gen 24:18, dr

Gen 32:17) and Abigail (yn"p;l] Wrb][i h;yr

632 


the converse of the Jacobean, cunning Abigail. For example, just as Esau 

approached his brother in the company of a band of four hundred men (^lh 

wm[ `ya twamA[braw ^tarql, Gen 32:7; cf. 33:1), David moved against Nabal 

with an equal force (`ya twam [braw dwd yrja wl[yw, 1 Sam 25:13; cf. 30:10, 17). 

Several passages in Genesis center on the key encounter between leading figures: 

Abraham’s servant runs to meet Rebekah at the well (htarql, Gen 24:17). 

Isaac comes to meet them both on their return (wntarql, Gen 24:65). Laban 

runs to meet his newly arrived kinsman, Jacob (wtarql, Gen 29:13), and Leah 

runs to him to inform him that he is to spend the night with her according to 

her bargain with Rebekah (wtarql, Gen 30:16). Again, however, the clearest 

parallel involves the encounters between Jacob/Abigail and Esau/David and 

their four hundred men (^tarql, Gen 32:7; wtarql, 33:4; htarql, 1 Sam 

25:20; ytarql, 25:32, 54). 

Another series of phrases used in both texts to describe the focal encounter 

calls attention to the element of danger that characterizes the Jacob/Esau and 

Abigail/David encounters. The verb vgp, “to meet, encounter,” occurs fourteen 

times in the Hebrew Bible. Eight of them clearly refer to dangerous or disastrous 

encounters where the connotation seems to be “to (be) ambush(ed)” or 

“to fall upon (to fall prey to)” (Exod 4:24, 27, YHWH trying to kill Moses; Isa 

34:14; Hos 13:8; Prov 17:12, all referring to encounters with predatory animals; 

Job 51:14, encountering darkness at noonday; Jer 41:6, Ishmael meeting a 

group of officials whom he intends to kill; 2 Sam 2:13, Joab and his men meeting 

with Abner’s men “to play” games that result in twenty-four dead). Three 

texts employ the term somewhat more happily (Ps 85:10; Prov 22:2; 29:13), 

although the meaning of the latter two is somewhat unclear. The verb clearly 

sounds the note of danger in the Jacob/Esau and Abigail/David passages (Gen 

32:18; 33:8; 1 Sam 25:20). Jacob and Abigail fully expect the worst. 

II. The Significance of These Parallels: 

Selective Narration, Narrative Gaps, and Narrative Dead Ends 

Narratology has called attention to the presence and function of “narrative 

gaps” in Hebrew literary prose. Narrators, who must selectively tell their tales, 

employ silences in much the same way composers of music employ rests for the 

sake of variety and interest and, especially, to invite the reader to speculate 

about what might have been narrated. Narrators either omit the unnecessary to 

control the pace or omit the essential to invite reader participation. 

1 Samuel 25 exhibits a number of these omissions or gaps. David hears 

that Nabal is shearing sheep, and he sends messengers to Nabal seeking gifts 

(vv. 4–5). No mention is made of the necessary intermediate step—David’s 

going to the location of Nabal’s flocks—until that information is supplied, first


in David’s communication to Nabal (v. 7) and later as confirmation in the servant’s 

conversation with Abigail (vv. 15–16). 

This supplementary technique, where the reader learns some significant 

detail at a point in the account subsequent to the introduction of the topic, 

characterizes 1 Sam 25. Nabal’s servant reports the outcome of David’s overtures 

to Abigail, stressing that the fate of all in Nabal’s household depends on 

her wise and decisive response. She is key because Nabal, whom the narrator 

has already introduced as a “hard, evil-doing Calebite” (v. 3), is beyond reason, 

according to the servant (wyl;ae rBeD"mi l['Y"liB]A@B, aWhw“, v. 17). This chain of supplementary 

information concerning Nabal continues. Since no one can reason 

with Nabal, Abigail does not inform him of her plan to appease David. She acts 

independently and, above all, quickly. Later she, too, expands the portrait of 

Nabal. “His name is fool and rightly so,” she tells David (v. 25). This motif 

climaxes when Abigail tells Nabal what she has done (v. 37) not when he is 

drunk but when he is “stone cold” sober. 38 Given Nabal’s character, this was 

either a moment of danger for Abigail or a moment of defiance and possibly 

even aggression. She does not tell him beforehand of her plans because he may 

prevent her from executing them; she tells him afterward, when he is sober and 

able to understand clearly, presumably because she can predict his reaction. 

She utilized his foul temperament as a weapon against him. She killed him with 

his own temper just as she spared David the consequences of his. 

The servant’s exchange with Abigail is key in another respect, as it functions 

as a nexus in another chain of supplementation. David’s servants deliver 

David’s outwardly very respectful and peaceful message “and then they waited” 

(WjWnY:w", v. 9). After Nabal insults them and their leader, they simply return to 

David (v. 12). David’s message does not seem to convey any explicit threat, and 

the messengers apparently do not respond at all, with threats or otherwise, to 

Nabal’s insults. Yet, when they report to David, he orders them to prepare for 

battle. Meanwhile, Nabal’s servant, although not privy to the events now taking 

place in David’s camp, correctly intuits the true nature of the situation and the 

magnitude of the underlying threat and, as Mordecai charged Esther with the 

duty to deliver her people, makes Abigail aware that only she can forestall the 

impending crisis. Only later, just before the meeting between Abigail and 

David, does the narrator explicitly supply precise information concerning 

David’s intentions in the parenthetical remark in vv. 21–22. 

At least one feature of the narrative, however, resists categorization either 

as a narrative gap or as an example of supplementation. Abigail sends her ser- 

38 P. Leithart has recently suggested that the phrase “when his wine was going out of him” 

refers to urination (“Nabal and His Wine,” JBL 120 [2001]: 525–27). The image, in Leithart’s view, 

“is not simply a vulgar detail,” but serves to identify further Nabal and Saul by means of the parallel 

between urination and defecation (1 Sam 24:3[4], Saul enters the cave “to cover his feet”).

634 


vants ahead of her to meet David. It is unclear whether—and if so, why—she 

lingers. The text (1 Sam 25:19) would seem to support either the notion that 

she brought up the end of the column of gift-laden donkeys or that she delayed 

for a time and made her way alone. The former interpretation seems to be the 

simpler reading of 1 Sam 25:19—“You lead the way and I will follow.” The 

series of statements immediately following, however, makes no mention whatsoever 

of the servants or of the gifts. Abigail rides alone under cover of the 

mountain; she sees David before he sees her, apparently in part because she is 

unaccompanied (vv. 20, 23). The text does not report that David encountered 

the servants and the donkey-laden gifts before encountering Abigail herself. In 

fact, only Abigail’s reference to the gifts (v. 27), which have apparently arrived 

at some point, although this detail goes unreported, confirms that her servants 

are indeed on the scene. 

This feature of the account raises two questions. First, why did Abigail 

delay her departure? Second, when did the servants and the gifts arrive? Several 

possibilities suggest themselves. Could it be that she felt the need to hasten 

the dispatch of the gifts but now paused to ready herself for meeting David? Or 

was she primarily concerned with ensuring her own safety? On balance, the 

text seems to have in mind a situation similar to Jacob’s provisions for his meeting 

with Esau. The gifts are sent ahead of the gift-giver in the hopes of appeasing 

the aggrieved party prior to an encounter with him. Yet the expectation 

raised by Abigail’s instructions to her servants that they go on ahead—namely, 

that a series of encounters between David and the servants culminating in the 

encounter between David and Abigail herself will be recounted—is unfulfilled. 

Has the narrator forgotten that Abigail sent the gifts ahead? From a narrative 

standpoint, what role does this feature play, since it is left incomplete? Can 

it properly be termed a “narrative gap”? Or is it more accurately a “narrative 

dead end”? 

Given the clear linguistic affinities between 1 Sam 25 and specific episodes 

in the AN, this narrative dead end, which parallels a major motif in one of these 

linguistically parallel passages, may provide a clue for evaluating the nature of 

these affinities and parallels. Since the “sending-ahead” motif plays no explicit 

or plausible implicit role in 1 Sam 25, it seems likely that its sole function is to 

allude to the Jacob–Esau encounter. 

IV. The Portrayal of David in 1 Samuel 25 

In terms of the function of the narrative, an analysis of these intricacies 

suggests that the story does not, in fact, celebrate David. Instead, the allusions 

to the AN, in particular, have the effect of portraying Abigail as the hero of the 

account. Nabal, of course, is a fool, but David is heavy-handed and loutish as


well. Nabal is too shortsighted to realize the risk inherent in insulting David, 

but David is too shortsighted to recognize the risk to his future posed by rash 

vengeance. David is greedy and opportunistic; he “hears, sends, and takes” (cf. 

1 Sam 8:10–18). 

Two categories of features of the narrative confirm this interpretation. 

First, several prominent elements have no purpose except to allude to the AN 

and to accounts of David’s later career. Abigail’s beauty plays no manifest role in 

1 Sam 25 apart from making the reader aware that she belongs in the company 

of Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, Bathsheba, and the others. Similarly, the motif of 

“sending ahead,” a narrative dead end in 1 Sam 25, can only be understood as a 

not-so-subtle comparison of Abigail to Jacob and, by extension, of David to 

Esau. References to his four hundred men and verbal parallels with the story of 

Jacob’s encounter with Esau also emphasize David’s similarity to Esau and indicate 

the potential danger to Abigail in her initial encounter with this armed 

band and its angry leader. 39 

Several redundancies also betray the narrator’s awareness of David’s less 

noble traits. As the narrative insists by repeated declarations of David’s murderous 

intention toward Nabal, David is violent. He and his queen (Abigail is 

accompanied by not one, but five attendants walking at her feet) are imperious. 

This element surely does not belong in the context of David’s fugitive experience 

and must be a comment on his later behavior. He is greedy—a sender and 

taker. 

1 Samuel 25 does not seem, then, to be a naively or simply pro-David justification 

of his behavior during his fugitive period. It does not exonerate him 

(after all, according to the logic of the narrative, Nabal’s death is a foregone 

conclusion). 40 Instead, 1 Sam 25 is well aware of David’s shortcomings and 

chooses delightfully involved literary techniques to portray them. Apparently, 

Israel’s storytellers were very capable of depicting complex heroes. Pro-David 

and anti-David are insufficient categories. 

V. 1 Samuel 25 and Hebrew Historiography 

The preceding analysis implies that several assumptions underlying the 

principal source-critical models concerning 1 Sam 25 merit revision. A standard 

approach views both the NDR (including 1 Sam 25) and the J or J/E patriarchal/matriarchal 

materials as only one step removed from naive folk tradition. 41 

39 It may be significant that the books of Samuel frequently make this comparison. Does the 

phenomenon imply some critique of David? 

40 Cf. Gunn, Fate of King Saul, 101–2. 

41 See, e.g., Stoebe, “David und Mikal,” 242.

636 


This aesthetic assessment, which emphasizes observable similarities between 

the NDR and J in style, language, and motif, complements the argument that 

the NDR represents Israel’s very earliest historiography, predating by several 

centuries the DtrH, into which it was later incorporated. This scenario places 

the author of 1 Sam 25, presumably identical with the author of the NDR, very 

near to the events themselves. This author’s purposes in narrating David’s marriage 

to the beautiful, cunning, and wealthy Abigail will have been to illustrate 

David’s cunning good fortune and, in the context of 1 Sam 24–26, his innocence 

of any and all disloyalty in his relationship with Saul (Nabal). More recently, a 

number of scholars have explained the similarities between NDR and Genesis 

in terms of a late date for J; that is, J is quite late since it depends on the NDR, 

if not indeed on DtrH. 

Several observations support a view of the relationship between 1 Sam 25 

and Genesis that differs from either of the currently held models. 42 Allusions to 

the AN betray dependence on the text of Genesis in an advanced stage of its 

development or the reverse, on the one hand, and a level of literary artifice, on 

the other, that seems to suggest a very deliberate literary effort. In particular, 

four characteristics of the Abigail-David story deserve emphasis. 

First, rather than representing a discrete narrative stemming from folk 

tradition and traceable to origins very near the events narrated, the story bears 

the marks of a literary creation spun from whole cloth. Nothing indicates that 

an existing folktale has been redacted for inclusion in the NDR. Although the 

intricate structure of the narrative might lead one to hypothesize the presence 

of multiple sources or redactions, no clear pattern of interpolations or editorial 

changes is evident. Further, the only reliable historical datum distillable from 

the account is David’s marriage to Abigail. For the purposes of the narrative, 

however, the author has altered even that information by changing the name of 

Abigail’s husband to the ridiculous Nabal/Churl, thereby personifying a major 

theme of the account. The placement of the story at the center of 1 Sam 24–26 

and the allusions establishing the equation Nabal = Saul = Laban confirm the 

suspicion that the characterization of Nabal and the report of events cannot be 

treated as historically reliable. The story is a literary parable skillfully composed 

on the basis of themes and motifs derived from existing literature. 43 

Second, the notion that 1 Sam 25 seeks primarily to defend David against 

charges that he rebelled against Saul and perhaps even that he was complicit in 

42 The complexity of the issue cautions against prematurely extending these conclusions to 

the entirety of the NDR. 

43 C. Edenburg argues similarly with respect to 1 Sam 26 (“How [not] to Murder a King: 

Variations on a Theme in 1 Samuel 24; 26,” SJOT 12 [1998]: 64–83). In her view, the author of 

1 Sam 26 (= the author of 1 Sam 25?) composed the second variation of the account of David’s 

refusal to exact vengeance on Saul from themes and motifs provided by existing materials.


Saul’s death fails to account for the narrative’s hints that David exercised 

restraint toward Saul only by constraint or, more likely, that this restraint was 

only apparent, a subterfuge. In this regard, 1 Sam 25 undercuts and deconstructs 

the surface-level portrayal of David found in 1 Sam 24 and 26. After all, 

Nabal actually owed David nothing. He had not contracted for David’s protection. 

It is difficult to escape the conclusion that, in fact, the only threat to 

Nabal’s flocks had been David himself. Surely, Nabal did not owe David payment 

for a theft not committed. Given the parallelism between Nabal and Saul, 

David’s attempt to extort Nabal’s possessions compares to David’s appropriation 

of the throne from Saul’s household. Abigail won David’s willingness to 

refrain from avenging Nabal’s insult only by convincing David of the certainty 

of vengeance even without David’s direct intervention. As the story has it, in 

fact, Abigail herself turned against her husband, just as, according to the NDR, 

Jonathan and Michal turned against their father, Saul—and, perhaps, Ahinoam 

against her husband (1 Sam 14:50). 44 Indeed, throughout both the NDR and 

the SN, David’s innocence results only from the willingness of members of his 

circle, chiefly Joab, to do David’s dirty work. 45 If this is a Solomonic-era defense 

of David’s purity and thus of the integrity of Solomon and the Davidic dynasty, 

it is perplexingly cynical. 

Third, at least in the case of 1 Sam 25, it is difficult to understand, as a 

growing number of scholars do, similarities between Genesis and Samuel in 

terms of “political allegory.” 46 Such an understanding would require the 

assumption that, for some reason, the author(s) of the various episodes in Genesis 

mined 1 Sam 25 for elements to be used in the Jacob/Laban, Jacob/Esau, 

and Isaac/Rebekah narratives. 1 Samuel 25 would have been the source for 

almost the entirety of the Jacob account! Furthermore, in this view, the 

author(s) of the Genesis narratives would have relied on the figure of Abigail 

for motifs in the depiction of both Jacob and Rebekah; David would have pro- 

44 McKenzie’s suggestion that the assumption that Saul’s wife, Ahinoam, and David’s wife, 

Ahinoam of Jezreel, were identical (cf. Nathan’s assertion to David that “[YHWH] gave you your 

master’s house and your master’s wives into your bosom,” 1 Sam 12:8)—e.g., that David took Saul’s 

wife, surely an act of rebellion (cf. 2 Sam 3:7; 12:11–12; 16:21–22; 1 Kgs 2:13–25)—may explain 

Saul’s accusation that, by siding with David, Jonathan, the “son of a perverse, rebellious woman” 

(Ahinoam?) has done so “to the shame of [his] mother’s nakedness” (1 Sam 20:30) (King David, 

114, 160). 

45 Although in some instances Joab and others of David’s circle apparently act from their own 

motives (the ambush of Abner, for example), in every case they accomplish for David something he 

cannot or will not do for himself (the assassination of Ishbaal and the execution of Absalom, for 

example). In at least one instance, the reality of David’s motive underlying his apparent innocence 

is laid bare, namely, Joab’s betrayal of Uriah. David’s deathbed recommendation to Saul concerning 

Joab confirms the notion that David kept Joab around largely because Joab’s violent propensities 

benefited the king. 

46 See n. 3 above.

638 


vided the model for both Jacob and Esau. The latter is particularly difficult. 

Why would an author or authors utilize elements of the NDR’s portrayal of 

David to characterize Esau, the disenfranchised patriarch of the Edomites? The 

contrary is much more easily imagined, namely, that the author of 1 Sam 25 

selected elements of the Genesis narratives in order to construct a complex, 

ironic, almost satirical portrait of David that foreshadows the later characterization 

of the David who uses Joab as his hatchet man, who takes Bathsheba, and 

who admonishes Solomon to settle David’s old scores. 

Finally, this foreshadowing of the ruthless David depicted in the SN calls 

attention to parallels between Abigail/Nabal and Bathsheba/Uriah and to the 

central role of women at key moments in David’s life. Abigail and Nabal play 

essentially the same role in the NDR that Bathsheba and Uriah play in the SN. 

Michal figures prominently in both the NDR and the SN. 47 In terms of characterization, 

it seems appropriate, therefore, to suggest that indications of David’s 

later flaws already appear in the NDR. 48 

47 See Willi-Plein, “Frauen um David.” 

48 In terms of source analysis of Samuel, these observations suggest that it may also be appropriate 

to question the differentiation of NDR and SN as distinct sources. See S. Frolov, “Succession 

Narrative: A ‘Document’ or a Phantom?” JBL 121 (2002): 81–104, for a concise review of research 

and insightful critique of the “Succession Narrative” hypothesis. 

Biblical / Classical Research Library 

The newly-founded Dominican Biblical Centre for Teaching and Research, 

Limerick, Ireland, seeks quality books in the field of Ancient Near East, the 

Scriptures and the Greco-Roman world. Collections such as the Loeb 

Classical Library would be particularly welcome. 

Dominican Biblical Centre 

Limerick 

Ireland 

For further information, please contact either 

Thomas Brodie or Christine Farget: 

Tel: +353 61 410 115 Fax: +353 61 468 604 E-mail: info@dbclimerick.ie

JBL 121/4 (2002) 639–666 

WHAT’S IN A NAME? 

NEO-ASSYRIAN DESIGNATIONS FOR THE 

NORTHERN KINGDOM AND THEIR 

IMPLICATIONS FOR ISRAELITE HISTORY 

AND BIBLICAL INTERPRETATION 

BRAD E. KELLE 

bkelle@emory.edu 

Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 

Nearly a decade ago, Israel Eph>al published a brief study that examined 

some of the Assyrian designations for the northern kingdom in the ninth and 

eighth centuries B.C.E. 1 He operated with the basic claim that the Neo-Assyrian 

designations reflect various historical situations involving Israel from 853–720 

B.C.E. In the course of this study, however, Eph>al reached a negative conclusion 

and asserted that these Assyrian designations “cannot be taken as indicative 

of the territorial extent (nor of the political conditions) of the kingdom of 

Israel.” 2 This assertion represents a tradition of viewing the different designations 

for the northern kingdom as simple synonyms that had little, if any, relationship 

to Israel’s changing political circumstances throughout the ninth and 

eighth centuries. 

There are several weaknesses in Eph>al’s treatment that call for a new 

examination of this topic. First, he does not analyze all the appearances of 

northern designations. Additionally, new pieces of evidence (such as the Tel 

Dan inscription) and new issues have emerged in the last decade. He also deals 

mostly with texts that are not royal inscriptions and does not consider in an 

extended way the study of Israelite and Judean history. Furthermore, Eph>al’s 

denial of territorial and political implications for the designations ignores the 

specific form (including the presence of determinatives) and context of the 

1 Israel Eph>al, “‘The Samarian(s)’ in the Assyrian Sources,” in Ah Assyria: Studies in Assyrian 

History and Ancient Near Eastern Historiography Presented to Hayim Tadmor (ed. M. Cogan 

and I. Eph>al; ScrHier 33; Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1991) 36–45. 

2 Ibid., 39. 

639

640 


terms in the various inscriptions. Accordingly, the present article both builds 

upon and moves beyond Eph>al’s study in order to reexamine the designations 

for the northern kingdom found in Assyrian royal inscriptions from Shalmaneser 

III to Sargon II. This examination specifically analyzes the various 

designations within this corpus by focusing on the differences in the terms, 

their relationships to one another, their literary and historical contexts, and 

their implications for Israelite history and biblical interpretation. 

The datable Assyrian royal documents indicate that references to the 

northern kingdom span over 150 years. These references primarily consist of 

three different terms: “Bit-H… umri,” “Samaria,” and “Israel.” The term “Bit- 

H… umri,” or “house of Omri,” occurs only in Assyrian sources, while “Samaria” 

occurs also, but more rarely, in the Hebrew Bible (1 Kgs 21:1; 2 Kgs 1:3; Hos 

10:7). Moreover, in the Assyrian texts, the term “Israel” occurs only in an inscription 

of Shalmaneser III, while “Samaria” and “Bit-H… umri” occur in various contexts 

throughout the rest of the inscriptions of this period. The occurrences of 

designations for the northern kingdom in the inscriptions are as follows: 

Assyrian King Inscription Designations 

Shalmaneser III Monolith Inscription (ca. 853) KUR sir-

Kelle: What’s in a Name? 641 

By reexamining these designations and their intersections with Israelite 

and Judean history, one may question Eph>al’s negative conclusion and consider 

the possibility that the three different designations in the Assyrian inscriptions 

are not synonyms for the same static geopolitical entity but rather may 

indicate changing historical and political situations involving Israel from 853 to 

720. 

I. Shalmaneser III’s Monolith Inscription 

The earliest known reference to the northern kingdom in Assyrian inscriptions 

appears in the Monolith Inscription of Shalmaneser III (858–824 B.C.E.). 3 

The inscription begins with an invocation of the gods and the royal epithets and 

genealogy and then describes Shalmaneser’s expeditions from his accession 

year (859–858) through his sixth regnal year (853–852). 

The final campaign listed for the sixth regnal year (853–852) is Shalmaneser’s 

first encounter with a south Syrian-Palestinian coalition (col. 2, lines 

78–102). The Monolith Inscription indicates that the three major players in the 

anti-Assyrian coalition were Adad-idri (Hadadezer) of Aram-Damascus, Irh…uleni 

of Hamath, and a-h…a-ab-bu KUR sir-

642 


the relationship of this text to the biblical material about Ahab, especially 1 Kgs 

20 and 22? 

The question of the identity of a-h…a-ab-bu involves the fact that the other 

Assyrian inscriptions for 853–852 do not mention this person as a leader or participant 

in the coalition. They mention only Adad-idri and Irh…uleni (see Bull 

Inscription and Black Obelisk). This lack of any further references leads some 

writers to assert that one should not equate the reference on the Monolith 

Inscription with Ahab of Israel. For example, W. Gugler supports A. S. van der 

Woude’s thesis that the inscription simply refers to an unknown northwest Syrian 

ruler. 5 Gugler’s reasons for not reading Ahab on the Monolith Inscription, 

however, do not involve philological or syntactical arguments. This lack of any 

serious philological objections indicates that one can identify this text as a reference 

to the northern kingdom if he or she can explain the size of Ahab’s force, 

the relationship to 1 Kgs 20 and 22, and the anomalous use of “Israel” as a designation. 

6 

As noted above, the Monolith Inscription credits a-h…a-ab-bu with 2,000 

chariots and 10,000 soldiers. If this country is Israel, then Hamath and Israel 

provided more than two-thirds of the allied forces, and Israel’s chariot force 

alone was equal to Assyria’s. 7 N. Na’aman objects that it is inconceivable that 

Ahab could have a chariot force bigger than Assyria’s, since in 839, at the height 

of power, Assyria lists only 2,002 chariots. Accordingly, he concludes that the 

text does refer to Ahab, but 2,000 is a scribal error for 200, which is more suitable 

for the period. 8 

In spite of Na’aman’s arguments, another explanation, which does not 

require emendation, presents itself. The Monolith Inscription makes no reference 

to Judah, Moab, Edom, Tyre, or Sidon. Moreover, other evidence seems 

5 W. Gugler, Jehu und seine Revolution (Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1996), 70–77. Some earlier 

readings also suggested “Ahab of Jezreel” (see Cuneiform Inscriptions of Western Asia [ed. H. 

Rawlinson; 5 vols.; London: British Museum, 1861–1909], 3:6). However, this no longer appears to 

be considered, and the most recent studies do not mention it (e.g., Grayson, Assyrian Rulers, 

11–24). 

6 Concerning the philological discussion of the name, Lemaire identifies sir-


to indicate that Israel at this time acted as a dominant partner to many of these 

states. Concerning Judah, 1 Kgs 22:44 depicts Jehoshaphat king of Judah (877– 

853) “making peace” with or “surrendering” to Ahab and functioning subserviently 

to the northern king (cf. 1 Kgs 22:4; 2 Kgs 3:7). 9 In addition, it has 

been concluded that Jehoshaphat’s fortification of cities and buildup of military 

force would not have been possible without peaceful relations with Ahab. 10 

Further, Jehoshaphat came to be remembered as the Judean king who gave 

unqualified support to Israel (cf. 2 Chr 18:3) and only after Ahab’s death did he 

take any independent stance. 

Concerning Edom, 1 Kgs 22:47 states that during the reign of Jehoshaphat, 

which overlapped those of Omri and Ahab, “there was no king in Edom, 

and a deputy was king.” Moreover, 2 Kgs 8:20 indicates that Edom later 

rebelled against Judah, which apparently had control of it. This reference to 

Jehoshaphat’s possible control of Edom, however, is vague. One could suggest 

that, given the evidence that Israel dominated Judah at this time, perhaps the 

Edomite deputy was an Omride appointee and Jehoshaphat gained control of 

Edom only after Ahab’s death. Concerning Moab, the Mesha Inscription 

clearly indicates that Moab became subservient to Israel during the time of 

Omri. Specifically, Moab acknowledged Ahab’s sovereignty over Gilead-Gad 

and sent him tribute (2 Kgs 3:4). Concerning Phoenicia, one expects a reference 

to the Phoenicians in the Monolith Inscription due to their alliance with 

the Omride dynasty. However, Phoenicia may have at least been a nominal supporter 

of the coalition due to this alliance, since Shalmaneser does not mention 

collecting tribute from Tyre in 853, as he does earlier in 858–857 and 856–855. 11 

Given the preceding evidence, it seems reasonable to explain the unusual 

size of Israel’s force at Qarqar by asserting that it included contingents from 

these vassal states. Accordingly, one may also suggest that the designation 

“Israel” here refers to a kingdom with its capital at Samaria that included the 

subordinate territories of Moab, Edom, and Judah, and perhaps contingents 

from Phoenicia. 

The relationship of the events described in the Monolith Inscription to 

those in 1 Kgs 20 and 22 is a second major issue concerning this designation for 

the northern kingdom. The basic issue here is the fact that the biblical materials 

about Ahab (1 Kgs 16:29–33; 20; 22:1–40), which make no reference to the battle 

of Qarqar, present a different historical picture from the Monolith Inscription: 

(1) the king of Damascus contemporary with Ahab in the Bible is Ben- 

Hadad not Hadadezer; (2) Aram and Israel are enemies in the biblical texts; 

9 W. Hallo, “From Qarqar to Carchemish: Assyria and Israel in the Light of New Discoveries,” 

BA 23 (1960): 37. 

10 J. M. Miller and J. H. Hayes, A History of Ancient Israel and Judah (Philadelphia: Westminster, 

1986), 275. 

11 Hallo, “Qarqar to Carchemish,” 37.

644 


and (3) the Bible describes the Israelite military as small (1 Kgs 20:15, 27) with 

few chariots (1 Kgs 20:23–25, 28). There are two major options for dealing with 

these biblical traditions. First, one could identify the Ben-Hadad in the Bible 

with Hadadezer and assume that relations between Israel and Aram oscillated 

during the time of Omri and Ahab. Elsewhere in biblical and nonbiblical texts, 

however, Ben-Hadad appears to be a personal name, not a title (1 Kgs 15:18; 

2 Kgs 13:3, 24). A more viable way of dealing with the relationship between the 

Monolith Inscription and 1 Kgs 20 and 22 is to see these biblical texts as 

redacted incorrectly and misplaced, that is, as actually referring to events that 

occurred during the later, weaker Jehu dynasty. 12 The animosity between Israel 

and Aram and Israel’s relative weakness in 1 Kgs 20 and 22 fit with what is 

known of the Jehu dynasty (cf. 2 Kgs 13). Moreover, several literary clues suggest 

that 1 Kgs 20 and 22 do not belong to the reign of Ahab. For example, the 

name “Ahab” occurs only three times in 1 Kgs 20:2, 13, 14 and once in 1 Kgs 

22:20 in MT. Otherwise, the text simply reads “the king of Israel.” Perhaps the 

identification with Ahab is secondary. If one follows this view, there is no conflict 

with taking the Monolith Inscription as an Assyrian reference to the northern 

kingdom. 

Perhaps the most apparent obstacle to viewing this inscription as containing 

a reference to the northern kingdom is the anomalous designation “Israel.” 

As noted above, this text is the only occurrence of the term “Israel” in the 

Assyrian royal inscriptions. One should also note that the inscription uses the 

determinative KUR to indicate the name of a land or country (maµtum) as 

opposed to a city. 13 

The lack of any other occurrences of the term “Israel” in the Assyrian 

inscriptions invites the reader to look elsewhere for an explanation. Since the 

Monolith Inscription is Assyria’s first recorded contact with the northern kingdom, 

it seems reasonable to suggest that the scribes may have been influenced 

by the local designations. Accordingly, two non-Assyrian texts may help explain 

the anomalous designation “Israel.” 

12 See A. Jepsen, “Israel und Damaskus,” AfO 14 (1941–45): 153–72; W. T. Pitard, Ancient 

Damascus: A Historical Study of the Syrian City-State from Earliest Times until Its Fall to the 

Assyrians in 732 B.C.E. (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1987), 114–25; and J. M. Miller, “The 

Elisha Cycle and the Accounts of the Omride Wars,” JBL 85 (1966): 441–54. 

13 The issue of the use and consistency of Akkadian determinatives is a debated one. Determinatives 

are graphic indicators of the class of objects (see J. Huehnergard, A Grammar of Akkadian 

[Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997], 111). In support of the specificity of determinatives, one may 

note that the number of determinatives is small, about two dozen. Moreover, the determinatives 

KUR (land) and URU (city) are best analyzed with regard to their consistency and importance 

within this limited corpus of ninth- to eighth-century royal inscriptions rather than ranging widely 

across the entire corpus of Assyrian texts. In this restricted corpus, these two determinatives do seem 

to appear consistently to differentiate between cities and lands or districts. There do not appear to 

be any obvious anomalies. Thus, within this particular corpus, one seems to be able to trust the 

determinatives for different designations and thus can explore their historical implications.


The Mesha Inscription (or Moabite Stone) reports King Mesha’s accomplishments 

and praises his having ended Israelite dominance over Moab and 

recovered from Israel the territory north of the Arnon. 14 Throughout this 

description, the text consistently uses the designation “Israel” for the northern 

kingdom. This term illuminates the similar usage on the Monolith Inscription. 

The text is local to Syria-Palestine and concerns the interaction of a local area 

king with Israel. The biblical texts themselves, also reflecting the local setting of 

Syria-Palestine, most often designate the northern kingdom by the term 

“Israel.” This evidence suggests that “Israel” was the local designation for the 

northern kingdom centered in Samaria during the period of Omri and Ahab. 

The Tel Dan Inscription, apparently a memorial stela of a ninth-century 

Aramean king, also represents a local reference to the northern kingdom. 15 

This text, like the Monolith Inscription, uses the designation “Israel.” Since the 

inscription comes from Syria-Palestine, it again suggests that “Israel” was the 

local (not Assyrian) designation for the north even during the time of Ahab’s 

successors. Moreover, the stela still seems to envision a close and perhaps 

dependent relationship between the northern and southern kingdoms. 

Although the term “Beth-David” here appears to be a reference to the southern 

kingdom and the final ^ before this term is most likely a fragment of a reference 

to a separate king for the south (i.e., ^lm), the text nonetheless portrays 

Israel and Judah as basically one unit that the Aramean king dealt with in a single 

blow. 16 

The preceding evidence suggests an explanation for the anomalous usage 

of “Israel” on the Monolith Inscription. Since the battle of Qarqar was the first 

recorded Assyrian contact with the north, perhaps the royal scribes simply 

adopted the contemporary local name of that political entity. 17 Thus, viable 

explanations for the size of Ahab’s forces, the relationship to 1 Kgs 20 and 22, 

and the term “Israel” allow one to say with confidence that the Monolith 

14 For the best publication of the Mesha Inscription, see R. Dussaud, Les monuments Palestiniens 

et Judaiques (Paris: Musée du Louvre, 1912), 4–22. For the reconstructed text with critical 

notes, see K. Jackson and A. Dearman, “The Text of the Mesha Inscription,” in Studies in the 

Mesha Inscription and Moab (ed. A. Dearman; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989), 93–95. See also A. F. 

Rainey, “Mesha> and Syntax,” in The Land That I Will Show You: Essays on the History and 

Archaeology of the Ancient Near East in Honour of J. Maxwell Miller (ed. J. A. Dearman and M. P. 

Graham; JSOTSup 343; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 287–307. 

15 The inscription was found in three fragments in 1993 and 1995. For the original publication 

of Fragment A, see A. Biran and J. Naveh, “An Aramaic Stele Fragment from Tel Dan,” IEJ 43 

(1993): 81–98; for Fragments B1 and B2, see A. Biran and J. Naveh, “The Tel Dan Inscription: A 

New Fragment,” IEJ 45 (1995): 1–18. See also A. Demsky, “On Reading Ancient Inscriptions: The 

Monumental Aramaic Stele Fragment from Tel Dan,” JANES 23 (1995): 30–31. 

16 See Biran and Naveh, “Aramaic Stele,” 96. Demsky asserts that lines 8–9 allude to the 

combined forces of Israelite and Judean kings (“On Reading,” 34). 

17 N. Lemche seems to consider this a possibility (The Israelites in History and Tradition 

[Library of Ancient Israel; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1998], 52).

646 


Inscription contains the first Assyrian designation for the northern kingdom. 

Moreover, at this point the designation “Israel” seems to have represented an 

entity that included several vassal states. 

II. Shalmaneser III’s Black Obelisk, 

Calah Fragment, Kurba


the second relief. Panel B of the reliefs depicts a figure, perhaps Jehu, bowing 

before the king and paying tribute. The text accompanying this panel reads as 

follows: 

The tribute of Jehu, the (Bit)-H… umrite (ma-da-tu ša ia-u-a DUMU h…u-um-rii). 

Silver, gold, a golden bowl, a golden vase, golden goblets, golden pitchers, 

tin, a h…utartu for the hand of the king, and puašh…atu, I received from him. 20 

Scholars widely accept the identification of ia-u-a with Jehu. P. K. 

McCarter raises the objection that ia-u-a represents the divine name Yaw and 

could refer to either Joram or Jehu. He concludes that it is more probably 

Joram because of the designation “son” (maµr) of Omri. 21 However, M. Weippert 

challenges McCarter and argues that ia-u-a represents *yahuµ


that Jehu was not a descendant of Omri (2 Kgs 9:2). Accordingly, those who 

argue that this reference is genealogical must also argue that it is either a scribal 

mistake or an intentional deception by the Assyrians. 27 There is strong evidence, 

however, for taking the phrase “maµr H…umri” as a gentilic, meaning “the (Bit)- 

H… umrite.” 28 DUMU (maµru) can function as a reference to a citizen of a city or 

country. 29 The context of the Black Obelisk also strengthens the interpretation 

of maµr H… umri as a geopolitical designation. All the panels surrounding the reference 

to Jehu clearly contain political, not genealogical, designations. 30 

This evidence suggests that these inscriptions refer to the northern kingdom 

as “Bit-H… umri.” This term appears throughout the remainder of the 

inscriptions as the main Assyrian designation for the northern kingdom. None 

of these Assyrian texts mentions Judah. It is possible to conclude that Judah was 

independent yet simply not involved. However, as with the period of Ahab, the 

biblical texts covering this period indicate close ties between north and south 

and suggest that Judah remained a subordinate partner or vassal to Bit-H… umri. 

Thus, the political entity “Bit-H… umri” seems to designate the same general area 

as “Israel” on the Monolith Inscription. Nonetheless, Moab’s achievement of 

independence after the death of Ahab, which is reflected in the Mesha Inscription, 

suggests that “Bit-H… umri” no longer included the entities of Moab and, 

probably, Edom. 

This analysis raises the question of why the inscriptions switch from the 

designation “Israel” to “Bit-H…umri.” The reason does not seem to be that Omri 

was the greatest previous king, since the Assyrians do not appear to have had 

any recorded contact with Israel before the reign of Ahab. Additionally, the 

term “House of Omri” does not appear to have been a major Israelite selfdesignation. 

In fact, the Hebrew Bible never uses the phrase. 31 As noted above, 

27 T. Schneider is an exception to this generalization. She asserts that Jehu was a descendant 

of Omri from a different wife/line than Ahab (“Did Jehu Kill His Own Family,” BAR 21, no. 1 

[1995]: 81). Na’aman argues that since Jehu reversed the Omride anti-Assyrian policy, the Assyrians 

tried to legitimize his reign by describing him as a “son” of the previous dynasty. See N. 

Na’aman, “The Contribution of Royal Inscriptions for a Re-Evaluation of the Book of Kings as a 

Historical Source,” JSOT 82 (1999): 7–8; idem, “Jehu Son of Omri: Legitimizing a Loyal Vassal by 

His Lord,” IEJ 48 (1998): 236–38. 

28 See Weippert, “Jau(a),” 114; O. Keel and C. Uehlinger, “Der Assyrerkönig Salmanassar III 

und Jehu von Israel auf dem Schwarzen Obelisken aus Nimrud,” ZKT 116 (1994): 399; TUAT, 367. 

29 CAD 10/1.315–16. For example, the Monolith Inscription designates the rulers of Bit- 

Agusi, Bit-Adini, and Bit-Dakuri as maµr Aguµsi, maµr AdÈµni, maµr Dakuµri. Cf. the similar usage of @b, 

e.g., 2 Kgs 15:10; see also Na’aman, “Two Notes,” 102; and H. Tadmor, “The Historical Inscriptions 

of Adad-nirari III,” Iraq 35 (1973): 149. 

30 For example, panel A reads, “The maddattu of Suµa, the Gilzanite (KUR gil-za-na-a-a),” and 

panel C reads, “The maddattu of the land of Mus\ri (ša maµt mu-us\-ri).” 

31 Rather, one of Israel’s major self-designations was “House of Ahab,” which appears fifteen 

times in the Hebrew Bible; see 2 Kgs 8:18, 27 (2x); 9:7, 8, 9; 10:11, 30; 21:13; 2 Chr 21:6, 13; 22:3, 4, 

8; Mic 6:16.


the local designation for the northern kingdom appears to have been “Israel” 

not “House of Omri.” Due to a lack of specific evidence, any conclusion must 

remain at the level of hypothesis. Inner-Israelite politics reflected in 2 Kgs 8–9, 

however, may suggest a possible explanation. These texts allow the possibility 

that there was only one King Jehoram and that he was a southern king who 

came to rule in the north after the death of Ahaziah son of Ahab. 32 If this was 

the case, then perhaps Jehu (and/or the royal scribes) adopted the term “Bit- 

H… umri” to indicate that a native northerner had been restored to the throne 

and to claim connection with the roots of the earlier dynasty. The change in 

designation could equally suggest, however, that it was the Assyrians themselves 

who invented the term “Bit-H… umri” as a reference to this new vassal 

kingdom, since there is no reason to think that “Israel” did not remain the selfdesignation 

of the northern kingdom. In any case, the Assyrian scribes who 

recorded Jehu’s submission may have adopted this designation and used it as a 

geographical term to refer to an entity that encompassed the states that were 

locally called “Israel” and “Judah.” This practice would have been in keeping 

with evidence from some of the Assyrian King Lists, on which the name of a 

king is usually followed by “son of” (DUMU) the previous king. This designation 

may represent a customary means of identification that served to establish 

legitimacy. If the previous ruler was suggested to be illegitimate, however, the 

scribes may have been willing to refer back to the last legitimate dynasty. 33 

The conditions indicated in these four Assyrian texts mark the beginning 

of significant historical developments that took place in the years between 841 

and 805 and inform our understanding of the next Assyrian references to the 

northern kingdom. The various editions of Shalmaneser III’s annals gave Aram 

increasing prominence under Hazael’s rule. This rise of Hazael took place in 

the context of Assyrian decline in the last years of Shalmaneser III and the 

reign of Shamshi-Adad V (823–811). Hazael continually warded off campaigns 

of Shalmaneser III in the 840s and 830s and was able to expand unchecked by 

Assyrian restraints after 831. 34 Accordingly, Aram eventually dominated all of 

Syria-Palestine. 35 

32 See J. Strange, “Joram, King of Israel and Judah,” VT 25 (1975): 191–201; cf. Miller and 

Hayes, History, 280–84; and Hayes and Hooker, New Chronology, 33–36. 

33 See I. J. Gelb, “Two Assyrian King Lists,” JNES 13 (1954): 209–30; R. Hess, “The Genealogies 

of Genesis 1–11 and Comparative Literature,” Bib 70 (1989): 241–54. Such a usage of “son” 

(DUMU) may be reflected in the Khorsabad King List iii 39–iv 4, which refers to a series of kings 

not as “son” of the immediate predecessor but as “son of Tukulti-apil-Ešarra,” the king from line 

39. However, iv 1 relates how Šamši-Adad (IV) overthrew and deposed the preceding king, who 

was not designated as a son of Tukulti-apil-Ešarra. Accordingly, when Šamši-Adad takes the throne, 

the list once again calls him a “son of Tukulti-apil-Ešarra,” since he seems to have reestablished the 

original line (see Gelb, “Two Assyrian King Lists,” 228). 

34 See B. Mazar, “The Aramean Empire and Its Relations with Israel,” BA 25 (1962): 115. 

35 Pitard, Ancient Damascus, 151; see also P. Dion, Les Araméens à l’âge du fer: Histoire politique 

et structurales sociales (Paris: Librairie Lecoffre, 1997), 199.

650 


Several biblical texts indicate that Hazael indeed subjugated Syria- 

Palestine after 841 B.C.E. 2 Kings 10:32–33 associates Israel’s loss of control 

over all the Transjordan with Hazael’s expansion. 2 Kings 16:6 suggests that 

Hazael’s control over the Transjordan extended as far south as the port of Elath, 

and 2 Kgs 12:17a states that Hazael subjugated Gath and practically all of the 

territory west of the Jordan. Thus, Hazael must have also controlled the Jezreel 

Valley and Galilee. 2 Kings 12:17b–18 indicates that Jerusalem did not fall to 

Hazael because Jehoash offered him payment as a vassal. Hazael’s Booty 

Inscriptions found in Greece state that Hazael’s campaigns reached across the 

“river” (rhn). While the term “river” here may refer only to the Orontes, the 

Bible and other ancient Near Eastern texts often use it as a designation for the 

Euphrates. Accordingly, these texts could suggest that Hazael campaigned in 

Assyrian territory. The Zakur Stela strengthens this suggestion by indicating 

that even after Hazael, in the time of his son Ben-Hadad, Aram’s influence 

extended into northern Syria and eastern Anatolia. 36 Thus, P. Dion makes the 

relatively unique conclusion that Hazael’s expansion, which began in the last 

years of Shalmaneser III, even included offensive expeditions north of the 

Euphrates. 37 

Along with the biblical texts, the Tel Dan Inscription’s allusions to the 

Aramean king’s [Hazael’s?] power suggest the growth of that king to dominance 

over the region. Furthermore, on the inscription, the king claims to have killed 

Joram and Ahaziah. As many commentators notice, this assertion directly contradicts 

2 Kgs 9, which asserts that Jehu killed these kings. Regardless of the 

explanation one chooses, these powerful acts fit well with other evidence for 

the rise of Hazael after 841. 38 

The above evidence favors Mazar’s conclusion that Aram came to rule all 

of Syria-Palestine as a unified empire during the last half of the ninth century. 39 

This Aramean empire included the central Palestinian hill country, the Trans- 

36 For Hazael’s Booty Inscriptions, see F. Bron and A. Lemaire, “Les inscriptions 

araméennes de Hazaël,” RA 83 (1989): 35–44; and I. Eph>al and J. Naveh, “Hazael’s Booty Inscriptions,” 

IEJ 39 (1989): 192–200. For the Zakur Stela, see H. Pognon, Inscriptions sémitiques de la 

Syrie, de la Mésopotamie, et de la région de Mossoul (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1907), 156–78; 

photographs, pls. IX and X; facsimiles, pls. XXXV and XXXVI and KAI, no. 202. 

37 Dion, Les Araméens, 201–2. For the opposing view, see E. Lipinåski, The Aramaeans: Their 

History, Culture, and Religion (OLA 100; Leuven: Peeters, 2000), 214, 388–89. Lipinåski argues 

that the mention of >Umq in Hazael’s Booty Inscriptions suggests that the “river” crossed by Hazael 

was the Orontes not the Euphrates (ibid., 389). 

38 See S. Irvine, “The Rise of the House of Jehu,” in The Land That I Will Show You, ed. 

Dearman and Graham, 104–18. 

39 Mazar, “Aramean Empire,” 108. For the opposing view, see Lipinåski, who argues that the 

various campaigns of Hazael did not amount to the creation of a united empire, since the different 

Aramean and Neo-Hittite states of central and northern Syria did not cease to exist (Aramaeans, 

389–90). He does acknowledge, however, that the kings of these states, as well as those of Israel 

and Judah, probably became vassals to Hazael.


jordan, Syria, and the Philistine coast. With the extent of Hazael’s dominance in 

the Transjordan, Jezreel, Galilee, and Philistia, the northern kingdom was 

apparently reduced to the city of Samaria and its immediate vicinity in the years 

after 841. Accordingly, the Bible contains two references to the “king of 

Samaria” (1 Kgs 21:1; 2 Kgs 1:3), and both occur in texts dated to this period of 

Aramean dominance after the death of Ahab. These references are anomalous 

in the Bible. The course of events suggested by the Assyrian inscriptions, however, 

indicates that these references are not purely inexplicable. They reflect a 

diminished or even provincial status for the northern kingdom. 40 Furthermore, 

if 1 Kgs 20 reflects conditions under the Jehu dynasty, then the “governors of 

the districts” in 20:14–15 and the “commanders” that replace the kings in 20:24 

may indicate that Hazael divided his dominated territories into administrative 

districts, one of which was Samaria. 41 

The preceding evidence seems to lead to the conclusion that during the 

time of Hazael the Arameans probably created a new administrative district 

called “Samaria.” Thus, the entity “Bit-H… umri,” which included Israel and 

Judah and existed at the time of the Black Obelisk (841), gave way to a much 

more restricted area. In light of this development, it is significant that, at the 

close of this period of Aramean dominance, the next Assyrian text that refers to 

the northern kingdom uses the designation “Samaria” for the first time in the 

inscriptions. 

III. Adad-nirari III’s Rimah Stela and Nimrud Slab 

At the end of the years 841–810, the Assyrian king Adad-nirari III (810– 

783) led a resurgence of Assyrian strength and reestablished Assyrian presence 

in the west. In this context, one finds the next Assyrian references to the northern 

kingdom in Adad-nirari III’s Rimah Stela and Nimrud Slab, which reflect 

the historical situation described above. 

The Rimah Stela (Grayson A.0.104.7) uses predominantly the first person 

to describe Adad-nirari’s military activity in the west, which the author states 

took place “in a single year.” 42 The relevant portion reads as follows: 

40 A. Rofé, “The Vineyard of Naboth: The Origin and Message of the Story,” VT 38 (1988): 

97. There is a similar reference in Isa 7:9, where Pekah is referred to as “head of Samaria.” For this 

work’s purposes, one should note that the Isaiah reference also reflects a time when the northern 

kingdom was limited to the capital city, with the rest of the territory being controlled by Damascus. 

Although 1 Kgs 21:1 mentions Ahab, the literary arguments given above suggest that this identification 

is a later addition and probably originally denoted Jehoahaz or Joash of the Jehu dynasty. Furthermore, 

2 Kgs 1:3 refers to Ahaziah son of Ahab and the period after Ahab’s death (cf. 2 Kgs 1:1). 

41 Mazar makes this argument but relates the action to Hadadezer because he does not date 

1 Kgs 20:24–25 to the period of the Jehu dynasty (“Aramean Empire,” 108). 

42 Grayson, Assyrian Rulers, 209–10. The text switches to the third person in lines 6, 9, and

652 


He received the tribute of Joash 43 the Samarian (ia-’a-su KUR sa-me-ri-na-aa), 

of the land of Tyrians (KUR s\ur-a-a), and of the land of Sidonians (KUR 

s\i-du-na-a-a). 44 

The Nimrud Slab (Grayson A.0.104.8) also recounts Adad-nirari’s achievements 

in the east and west. However, Aram-Damascus is the focus, and it is the 

only place described in detail including the name of its king. The relevant portion 

reads as follows (lines 11–16): 

. . . H…atti, Amurru in its totality, Tyre, Sidon, the land of [Bit]-H… umri (KUR 

-h…u-um-ri-i), Edom, Philistia, as far as the great sea of the setting sun, I 

brought to submit at my feet. 45 

Assyrian campaigns to the west resumed with a major campaign by Adadnirari 

that lasted three or four years in order to resubjugate states that had 

rebelled. 46 According to the Eponym Chronicle, the campaigns began in Adadnirari’s 

sixth regnal year (805 B.C.E.). The next three locations in Syria (Arpad, 

H… azazi, and Ba>li) point to a single campaign that lasted about three years. 47 

12. See Tadmor, “Historical Inscriptions,” 141–42; and S. Page, “A Stela of Adad-nirari III and 

Nergal-eres from Tell el Rimah,” Iraq 30 (1968): 139–53. 

43 Page uses philology to establish that ia-’a-su is Joash and not Jehoahaz (“Stela of Adadnirari 

III,” 148–49). 

44 See Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions, 79; and Grayson, Assyrian Rulers, 

209–10. The a-a endings on the geographical names in this text are gentilic endings; hence the 

translation “Joash the Samarian” (see I. J. Gelb, “Comments on the Akkadian Syllabary,” Or 39 

[1970]: 541). 

45 See Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions, 83. For other translations, see Pritchard, 

ANET, 281; and ARAB, 262–63. All of these translations read “Israel” for maµt [Bit]-H… umri. 

Strangely, Grayson translates this phrase “Samaria” and thereby greatly confuses not only the larger 

issue but also the text’s relationship to its contemporary reference on the Rimah Stela (Assyrian 

Rulers, 212). This kind of loose equation of different designations is exactly the imprecision this 

article seeks to counter. 

In contrast to the Black Obelisk’s designation “maµr H… umri,” the Nimrud Slab refers to “maµt 

H… umri” (“land of H… umri”). However, Tadmor argues convincingly that the Black Obelisk text contains 

a scribal omission, since there are no instances of a toponym with the pattern “maµt Bit-PN” 

where the element “Bit” is missing. Accordingly, this designation is equivalent to the Black 

Obelisk’s designation, and both denote the entity “Bit-H… umri.” See Tadmor, “Historical Inscriptions,” 

149. 

46 While only two texts mention the northern kingdom, several inscriptions deal with Adadnirari 

III’s activities in the west (Eponym Chronicle, Antakya Stela, el-Rimah Stela, Nimrud Slab, 

Saba


The defeat of Damascus is not mentioned in the Eponym Chronicle, but the 

battle probably began in 803, when the army moved from H… azazi. 48 Accordingly, 

the Rimah Stela may reflect a tribute of Joash paid during the course of 

this three-year campaign, perhaps in 803, when the Assyrian army was in southern 

Syria. 49 2 Kings 13:24–25 further indicates that Joash soon after moved to 

recover Israelite territory from Aram. 50 

In this context, the significant issue concerning the Rimah Stela’s and 

Nimrud Slab’s designations for the northern kingdom is their relationship to 

the rise and fall of this Aramean empire under Hazael. As noted above, the 

Nimrud Slab uses the common Assyrian designation “KUR(maµt) [Bit]-H… umri” 

for the northern kingdom. The Rimah Stela, however, introduces a new Assyrian 

designation “KUR(maµt) Samerina” (“the land of Samaria”). Since other 

entities that appear on both inscriptions have the same form on both (e.g., Tyre 

and Sidon), these designations do not appear simply to be synonyms for the 

same geopolitical entity. Moreover, the Rimah Stela’s designation of the “land” 

(KUR) of Samaria appears very strange indeed. The evidence of Hazael’s subjugation 

of Israel suggests an explanation for the new designation. As noted 

above, biblical and nonbiblical texts indicate that Hazael created a district of his 

empire called “Samaria” that encompassed the subjugated ruling house of 

Israel. Appropriately, when the Assyrians arrive back in the west, they record 

their official contact with “Joash of the land of Samaria.” If this text simply 

refers to the city of Samaria as the capital of Bit-H… umri, one would expect the 

determinative URU (aµlum), which is used consistently with cities in the text 

(e.g., Arwad in line 10). However, Samaria appears with the determinative 

KUR, as do Tyre and Sidon, which follow immediately and were most likely 

get of the military campaign (so A. Millard and H. Tadmor [“Adad-nirari III in Syria,” Iraq 35 

(1973): 62], who suggest that the location was that of the king and his camp; Millard has clarified 

that the location is specifically that of the army, with or without the king [The Eponyms of the 

Assyrian Empire 910–612 BC (SAAS 2; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 1994), 4–5]). 

Accordingly, the army may have dealt with many localities in the nearby vicinity (including Damascus) 

throughout the course of this three-year campaign. 

48 Damascus is probably not mentioned because the capture took place between Akitu festivals 

which appear in the Chronicle (see Millard, Eponyms, 4–5). For the movement from H… azazi, 

see Pazarcik Stela reverse and V. Donbaz, “Two Neo-Assyrian Stelae in the Antakya and Rahramanmaras 

Museums,” Annual Review of the Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia Project 8 (1990): 9. 

The Saba

654 


city-state territories that were also overrun by Hazael. Given this evidence, it 

seems reasonable to conclude that the Rimah Stela refers not to a city but to 

the administrative district created under Hazael, which Adad-nirari encountered 

when he returned to the west. 

The Nimrud Slab also mentions entities like Tyre, Sidon, and Philistia, 

which had been under Aram’s domination. In this context, one finds a reference 

to “[Bit]-H… umri.” The absence of Samaria and Judah here suggests that this 

term designates a broader geopolitical entity. Like the Black Obelisk, “[Bit]- 

H… umri” seems to designate not simply the capital city Samaria and its surrounding 

territory (i.e., the district subjugated by Aram-Damascus) but the 

broader area of the central hill country, including Judah. Judah’s absence from 

Assyrian texts once again favors the conclusion that it still functioned as a vassal 

of Israel at this time. Indeed, 2 Kgs 14 indicates that when Joash broke with 

Damascus, he also asserted dominance over Judah. 

In summary, the inscriptions of Adad-nirari III contain two distinct designations 

for the northern kingdom. These terms are not synonymous but reflect 

the changing political situation in Syria-Palestine in the late ninth century. 

Aramean hegemony had introduced a new designation into the Assyrian corpus, 

namely, the city-state of Samaria. Nonetheless, the common term “Bit- 

H… umri” apparently continued to designate the widespread land of the northern 

kingdom, which includes Judah. 

IV. Inscriptions of Tiglath-pileser III 

Several inscriptions of Tiglath-pileser III (744–727) refer to the northern 

kingdom. 51 These references continue the use of both designations “Samaria” 

and “Bit-H… umri,” but they are used in describing different political situations 

and may possess a different meaning. In his western campaigns, Tiglath-pileser 

initially encountered an entity called “Samaria” and later refers to a state called 

“Bit-H… umri.” 

The historical events between Adad-nirari III and Tiglath-pileser III are 

important for a proper understanding of these designations. Following its 

resurgence under Adad-nirari III, Assyria experienced another period of 

decline in the reigns of Shalmaneser IV (782–773), Ashur-dan III (772–755), 

and Ashur-nirari V (754–745). Assyrian presence in the west at the time 

remained solely in the hands of the turtaµnu, Sappleamši-ilu. 52 However, the death of 

51 See H. Tadmor, The Inscriptions of Tiglath-Pileser III King of Assyria (Jerusalem: Israel 

Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1994), 10, 22–23. 

52 See J. Kuan, “Sappleamši-ilu and the Realpolitik of Israel and Aram-Damascus in the Eighth 

Century BCE,” in The Land That I Will Show You, 135–51.


Sappleamši-ilu not long after 752–751 (when he last served as limmu) removed any 

sense of a strong Assyrian presence in the west. Throughout the period 752– 

745, Aram once again had the opportunity to assert dominance over Syria- 

Palestine under Rezin of Damascus. 53 

Tiglath-pileser III took the throne of Assyria in 746–745. His reign marked 

a resurgence of Assyrian might as he immediately conducted a series of western 

campaigns. The inscriptions relating to these activities provide the context for 

more designations for the northern kingdom and their historical implications. 

Layard 45b + III R 9,1 (Tadmor Ann.21) is the earliest relevant text of 

Tiglath-pileser. This text does not mention the northern kingdom but details 

the tribute of Rezin of Damascus and other area states. It is considered here, 

however, because some interpreters argue that one should insert the phrase 

“Menahem the Samarian” (mi-ni-h…i-im-me KUR sa-me-ri-i-na-a-a) on the 

basis of the similar Iran Stela. 54 Kuan suggests that the best setting for this text 

is the Assyrian army’s stay at Arpad (743–740). 55 This period is probably to be 

related to the events noted in 2 Kgs 15:19–20, which reports that Tiglathpileser 

provided military assistance to Menahem, who paid the Assyrian king to 

help confirm him on the throne. 56 If one follows this textual reconstruction, the 

inscription uses the same designation for the northern kingdom as the Rimah 

Stela. This evidence favors the conclusion that the Assyrian texts continue to 

reflect the presence of a district called “the land (KUR) of Samaria,” which 

most likely denotes the city and its immediate vicinity. 

The first text of Tiglath-pileser that contains a direct reference to the 

northern kingdom is the Iran Stela. The text contains a list of kings upon whom 

Tiglath-pileser imposed tribute. 57 The relevant portion reads as follows (lines 

3–6, 20–23): 

Kuštašpi of the city (URU) of Kummuh…, Raqyaµn of the land (KUR) Sappleaimeµrišu 

(Rezin of Damascus), Menahem of the land of the Samarians (KUR 

sa-m[e-]ri-i-na-a-[a]), Tubail of the city (URU) of Tyre . . . tribute and gifts 

. . . I imposed upon them. 58 

There is much debate concerning this text’s date. It must precede Layard 50a + 

50b + 67a because it mentions Tubail of Tyre, whereas the annals text should 

read Hiram because Hiram was involved in the 734–732 campaign. 59 The text 

53 Amos 1, 2 Kgs 15:37, and 16:16 all indicate that Rezin was already assembling an anti- 

Assyrian coalition as early as the 750s. 

54 See Tadmor, Inscriptions, 276. 

55 Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions, 141. 

56 See Tadmor, Inscriptions, 276. 

57 For the original publication, see T. Levine, Two Neo-Assyrian Stelae from Iran (Toronto: 

Royal Ontario Museum, 1972). 

58 See Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions, 149–50. 

59 See ND 4301 + 4305.

656 


also reflects a time when the Assyrian army was in the vicinity of Iran. Therefore, 

Kuan associates this stela with the Ulluba campaign in 739–738. 60 

For our purposes in this article, one should note that this text again refers 

to the northern kingdom as the “land (KUR) of Samaria.” In a context that 

explicitly refers to the two cities (URU) Kummuh… and Tyre, both Samaria and 

Aram-Damascus appear as “lands” or “territories” (KUR). In comparison with 

later designations, the Iran Stela seems to indicate that around 738, the northern 

kingdom consisted primarily of Samaria and the surrounding area. 

The next relevant text is the annals text Layard 50a + 50b + 67a (Tadmor 

Ann.13*). This inscription introduces a slight change in the Assyrian designation 

for the northern kingdom. The text records the king’s military and political 

achievements in his eighth and ninth palê (738–737 and 737–736) and is nearly 

identical to the Iran Stela. The relevant portion of the tribute list reads as follows 

(lines 150–51): 

. . . The tribute of Kuštašpi of the city (URU) of Kummuh…, Ra>yaµn of the land 

(KUR) of Ša-imeµrišu, Menahem of the city of Samaria (URU sa-me-ri-na-aa), 

[Hiram of the city] ([URU]) of Tyre. . . . 61 

The dating of this portion of the text to 738–737 (eighth palû) is indicated 

by the text’s later reference to the ninth palû. 62 Thus, this text implies that 

Damascus, Samaria, and others continued to pay a token tribute to Assyria in 

the years leading up to Tiglath-pileser’s campaign to Syria-Palestine in 734. 

The historical implications of the text’s designation for the northern kingdom 

are especially important. For the first time, an Assyrian text designates the 

north as the “city” (URU) rather than the “land” (KUR) of Samaria. One should 

not view this change as accidental, since the surrounding entities Kummuh… and 

Damascus appear the same way as in the previous inscription and they do not 

always appear this way. 63 Given the above evidence and the consistency of the 

determinatives, it is reasonable to suggest that there had been a change in the 

status of the northern kingdom. As noted above, Rezin of Damascus and his 

coalition partners were increasing in strength and influence throughout the 

period leading up to 734. It is possible that the new reference to the “city” of 

Samaria reflects a diminished status for the northern kingdom. Because of the 

60 Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions, 151. See also the Mila Mergi Rock Relief and 

the Eponym Chronicle (see Tadmor, Inscriptions, 111–16). Levine suggests the 737 campaign to 

Media (Two Neo-Assyrian Stelae, 14). 

61 Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions, 154–55. For other translations, see ANET, 

283; ARAB, 772. These translations read “Menahem of Samaria” and insert “Hiram” of Tyre. 

62 See T. Levine, “Menahem and Tiglath-Pileser: A New Synchronism,” BASOR 206 (1972): 

40–42. 

63 The determinative for Tyre is missing in this text, so that this entry is not relevant for the 

historical argument.


encroachments of Rezin’s coalition, the central administration now seems limited 

to the city of Samaria itself. 

Although this historical conclusion seems reasonable, one cannot be certain. 

The conclusion seems to encounter difficulties, for instance, when one 

examines the determinatives for Kummuh… and Tyre in both Layard 45b + III R 

9,1 (Tadmor Ann.21) and the Iran Stela. From the earlier Layard 45b + III R 

9,1 to the Iran Stela, Kummuh… and Tyre undergo the same change from KUR 

to URU that Samaria undergoes from the Iran Stela to Layard 50a + 50b + 67a. 

While it is possible that these states also underwent some change in political 

status, there is no evidence for that course of events. In the case of Samaria, 

however, biblical texts like 2 Kgs 15:29 suggest that Rezin’s expansion had a 

direct effect on the size of the northern kingdom’s territory. Moreover, Samaria 

is the only geographical term to undergo a change from the Iran Stela to Layard 

50a + 50b + 67a. 64 

The inscription II R 67 takes the reader into the context of the Syro- 

Ephraimitic War (734–731). This text has important historical implications for 

what is included in the designations for the northern kingdom because it contains 

the first reference to the southern kingdom. The relevant portion is a tribute 

list in line 11 of the reverse: “[Mi]tini of the land of Ashkelon, Jehoahaz of 

the land of Judah (ia-u-h…a-zi KUR ia-u-da-a-a), Kaušmalaka of the land of 

Edom. . . .” 65 

There is much debate concerning the date of this tribute list. However, the 

date must be prior to 733, since the text contains the name Mitini of Ashkelon, 

who was deposed by 733–732. 66 This list represents the first and only Assyrian 

inscription prior to 720 B.C.E. that mentions Judah. Moreover, references to 

Aram-Damascus, Samaria, Tyre, and Arabia are noticeably absent. Accordingly, 

this text seems to reflect the situation in Syria-Palestine after Tiglath-pileser’s 

campaign to Philistia in 734, when Israel under Pekah and Damascus under 

Rezin were in open rebellion. The sudden appearance of Judah in texts from 

this historical situation favors the conclusion that Judah asserted its independence 

from Israel for the first time since the Omrides, when Pekah inaugurated 

an anti-Assyrian foreign policy. If this conclusion is correct, it also strengthens 

the earlier indications that Judah functioned primarily as a vassal to the north 

until this time. The very possibility that such a move toward independence 

64 This conclusion assumes that the missing determinative for Tyre in Layard 50a + 50b + 67a 

should be restored as URU. Additionally, in ND 4301 + 4305, Tyre is once again referred to with 

the determinative KUR. This text, however, comes from the later period after the end of the war 

and also refers to Bit-H… umri with KUR. 

65 Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions, 161–62. For other translations, see ANET, 

282; ARAB, 801. 

66 Cf. Layard 29b.

658 


could occur also correlates well with the preceding reconstruction of steadily 

diminishing territory and status for Samaria. One could attempt to explain this 

reference by saying that it only marks Judah’s first involvement in international 

political affairs. The biblical pictures of the relationship between Israel and 

Judah in the preceding years, however, combine with the Assyrian evidence to 

make this explanation unlikely. 

Scholars debate whether one should reconstruct the next text, Layard 29b, 

to contain a reference to the northern kingdom. This text relates to Tiglathpileser’s 

actions against the Syro-Ephraimitic coalition as he departed from 

Philistia. After subduing Philistia, the king set out across the Galilee to subdue 

Israel, Arabia, and Damascus. Layard 29b describes the Galilee and affects the 

understanding of what is included in the various Assyrian designations. 

The broken text refers to the king’s capture of a certain entity’s districts 

(lines 230ff.): “. . . [prisoners of . . .] districts of Bit-[. . . I] took away [. . . prisoners 

of . . .] . . . H… inatuna . . . Aruma, Marum. . . .” There is general scholarly 

agreement that these cities in lines 231–34 were in the Galilee. However, there 

is disagreement over whether they were under the control of Israel or Damascus. 

The uncertainty as to who held the Galilee stems from the fragmentary 

toponym “Bit . . .” in line 230. Both “Bit-Hazael” and “Bit-H… umri” are possible 

restorations. There are several factors, however, that suggest Damascus was 

holding the Galilee at this time. 67 The parallel line “16 districts of the land of 

Damascus” in Layard 72b + 73a suggests the restoration “Bit-Hazael.” 68 Moreover, 

2 Kgs 15:29 recounts Tiglath-pileser’s annexation of the Galilee region but 

does not assert that Israel held this territory. Aram’s widespread growth and 

Israel’s diminished status favor the conclusion that Aram held this territory. If 

this is the case, Layard 29b again implies that the entity called “URU Samaria” 

consisted of little more than the city itself. 

Layard 66 relates to the conclusion of the Syro-Ephraimitic War. It 

records the completion of Assyrian activities in the west in 732–731 and is the 

last of Tiglath-pileser’s direct references to the city of Samaria. The relevant 

portion is the last line (line 228): “. . . and Samaria (URU sa-me-ri-na) alone I 

le[ft . . .] their king [. . .].” 69 The rest of the inscription does not relate to 

Samaria, and this unusual concluding reference is probably due to the special 

treatment afforded the city and indicates the city’s isolation. Unlike all the other 

67 Contra Tadmor, who reconstructs “Bit-H… umri” and sees this area under Israel’s control 

(“The Southern Border of Aram,” IEJ 12 [1962]: 114–22; cf. Tadmor, Inscriptions, 80–81; and 

COS, 286). However, he allows that “Bit-Hazael” is epigraphically possible. 

68 Contra L. Younger, who reads the line in Layard 72b + 73a as “16 di[stricts of BÈµt-H… umria 

(Israel)] (COS, 286). It is not clear, however, when in history Israel was organized into sixteen divisions 

of any kind. 

69 Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions, 174. For other translations, see Tadmor, 

Inscriptions, 202–3; and ANET, 283.


anti-Assyrian opponents, the Assyrians apparently did not attack Samaria and 

Pekah but left them to Hoshea and his pro-Assyrian supporters (cf. 2 Kgs 15:30; 

Hos 2:1–3). Thus, the designation “URU sa-me-ri-na” again appears to reflect 

the diminished and isolated state of the northern kingdom at the end of the 

Syro-Ephraimitic War. 

The inscription designated III R 10,2 is a summary that also relates to the 

conclusion of the Syro-Ephraimitic War. However, it is important to note with 

Tadmor that this text is not arranged chronologically but geographically. 70 It 

comes not from the period when these events were taking place but from the 

period after Tiglath-pileser had settled matters in Syria-Palestine in 731. This 

observation is important for understanding the change in designations for the 

northern kingdom introduced here. The two relevant portions read as follows 

(lines 6–7, 15–18): 

. . . Gal

660 


the references to an entity called “Bit-H… umri” do not represent a state that was 

involved in the 734–731 campaign but a new geopolitical entity established by 

Tiglath-pileser at the end of those years. He reintroduces the old designation 

“Bit-H… umri” to define a newly constituted Assyrian vassal kingdom. Thus, the 

references to “Bit-H… umri” in III R 10,2 (and ND 4301 + 4305) may reflect the 

terminology of a later perspective and may not be synonymous with the references 

to Samaria. 

If Tiglath-pileser established a new political entity called “Bit-H… umri,” a 

question arises concerning what that entity included. As noted above, Layard 

29b indicates that Damascus held the territory of Galilee at the close of the war. 

Thus, this territory did not revert to Israel but became an Assyrian province. 

Furthermore, the present text mentions several cities that are “on the border of 

Bit-H… umri” (line 6). Tadmor reconstructs this text so that the southern border 

of Aram was at Abel-Beth-Maacah and Ramoth-gilead. 74 According to this 

reconstruction, all of Gilead south of Ramoth-gilead belonged to Israel. However, 

S. Irvine rightly challenges Tadmor and asserts that Aramean territory had 

extended deep into traditional Israelite territory. 75 He argues that the border 

extended into the Transjordan and included Bashan, Golan, and the region of 

Gilead from the Yarmuk to the Jabbok and beyond. Moreover, the Aramean 

border west of the Jordan included not only Galilee but also the Jezreel Valley, 

the northern edge of the Ephraimite hill country, and the Plain of Sharon. 

Thus, these territories, under Aram’s control at the close of the war, did not 

revert to Israel but became Assyrian provinces. 

These observations lead one to conclude that Tiglath-pileser’s entity “Bit- 

H… umri” was limited to territory west of the Jordan and south of Jezreel. If this 

was the case and if “Bit-H… umri” is not the same as “(URU) Samaria” or “(KUR) 

Samaria,” it seems reasonable to suggest that the geographical area under the 

new entity’s control would have been limited to Samaria and its immediate 

vicinity but also again including Judah. Thus, Judean independence reflected in 

II R 67 would have been only temporary until Tiglath-pileser reorganized 

Syria-Palestine. The limitation of Bit-H… umri’s territory to the area south of 

Samaria and the continued absence of Judah from any Assyrian inscriptions 

until after the fall of the northern kingdom suggest that Israel remained the 

dominant partner. Overall, it seems that Tiglath-pileser actually reestablished 

Hosea 2:1–3 MT probably refers to the cooperative effort of Hoshea and Ahaz to overthrow Pekah. 

H. Cook’s suggestion for this text is similar (“Pekah,” VT 14 [1964]: 128). He removes the reference 

to Judah as a gloss but sees the appointment of one head as a reference to Hoshea uniting the 

northern kingdom. 

74 Tadmor, “Southern Border,” 118–21. In his most recent work, Tadmor argues that the 

reading “Abel-Beth-Maacah” can no longer be sustained, and he suggests perhaps “Abel-Shittim.” 

However, he retains the reading “Gilead” (Inscriptions, 139). 

75 S. Irvine, Isaiah, Ahaz, and the Syro-Ephraimitic Crisis (SBLDS 123; Atlanta: Scholars 

Press, 1990), 65–67.


the old entity “Bit-H… umri” mentioned on the Black Obelisk as a pro-Assyrian 

satellite, including both Israel and Judah, but with greatly reduced territory. 

Thus, the Assyrian texts reintroduce the term “Bit-H… umri,” a term that had earlier 

referred to a broader territory than just the kingdom of Samaria, because 

Hoshea, like Jehu before him, ruled over a pro-Assyrian state that included the 

territory of the southern kingdom. 

The final relevant text of this period is ND 4301 + 4305, which basically 

parallels III R 10,2. 76 The relevant portion reads as follows (lines 3–4, 10): 

[. . .] the widespread [land of Bit-]Hazael in its entirety from [. . . which is on 

the bor]der of Bit-H… umri (KUR É h…u-um-ri-a), into the territory of Assyria [I 

brought back . . .]. 

[. . . Hoshea as ki]ng over them [I set . . .] Sarrabanu before me [. . .]. 77 

This text notes Hoshea’s or his ambassadors’ appearance before Tiglathpileser 

at Sarrabanu in southern Babylon, most likely bearing tribute. Thus, like 

III R 10,2, this inscription also reflects a time after the king had settled matters 

in the west and Hoshea had gained control of Samaria. Accordingly, it refers 

not to Samaria but to the newly organized entity called “Bit-H… umri.” With this 

voluntary payment to Assyria, the text indicates that the northern kingdom 

became an Assyrian satellite state. 

In summary, the designations for the northern kingdom in these inscriptions 

seem to display the north’s movement through the changing political situations 

of the 740s and 730s. The designations reflect Samaria’s loss of territory 

and isolation. Moreover, they reflect Samaria’s subservient relationship to 

Damascus and Judah’s assertion of independence. Finally, after Assyria settled 

the situation in 731, the texts reintroduce the designation “Bit-H… umri” to refer 

to an Assyrian satellite state ruled from Samaria by Hoshea, which included 

only the southern part of the central hill country and Judah. 

V. Shalmaneser V and the Babylonian Chronicle 

The next Assyrian king after Tiglath-pileser was Shalmaneser V (726–722). 

Unfortunately, there are no available Assyrian inscriptions that relate to his 

reign. Accordingly, scholars must depend on non-Assyrian sources. The source 

that contains a designation for the northern kingdom is the Babylonian Chronicle. 

This text notes that Shalmaneser’s only achievement of any consequence 

was the capture of Samaria. 78 An important feature of the Chronicle is that it 

76 For original publication, see D. J. Wiseman, “A Fragmentary Inscription of Tiglath-pileser 

III from Nimrud,” Iraq 18 (1956): 117–29. 

77 This line is commonly restored on the basis of III R 10,2. 

78 For original publication, see H. Winckler and J. N. Strassmaier, “The Babylonian Chroni-

662 


uses horizontal lines to set apart the reported events chronologically. 79 This feature 

is evident in the relevant portion of the text which covers 728–722 

(I.27–30): 

(27) On the 25th day of the month of Tebet Shalmaneser (V) 

(28) ascended the throne in Assyria . He ravaged Samaria (URU 

Sa-ma/ba-ra-


lion led by Egypt and Tyre (2 Kgs 17:4a). 87 In response to this rebellion, Shalmaneser 

marched specifically against the king and capital and imprisoned 

Hoshea (2 Kgs 17:4b). This evidence suggests a possible correlation with the 

Babylonian Chronicle’s reference to a “ravaging” of Samaria prior to 722. 88 

If this reconstruction is correct, it sheds light on the use of “Samaria” as 

opposed to “Bit-H… umri.” Perhaps the Chronicle’s designation “URU Samaria” 

for the northern kingdom indicates that Shalmaneser’s campaign focused 

specifically on the capital city and did not involve the widespread land of Bit- 

H… umri. This usage finds a parallel in Adad-nirari III’s Nimrud Slab, which distinguishes 

between a reference to the land of Aram-Damascus (KUR 

ANSappleE-šu) and a specific move against the capital city Damascus (URU di-maaš-qi). 

Furthermore, there is some indication that the widespread land under 

northern control, especially Judah, began to move away from pure subordination 

and refused to cooperate with Samaria’s rebellions in the 720s. For example, 

Isa 15–18 and 28–29 seem to reflect this period of new rebellion from 728 

to 725. The prophet makes many references to this rebellion and urges the 

leaders of Judah not to participate (see especially Isa 28:14–18). Additionally, 

Isa 31–32 implies that Judah was tempted to join in these revolts but ultimately 

refused official participation (see especially 32:1–8). 89 These indications suggest 

that the Chronicle’s designation “Samaria” may also reflect this developing 

separation between the actions and policies of the capital city and the surrounding 

land under its control. Nonetheless, with Shalmaneser’s actions, the 

northern kingdom seems to have moved from a voluntary satellite state to a 

subjugated vassal state in 725. 

VI. Inscriptions of Sargon II 

Eight different inscriptions of Sargon II refer to the taking of Samaria, 90 

and four of them also contain references to Bit-H… umri. 91 These texts consis- 

87 The evidence for this comes primarily from Josephus’s quotations of Menander (Ant. 

9.283–87). See J. Kuan, “Hosea 9.13 and Josephus, Antiquities IX, 277–287,” PEQ 123 (1991): 

103–8. 

88 See N. Na’aman, “The Historical Background to the Conquest of Samaria [720 BC],” Bib 

71 (1990): 211, 215–16. 

89 See J. H. Hayes and S. Irvine, Isaiah: His Times and His Preaching (Nashville: Abingdon, 

1987), 255, 345–60. 

90 Ashur Charter, Annals, Great Summary Inscription, Nimrud Prism, Cylinder Inscription, 

Small Summary Inscription, Palace Door Inscription, and Bull Inscription. For a list of the most 

recent editions and translations of these texts, see Younger, “Fall,” 469. 

91 Palace Door Inscription (IV:31–32), Small Summary Inscription (XIV:15), Cylinder 

Inscription (19–20), and Bull Inscription (21).

664 


tently refer to the “city (URU) Samaria” and the “land (KUR) of Bit-H… umri.” 

Because all of the texts that mention the taking of Samaria relate to the same 

context (720 B.C.E.), this discussion focuses on the two most important inscriptions 

for the history of the northern kingdom: the Great Summary Inscription 

and the Nimrud Prism. 

Events in Assyria and Syria-Palestine form the historical context for these 

final designations for the northern kingdom. At the start of his reign, Sargon 

encountered troubles outside of Syria-Palestine that occupied the Assyrian 

forces. 92 With this Assyrian absence, a rebellious coalition led by Ilu-bi


26: [na-ki-r(?)]-ia, “[hostile to]me,” and [aµlik paµni]-ia, “my [predecessor].” The 

majority of commentators follow the first reconstruction. 97 Thus, the unit 

refers to Samaria’s participation in the revolt and Sargon’s reactions: 

[The inhabitants of] Samaria, who agreed with a king [hostile to]me, not to 

endure servitude and not to bring tribute to Aššur and who did battle, I 

fought against them. . . . 

This designation may shed light on the identity of the unnamed king in the 

text. Some scholars suggest that the text refers to a non-Israelite anti-Assyrian 

king like the king of Hamath or Egypt. Hayes and Kuan, however, suggest that 

the king was a native Israelite enthroned after the city’s final provincialization in 

722. 98 Since the designations for Samaria in the texts relating to Shalmaneser 

and Sargon indicate that it existed at this time only as a province of the Assyrian 

empire and not as an independent vassal kingdom like Hamath and Gaza, a reference 

to the inhabitants of Samaria rather than an official king is what one 

expects. Nor is anything said in Sargonic texts of the leadership of the other 

provincialized territories like Damascus and Arpad. 

The Great Summary Inscription relates essentially the same information 

concerning Sargon’s actions against the city (URU) of Samaria. 99 This text reaffirms 

the provincial reference for the term “Samaria.” The relevant portion 

concludes by asserting that Sargon reestablished on Samaria “the (same) tribute 

as the previous king (Shalmaneser V).” The reestablishment of the provincial 

tribute enacted under Shalmaneser V affirms Samaria’s status as a province 

in 722 and continues that status in 720. 

The final important point concerning Sargon’s inscriptions is that some of 

them contain two different designations for the northern kingdom. For example, 

the Palace Door Inscription asserts that Sargon conquered “the city of 

Samaria” and “the entire land of Bit-H… umri.” As with the above-mentioned 

rebellions of 728–725, there is some indication that the widespread land under 

northern control, especially Judah, did not fully cooperate with these northern 

rebellions in 720. For example, Isa 19 is an oracle against Egypt that probably 

relates to the widespread rebellion against Assyria in 720. Unlike Egypt and 

Samaria, who participated, the prophet asserts that Judah has not become 

guilty and will be rewarded (see especially 19:17–18, 24–25). Moreover, some 

Sargonic texts do make mention of the “land (KUR) of Judah.” 100 Thus, Sargon’s 

inscriptions seem to distinguish among Samaria, Bit-H… umri, and Judah. 

Given the preceding evidence, it is reasonable to conclude that “URU Samaria” 

97 See ibid., 470–71; Gadd, “Inscribed Prisms,” 179; Tadmor, “Campaigns of Sargon II,” 34. 

98 Hayes and Kuan, “Final Years,” 174. 

99 For translations, see Younger, “Fall,” 469; ANET, 284–85; ARAB, 55. 

100 This occurs on a building inscription dated to around 717 B.C.E.

666 


in these texts denotes an Assyrian province consisting of the central administrative 

city and its immediate vicinity. The designation “Bit-H… umri” appears to be 

a general reference to the rest of the central hill country outside of the vicinity 

of the capital Samaria. 

VII. Conclusion 

An attempt to deal with all the available Neo-Assyrian designations for the 

northern kingdom highlights their connections with Israelite history and biblical 

literature. Prior to 841, the Assyrian texts refer to the northern kingdom as 

“Israel” or “Bit-H… umri.” While the Assyrian texts use these designations for different 

reasons, they both seem to refer to a geopolitical entity centered in 

Samaria that also included Judah. After the rise of an Aramean empire under 

Hazael, the next Assyrian inscriptions place the new designation “Samaria” 

alongside “Bit-H… umri.” This new term appears to designate a district of the 

Aramean empire created by Hazael to encompass the capital city and its immediate 

vicinity. Throughout the period of the 740s and 730s, changing Assyrian 

designations reflect the diminishing political status of the northern kingdom. 

However, at the close of Tiglath-pileser III’s activities in the west in 731, he 

reestablishes “Bit-H… umri” as the primary term, which designates a newly reorganized 

entity centered in Samaria and including the southern central hill 

country and Judah. From this point, the remaining Assyrian designations allow 

one to see the northern kingdom’s movement from Assyrian satellite to subjugated 

vassal to incorporated province. 

A thorough investigation of the various connections between the Assyrian 

designations and Israelite historical circumstances suggests that the different 

designations are not simply synonyms for the same static geopolitical entity. 

Rather, they closely reflect the changing historical and political situations in 

Syria-Palestine in the ninth and eighth centuries. 101 

101 I am grateful to Professor John H. Hayes for his guidance on this article. He bears no 

responsibility for any remaining shortcomings.

JBL 121/4 (2002) 667–687 

EXPERIMENTS TO DEVELOP CRITERIA 

FOR DETERMINING THE EXISTENCE OF 

WRITTEN SOURCES, AND THEIR POTENTIAL 

IMPLICATIONS FOR THE SYNOPTIC PROBLEM 

ROBERT K. MCIVER 

Rob.McIver@avondale.edu.au 

Avondale College, Cooranbong, NSW 2265, Australia 

MARIE CARROLL 

marie.carroll@canberra.edu.au 

University of Canberra, Canberra, ACT 2601, Australia 

Considerations of oral transmission have long been a staple of Gospel 

studies. 1 The experimental examination of the characteristics of human memory 

has likewise been a significant part of the academic discipline of psychology 

1 Johann Gottfried Herder is credited with the first serious exploration of the consequences 

of the fact that for some time between the life of Jesus and the writing down of the Gospels, the 

Gospel materials existed in oral form (“Vom Erlöser der Menschen: Nach unsern drie ersten Evangelien,” 

in Johann Gottfried Herders Werke [Frankfurt am Main: Deutscher Klassiker, 1994], 

9:609–724). Considerations of orality and oral transmission have received considerable attention in 

Gospel studies at different times. For example, Rudolf Bultmann’s influential History of the Synoptic 

Tradition (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1963) used the methodology of Formgeschichte to attempt a 

history of the development of Christian thought during the time that the Jesus tradition existed in 

oral form. This methodology dominated Gospel studies for a significant period. The revival of interest 

in the historical Jesus in more recent times has again put considerations of this oral period of the 

tradition at center stage. Of several examples, one might cite John Dominic Crossan, The Birth of 

Christianity (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1998), 49–89. Discussions of orality have also 

consistently surfaced in works dealing with the Synoptic Problem. From its first emergence as a significant 

issue in Gospel research to the present, explanations based on oral transmission have been 

advocated, albeit as a minority position. Perhaps the best known advocates of this position are 

Harald Riesenfeld, The Gospel Tradition and its Beginnings: A Study in the Limits of ‘Formgeschichte’ 

(London: Mowbray, 1957), and Birger Gerhardsson, Memory and Manuscript 

(Uppsala: Gleerup, 1961). 

667

668 


from its inception. 2 Yet, with a few notable exceptions, 3 those working in the 

field of Gospel studies have made little use of the insights that might derive 

from experimental psychology. 

This article reports on three of a series of six experiments designed to 

explore some of the characteristics whereby materials copied from written texts 

may be distinguished from orally transmitted materials. The experimental 

design is the result of a collaboration between academics from the two diverse 

fields of Gospel studies and experimental psychology. The article will conclude 

with a consideration of some of the implications for the study of the Synoptic 

Problem that might derive from the results of the experiments. 

Experiment 5 

Although the penultimate experiment in the series, this experiment is perhaps 

the most instructive. Forty-three students chose to participate in this 

experiment as one option for a class requirement. They were randomly 

assigned to three groups based on their time of arrival at the designated room, 

and they signed a willingness-to-participate form after reading a brief explanation 

of the experiment. 

The participants in each group were given a list of eight subjects from 

which they were to choose the six that they knew most about. The eight subjects 

were (1) the sinking of the Titanic; (2) the presidency of John F. Kennedy; 

(3) the AIDS epidemic; (4) the death of Diana, princess of Wales; (5) the “coming 

out” of Ellen DeGeneres; (6) the Monica Lewinski affair; (7) Cathy Freeman’s 

sports career; and (8) the war in Kosovo. Short descriptive notes about 

each of these were prepared by the experimenter and made available for designated 

parts of the experiment. These varied in length from 217 to 336 words, 

with six of the eight between 240 and 290 words. Each included a number of 

specific facts. 

2 The experiments of Hermann Ebbinghaus, reported in 1885 in Über das Gedächtnis: 

Untersuchungen zur experimentellen Psychologie (Leipzig: Dunker & Humblot, 1885), using nonsense 

syllables to investigate the characteristics of human memory, provided a significant impetus 

to the development of experimental psychology (see Hermann Ebbinghaus, Memory: A Contribution 

to Experimental Psychology [New York: Dover, 1964]). Since that time, tens of thousands of 

sophisticated experiments have investigated many different aspects of memory. A convenient summary 

of many of the significant findings of memory research can be found in Alan D. Baddeley, The 

Psychology of Memory (New York: Basic Books, 1976). 

3 Both W. S. Taylor (“Memory and the Gospel Tradition,” ThTo 15 [1959]: 470–79) and 

Crossan (Birth of Christianity, 78–84) make use of the work of Frederic C. Bartlett, Remembering 

(1932; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1961). Nor should the article by John Bradshaw 

(“Oral Transmission and Human Memory,” ExpTim 92 [1980–81]: 303–7) be overlooked. But such 

examples are rare.

McIver and Carroll: Determining the Existence of Written Sources 669 

The instructions given to the first group were as follows: 

First: Write about the first two of the events on your list without any reference 

to sources. Please write less than 1 page on each event. Use the two 

forms with the title, “No Sources” (this is vital), and identify the topic 

about which you are writing. 

Second: Please ask for summaries of the next two events on your list. You will be 

allowed to read them as often as you wish. But before you write about 

the event, give back the written summary. Now write about the events in 

your own words. You can mix your own material and material from the 

summary in order to get a fair summary of everything you would want to 

say about the event. Please write less than 1 page on each event. Use 

your own words, and you may include things about the event that are not 

in the summary. Use the forms with the heading “Source used but 

returned” (this is vital), and identify the topic about which you are writing. 

Third: Please ask for summaries of the last two of these events on your list. You 

can read them as often as you like. Now write about the events in your 

own words. You do not have to return the summaries before you write. 

You can mix your own material and material from the summary in order 

to get a fair summary of everything you would want to say about the 

event. Please write less than 1 page on each event. Use the forms with 

the heading “Source used and retained” (this is vital), and identify the 

topic about which you are writing. 

Those in the second group were asked to do these same tasks but in a different 

order: the first two with the sources available as they wrote, the second 

two without any reference to sources, and the third two after reading and then 

returning the sources. The third group did them in the following order: sources 

used but returned; sources used and retained; no sources. 

In analyzing the responses, participants’ written information was typed in 

a column parallel to a copy of the original, and the common vocabulary and 

phrases were underlined for each respondent. The hypothesis under test was 

that there should be a discernible difference in both the amount of common 

vocabulary and items of fact between the group that was writing purely from 

their own recollection of the event and the other two groups which had been 

provided with a summary of the event. It was further expected that those who 

were able to retain the summary of the event and allowed to copy freely from it 

would differ again—both in the amount of common vocabulary and in the 

number of words that were in exactly the same sequence—from the group 

which returned the summary. Thus, the measures of interest were (1) common 

vocabulary, (2) the maximum number of words in exact sequence, and (3) the 

number of items of fact that were recorded. 

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

670 


Titanic (40 responses) and the death of Diana (37). The type of differences that 

might be observed in the three groups may be illustrated by the materials generated 

by volunteers D19, D10, and D13. D19, for example, wrote the following 

with no prompting other than “Write about” the sinking of the Titanic 

“without any reference to sources.” 

[Summary provided to other participants] 

Advertised as unsinkable, built to be the 

largest ship of that time and the epitome of 

luxury, the Titanic struck an iceberg and 

sank on her maiden voyage. Conditions 

were calm in the Atlantic on the night of 

April 14, 1912. In an apparent effort to 

break the Trans-Atlantic record, the Titanic 

was travelling at a speed of 22 knots (41 

km/h) when it struck the iceberg. At first 

passengers and crew were not aware of how 

serious the damage was. But the designer of 

the ship was on board, and was soon able to 

report to the captain that five of the watertight 

compartments had been breached, and 

that the ship would surely sink in the next 

few hours. 

There were insufficient lifeboats, and a 

nearby ship, the California, failed to 

respond to radio messages and flares. Not all 

of the available seats in the lifeboats were 

used, and about 1500 passengers and crew 

drowned. These included the Captain. His 

last known words to the escaping crew and 

passengers were, “Be British.” He was last 

seen diving from the bridge into the water. 

In September 1985 a joint US-French 

scientific expedition located the remains of 

the Titanic at a depth of 3,962 m, about 595 

Kms off the coast of Newfoundland. The 

ship was photographed using a deep-sea 

robot. 

The sinking of the Titanic has been made 

into a movie, which currently is the highest 

grossing movie ever produced. 

[Response of D19—No Sources] 

The Titanic was a huge cruise 

ship built by the British White Starline 

Company in Ireland. This ship 

was said to be unsinkable due to it’s 

design and it was also said to be the 

fastest. It was ment to be the most 

decidant cruize ship on the open 

seas and that it was but tradegy 

struck in the Atlantic sea. The ship 

hit an iceburg and the first four of 

the compartments of the bottom 

filled with water making the front 

top heavey and thus the ship sank. 

Because they had been so confident 

there were not enough lifeboats for 

everyone and ove 15000 people perished. 

[Note: Original spelling retained.]


There were 11 words in common between the original and the response (5% of 

the 240 words in the original, 10% of the 107 words in the response). There 

were two words in exactly the same order, and 6 common elements, of which 3 

were in the same sequence. No two responses were the same, but this response 

is nearly average on the statistics that were measured. The average number of 

common words for those who wrote on the sinking of the Titanic without a 

source was 13.9, with 2.1 as the average number of words in exactly the same 

sequence. 

It is instructive to compare the above with responses given from the other 

two groups: 

[Original Summary] 



luxury, the Titanic struck an iceberg and sank on 

her maiden voyage. Conditions were calm in the 

Atlantic on the night of April 14, 1912. In an 

apparent effort to break the Trans-Atlantic 

record, the Titanic was travelling at a speed of 22 

knots (41 km/h) when it struck the iceberg. At 

first passengers and crew were not aware of how 

serious the damage was. But the designer of the 

ship was on board, and was soon able to report to 

the captain that five of the watertight compartments 

had been breached, and that the ship 

would surely sink in the next few hours. 


nearby ship, the California, failed to respond to 

radio messages and flares. Not all of the available 

seats in the lifeboats were used, and about 1500 

passengers and crew drowned. These included 

the Captain. His last known words to the escaping 

crew and passengers were, “Be British.” He 

was last seen diving from the bridge into the 

water. 

In September 1985 a joint US-French scientific 

expedition located the remains of the Titanic 

at a depth of 3,962 m, about 595 Kms off the 

coast of Newfoundland. The ship was photographed 

using a deep-sea robot. 

The sinking of the Titanic has been made into 

a movie, which currently is the highest grossing 

movie ever produced. 

[D10—Source used, but 

returned] 

The titanic was the biggest 

ship ever to be made—it was 

so luxurious ahead of its time. 

It was on its maiden voyage on 

April 14 1912 when it struck an 

iceberg & sunk. The crew & 

passengers weren’t aware of 

the extent of the damage but 

the designer was on board & 

he said that it was going to 

sink. The wasn’t enough 

lifeboats for everyone. The 

boats weren’t filled to capacity 

and in the end 1500 people 

died including the captain. 

In 1985 a french scientist 

discovered the titanic at at [sic] 

depth of 3,965m below sea 

level 595km off the coast of 

.... 

A movie was made and it is 

one of the biggest movies 

made.

672 

[Original Summary] 




luxury, the Titanic struck an iceberg and 

sank on her maiden voyage. Conditions 

were calm in the Atlantic on the night of 

April 14, 1912. In an apparent effort to 

break the Trans-Atlantic record, the Titanic 

was travelling at a speed of 22 knots (41 

km/h) when it struck the iceberg. At first 

passengers and crew were not aware of how 

serious the damage was. But the designer of 

the ship was on board, and was soon able to 

report to the captain that five of the watertight 

compartments had been breached, and 

that the ship would surely sink in the next 

few hours. 


nearby ship, the California, failed to 

respond to radio messages and flares. Not all 

of the available seats in the lifeboats were 

used, and about 1500 passengers and crew 

drowned. These included the Captain. His 

last known words to the escaping crew and 

passengers were, “Be British.” He was last 

seen diving from the bridge into the water. 

In September 1985 a joint US-French 

scientific expedition located the remains of 

the Titanic at a depth of 3,962 m, about 595 

Kms off the coast of Newfoundland. The 

ship was photographed using a deep-sea 

robot. 

The sinking of the Titanic has been made 

into a movie, which currently is the highest 


[D13—Source used 

and retained] 

The titanic was built as the 

largest ship of the time. It was 

advertised as unsinkable. On April 

14 1992, in an effort to break a 

record the titanic was travelling at 

full speed when it hit the iceberg. 

The passengers were not sure if 

it was serious at first. The designer 

of the ship soon reported however 

that the 5 watertight compartments 

had been breached, and the ship 

would sink within a few hours. 

There were insufficient 

lifeboats. Not all the available seats 

in the lifeboats were used and about 

1500 passengers drowned. 

In 1985 a joint US-French scientific 

expedition located the remains 

of the titanic at a depth of 3962m. 

The ship was photographed using a 

deep sea robot. 

Titanic has been made into a 

movie which is currently the highest 


As perhaps might have been expected, the responses of D10 (Source 

Returned) and D13 (Source Retained) show a much greater commonality with 

the summary that was provided than that of D19 (no sources). This was true on 

all the statistics gathered: the number of common words, the percentage of 

common words compared to the original, the number of words in exact


sequence, the number of common factual elements, and the number of factual 

elements in sequence. 

No. of com- % common words Words in exact Common Elements in 

mon words (vs. original) sequence elements sequence 

D19 11 5 2 6 3 

D10 49 20 6 14 10 

D13 112 47 18 18 14 

In fact, the averages of all these measures showed the same kind of progression. 

Eighteen of the 43 volunteers completed six responses in the experiment, and 

most of the rest completed four of them. If all these responses are pooled, the 

average responses for the above statistics are as follows: 

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

% common words Words in exact Common Elements in 

(vs. original) sequence elements sequence 

No sources 5.00 2.45 5.14 3.07 

Source returned 15.3 5.43 15.4 9.77 

Source retained 28.4 12.6 15.6 12.4 

These results are readily amenable to statistical analysis. All the differences 

were found to be statistically significant, aside from the differences in common 

elements and the sequence of common elements between the source returned 

and source retained. 4 

4 Starting with the null hypothesis (H0 ) that there was no difference between the three 

different conditions (no source, source returned, source retained), an ANOVA analysis of the total 

sample for the percentage of common words vs. original yielded a P-value of 4.51E-27. Thus, if 

the null hypothesis is true, the probability of achieving this experimental result was 

0.00000000000000000000000000451. This is so unlikely that the null hypothesis—there is no difference 

between the three experimental conditions—should be rejected (it is not uncommon to 

reject null hypotheses at a = 0.01). In other words, there is a (statistically) significant difference 

between the results obtained from the three experimental conditions. A two-tailed t-test assuming 

unequal variances was also done on the two conditions “source returned” and “source retained.” 

This yielded P(T

674 


Experiments 1 and 2 

Experiments 1 and 2 unexpectedly revealed significant information concerning 

the importance of genre in the oral transmission of material. In both of 

these experiments, after reading a brief description of the experiment and signing 

a willingness-to-participate form, volunteers were able to listen to something 

read to them as often as they wished. They then went into another room 

and repeated what they had heard as accurately as possible into a tape recorder. 

They were then asked to copy in writing a similar item provided to them as a 

written text. The experiment had been set up in the hope that it might produce 

results similar to the parallels found in the Synoptic Gospels. This was true of 

the first part of the experiment, which relied on oral memory. But the emphasis 

on verbatim accuracy given to the participants in their instructions produced 

near 100% accuracy in the copying from a written text, something not found in 

the parallels between the Synoptic Gospels. Exact word-for-word parallels are 

not found in any Synoptic parallel of 32 words or more. It was this observation 

from the results of experiments 1 and 2 that led to the development of the carefully 

constructed instructions in experiment 5, which did produce copying of a 

kind that can be found in some Synoptic parallels (see below). 

What did produce significant results in experiments 1 and 2, however, is 

that the genre was different for the two experiments. In the first, a joke was 

used; in the second, four aphorisms. Financial incentives were announced for 

the first volunteer to repeat what had been heard word for word. 5 In the event, 

while most were able to reproduce the joke in a way that retained its humor, 

nobody came close to getting it word for word. On the other hand, several volunteers 

came very close to getting three of the four aphorisms word for word. It 

is highly instructive to compare the results obtained by the volunteers who 

achieved some of the results on the two tasks that came closest to reproducing 

the original joke or aphorisms: 

The t-test for the “returned” vs. “retained” are P(T


[Original] 

There’s this desert prison, with an 

old prisoner, resigned to his life, and a 

young one just arrived. The young one 

talks constantly of escape, and, after a 

few months, he makes a break. He’s 

gone a week, and then he’s brought back 

by the guards. He’s half dead. Crazy 

with hunger and thirst. 

He describes how awful it was to the 

old prisoner. The endless stretches of 

sand, no oasis, no signs of life anywhere. 

The old prisoner listens for a while, he 

says, “Yep, I know. I tried to escape 

myself twenty years ago.” 

The young prisoner says, “You did? 

Why didn’t you tell me, all these months 

I was planning my escape? Why didn’t 

you let me know it was impossible?” 

The old prisoner shrugs, and says, 

“So who publishes negative results?” 6 

[Original] 

You are more likely to be struck by 

lightning than to be eaten by a shark. 

You are more likely to be infected by 

flesh-eating bacteria than you are to be 

struck by lightning 

More people working in advertising 

died on the job in 1996 than died while 

working in petroleum refining. 

More people are killed annually by 

donkeys than die in air crashes. 

Experiment 1 

Experiment 2 

[Response from participant A15] 

There was a prison in the desert and 

there was an old man there who wasold 

prisoner there who was resigned to 

his fate. A young prisoner is bought in 

and he’s crazy about planning his 

escape, he escapes and after a month 

and a week later he’s brought back mad 

with hunger and thirst . . . now I’ve forgotten 

the next bit . . . um . . . . He . . . 

the old prisoner . . . he tells the old prisoner 

that um about the endless 

stretches of sand and no oasis and no 

signs of life he . . . the old prisoner says, 

“Yeah, I know, I tried to escape when I 

first came in.” And the young prisoner 

says, “Why didn’t you tell me when I 

was planning all those maps of my 

escape?” And the old prisoner says, 

“That they never publish negative . . . 

nobody publishes negative results.” 

[Response from participant B7] 



You are more likely to be infected 

by a flesh-eating bacteria than you are 

to be struck by lightning. 



Um… There were more people 

working in advertising in 1996 than 

work in petroleum refining. 

6 Michael Crichton (writing as Jeffrey Hudson), A Case of Need (Hingham, MA: Wheeler, 

1994), 217, used by permission. Other materials used as stimuli were either written specifically for 

the experiment, or adapted from unattributed materials from the Internet.


The genres of the two samples used in the experiment were chosen with a 

deliberate eye on the materials attributed to Jesus in the Gospels. These 

include many aphorisms and a large number of parables. It was thought that 

jokes may share several of the characteristics of the parables of Jesus: they are 

independent units that require the preservation of a certain number of basic 

elements to make “sense,” even if, like joke 1 used in experiment 1, many of 

those who transmitted it did not understand its import. In this way parables and 

jokes may well be relatively resistant to change. 

As it turns out, while the basic meaning of the joke might be relatively 

resistant to change, it is not transmitted word for word. That this is a characteristic 

of oral transmission of material has been noted often enough. 7 What is 

curious, though, is that the situation is different for aphorisms. They tend to be 

remembered nearly word for word. While volunteer B7 was one of those who 

most nearly achieved word-for-word transmission, most of the volunteers 

tended to remember parts of the aphorisms exactly, and forget the rest. Volunteer 

B6 provided an excellent example of this: 

[Original] 




flesh-eating bacteria than you are to be 

struck by lightning 

More people working in advertising 

died on the job in 1996 than died while 

working in petroleum refining. 



Experiment 2 

[Response from participant B6] 


lightning than you are to be eaten by a 

shark. 


. . . oh I’ve forgotten . . . You are more 

likely to be infected by a something 

microbiotic . . . (laughs) . . . whatever 

than to be struck by lightning . 

Um . . . More people annually die by 

being . . . from a donkey than . . . from 

an air crash. 

Oh I’ve completely stuffed up, but 

that’s all right, and then there was 

something about the um . . . advertising 

crew dying in 1996 than in . . . oh whatever. 

7 For example, see summary of evidence in Ian M. L. Hunter, Memory (rev. ed.; Harmondsworth: 

Penguin, 1964), 143–83; cf. Walter J. Ong, Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing 

of the Word (1982; London/New York: Routledge, 1993), 57–68.


The same characteristic was noted with regard to poems that were used in 

another experiment. 8 Those parts of the poems that were remembered were 

usually remembered exactly, and those parts that were forgotten were forgotten 

entirely. 

Potential Implications for the Synoptic Problem 

That there are strong cultural differences between the students taking 

part in these experiments and the anonymous writers who produced the Synoptic 

Gospels is self-evident, and it is a plausible if untestable supposition that 

some of these differences may affect the kind of characteristics that have been 

measured in these experiments. The Gospels arose out of a primarily oral cultural 

background, while tertiary students are immersed in a culture biased 

strongly toward written texts, and memory plays a different role in oral cultures. 

9 Yet anthropologists report that long verbatim recall exists in purely oral 

cultures only in the case of shorter poems and the words of some songs, not in 

the recounting of stories or jokes. What is remembered are the underlying 

meaning and facts, and even these have a degree of fluidity that can be disconcerting 

to an observer from a text-based culture. 10 

8 Experiment 3 used two jokes and two poems. Participants were able to read one joke and 

one poem, and only heard the other joke and poem. The two jokes and two poems were then reproduced 

from memory. The poem available for reading was transmitted better than that which was 

only heard, but in both cases the different lines of the poem were recalled virtually word for word 

or not at all. Experiment 4 used a joke that participants could read. Half were then required to 

return the joke, and half were able to retain it so that they could refer to it as they wrote out the joke 

in their own words. The results of experiment 4 parallel those reported for experiment 5 in this 

paper. Experiment 6 involved asking the participants of experiments 3 and 4 to recall what they 

could of the joke/jokes/poems after a period of a week, a month, and a year. Space considerations 

have precluded a fuller reporting on the results of experiments 3, 4, and 6 in this paper. 

9 The first author has had several private communications stressing this fact from friends who 

have worked in Papua, New Guinea, or who have worked closely with Australian Aborigines. 

Bartlett himself recounts a remarkable case of a Swaziland herdsman with near total recall of the 

exact numbers and prices of cattle sold one year earlier (Remembering, 249–50). It would be interesting 

indeed to repeat the kind of experiments reported here in a community with a living oral culture. 

10 Ong provides a useful survey of the evidence, beginning with the work of Milman Parry 

and Albert Lord (Orality, 57–69). While the narrative poets of Yugoslavia recorded by Parry and 

Lord claimed to reproduce long poems line for line and word for word, actual recordings show that 

the two renditions are never the same. Jack Goody reports that oral peoples do try for verbatim repetition 

of poems. Their success “is minimal by literate standards” (ibid., 62). Jeffrey Opland, for 

example, estimates that in Africa there is “at least sixty per cent in correlation with other versions” 

of the poem (ibid.)—a very good result, but not verbatim memorization. Music, though, can often 

produce verbatim reproduction of the lyrics (ibid., 63). Ian M. L. Hunter discusses the popular 

belief “that nonliterate cultures encourage feats of word-for-word remembering” (“Lengthy Verba-

678 


The basic limitations placed on memory by the abilities of the human 

brain are constant between these cultures, and this may explain why lengthy 

verbatim recall is so rare. Of particular importance are the limitations of shortterm 

memory. Most individuals are able to store only between four and seven 

items in short-term memory. 11 These items in short-term memory are continually 

being replaced as new input arrives at the senses and need to be particularly 

“memorable” if they are to move to medium or long-term memory. What 

appears to be stored in medium and long-term memory are not usually the 

exact words, but the underlying meaning of the words. There are exceptions to 

this general observation, particularly in respect to poetry and words set to 

music. Furthermore, actors are able to memorize large bodies of text word for 

word, but this type of memorization requires much rehearsal from an unchanging 

written text, something not available in an oral culture. 12 In the absence of 

such special conditions, what is remembered is the meaning, not the exact 

words. This can be illustrated from the experiments reported here. What is 

remembered from jokes and the historical accounts, for example, are not the 

exact words but the macro-meaning of the text. Some phrases are retained, but 

not long sequences of words. The long sequences of words were found to be 

transmitted only by means of copying from written texts. 

Criteria for Determining 

Whether Copying Has Taken Place 

The experiments are able to provide a test to determine when a previously 

existing written text has been used as the basis of another text. That a written 

document underlies a certain text is not always discernible. For example, many 

of the volunteers who retained the written summary in experiment 5 did not 

produce long sequences of words. But here is the point. For the jokes and the 

descriptions of historical events, only those who retained the text and could 

copy from it produced long sequences of words that were exactly the same. It is 

instructive to examine the following three graphical representations of the 

statistics for the “largest number of words in exact sequence” from the total 

sample of experiment 5: 

tim Recall: The Role of Text,” in Progress in the Psychology of Language [ed. Andrew W. Ellis; 

London: Erlbaum, 1985], 1:207–36). His conclusion is that lengthy verbatim recall does not take 

place in nonliterature cultures. Indeed, it is only possible where there are written texts against 

which to test the memorized version for accuracy. 

11 George A. Miller, “The Magical Number Seven, Plus or Minus Two: Some Limits on Our 

Capacity for Processing Information,” Psychological Review 63 (1956): 81–97; Donald E. Broadbent, 

“The Magic Number Seven after Fifteen Years,” in Studies in Long Term Memory (ed. Alan 

Kennedy and Alan Wilkes; London: Wiley, 1975), 3–18. 

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

Frequency 


70 

60 

50 

40 

30 

20 

10 

0 

Number of Words in Exact Sequence 

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

Number of words 

No source 

Source 

Returned 

Source 

Retained 

While there is overlap between the various categories, it is clear that long 

sequences of 16 or more words belong exclusively to the group that retained 

the source and could copy from it. From the perspective of the development of 

a test for the presence of copying, the critical group is the group that returned 

the source before writing. The longest sequence of words in the exact order for 

almost all of them was fewer than 8. None of them had a sequence of words 

greater than 15. 13 This result is represented graphically on the following page. 

The experiments have also shown that this characteristic is accurate only 

for narrative material, and that it is possible that longer sequences of words 

from poems and shorter aphorisms might be remembered exactly. 14 Thus it is 

13 The shape of the graph suggests that a Poisson distribution would be the most suitable 

approximation of the distribution. The sample average is 5.43 (n = 69). The probability that a Poisson 

distribution of l = 6 returning values x ≥ 16 is 0.00017. In other words, in fewer than 2 out of 

10,000 times would such an event occur. Hence, 16 or more words in exact sequence is so unlikely 

to occur when copying has not taken place that it appears to be a sensible cutoff point to determine 

whether or not copying has occurred. Even 15 or more words in sequence has a low probability, 

although two volunteers achieved it. An explanation lies to hand for volunteer D37, who reproduced 

the saying “Ask not what your country can do for your—ask what you can do for your country,” 

as “Don’t ask what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” In other 

words, this is further evidence of the memorability of aphorisms, especially one expressed as a chiasm. 

14 Kenneth Bailey, in two separate articles describing informal oral traditions in modern Arab 

villages, distinguishes proverbs and poems from other oral material because there is no flexibility in 

the wording of proverbs and poems. They are always said in exactly the same manner (“Informal 

Controlled Oral Tradition and the Synoptic Gospels,” Asia Journal of Theology 5 [1991]: 34–54, 

esp. 42; idem, “Middle Eastern Oral Tradition and the Synoptic Gospels,” ExpTim 106 [1995]:

680 

Frequency 

16 

14 

12 

10 

8 

6 

4 

2 

0 


Number of Words in Exact Sequence: Source Returned 

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

Number of words 

now possible to state a general test to determine the existence of written 

sources: Any sequence of exactly the same 16 or more words that is not an aphorism, 

poetry, or words to a song is almost certain to have been copied from a 

written document. 

Conclusion 1: There are at least nine parallel passages in the 

Synoptic Gospels where copying has almost certainly occurred. 

The application of this test to the Synoptic Gospels would reveal those 

parallels passages whose relationship can only be ascribed to copying. The first 

stage of applying the test is to discover the parallel passages with 16 or more 

words that are exactly the same in form and sequence. There are 23 such passages, 

which are listed in the following table: 

363– 67, esp. 366). In addition, Ong notes that words set to music are usually transmitted exactly 

(Orality, 63). James D. G. Dunn uses Bailey’s distinction between oral material that is handed 

down with (a) no flexibility, (b) some flexibility, and (c) total flexibility to good effect (Dunn, “Jesus 

in Oral Memory: The Initial Stages of the Jesus Tradition,” in Society of Biblical Literature 2000 

Seminar Papers [Atlanta: SBL, 2000], 287–326).


No. of words Reference 

in exact Huck number 15 

sequence Matthew Mark Luke 

31 10:16–25 13:3–13 58, 59, 213–15 

29 10:13–16 18:15–17 188 

28 11:25–30 10:21–24 67–68, 141–42 

28 24:45–51 12:41–48 226, 158–59 

26 1:21–28 4:31–37 12 

26 6:24 16:10–13 34, 174 

24 3:1–12 3:1–20 1–5 

24 7:7–12 11:9–13 38–39, 148 

24 8:18–22 9:57–62 49, 138 

24 12:38–42 11:29–32 87, 152 

23 16:21–28 8:31–9:1 122–23 

23 12:38–40 20:45–47 210 

23 24:15–28 13:14–23 216–18 

23 26:17–25 14:12–21 234–35 

22 11:1–19 7:18–35 64–65, 81–82 

21 8:5–13 7:1–10 46, 79 

20 15:1–20 7:1–23 115 

19 22:41–46 12:35–37 209 

17 8:1–4 5:12–16 45 

17 20:20–28 10:35–45 192 

16 15:32–39 8:1–10 118 

16 16:21–28 9:21–27 122–23 

16 24:29–35 13:24–31 219–21 

The second stage of applying the test to determine if copying has taken 

place is to discard those passages that are aphorisms, distinctive sayings, or 

poetry, since long sequences of words of aphorisms and distinctive sayings can 

be transmitted orally. Thus, the following seven parallels should be set to one 

side: 

Short aphorisms or distinctive sayings: Matt 6:24 // Luke 16:13 (“No one 

can serve two masters . . .”); Mark 1:24–25 // Luke 4:34–35 (the words of the 

demons); Matt 7:7–8 // Luke 11:9–10 (“Ask and it will be given you . . .”); Matt 

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

682 


8:20 // Luke 9:58 (“Foxes have holes . . .”); Mark 12:38–40 // Luke 20:45–47 

(“Beware of the scribes . . .”); Matt 26:24 // Mark 14:21 (“Son of Man goes as is 

. . .”); Matt 20:28 // Mark 10:45 (“Son of Man did not come to be served . . .”). 

A further seven parallels are ambiguous from the perspective of the experimental 

results. These saying are distinctive, and so it is conceivable that they 

may have been transmitted by oral means. But they are embedded in passages 

that have a number of long sequences of words that are exactly the same, which 

would incline an observer to the supposition that copying has taken place. Nevertheless, 

they probably should be set aside from the list of indisputable examples 

of copying, because of the possibility that their form is distinctive enough 

that it could be remembered exactly. These passages are as follows: 

Longer distinctive sayings: Matt 12:41–42 // Luke 11:29–32 (“The men of 

Nineveh will rise up . . .” 16 ); Mark 10:13–16 // Luke 18:15–17 (“Let the children 

come to me . . .”); Matt 16:24–26 // Mark 8:34–36 // Luke 9:23–25 (“If anyone 

would follow me, let them take up their cross . . .”); Matt 8:9 // Luke 7:8 (words 

of the centurion: “I say go, and he goes . . .”); Matt 15:8–9 // Mark 7:6–7 (“[This 

people] honors me with their lips . . .”); Matt 15:32 // Mark 8:2 (“I have compassion 

upon the crowd . . .”). 

This leaves the following passages, which, by the criteria developed above, 

almost certainly contain copied material: 

three parallels in the apocalyptic discourse: Matt 24:15–28 // Mark 

13:14–23; Matt 24:29–35 // Mark 13:24–31; Matt 10:21–22 // Mark 

13:12–13 17 

three narrative accounts: Matt 3:1–12 // Luke 3:1–20 (preaching of John 

the Baptist, particularly Matt 3:7b–12 // Luke 3:7b–9, 16–17); Matt 

11:1–19 // Luke 7:18–35 (messengers from John the Baptist); Matt 

8:1–4 // Luke 5:12–16 (healing of a leper) 

a short discourse: Matt 11:25–30 // Luke 10:21–24 (“Father . . . you have 

hidden these things from the wise . . .”) 

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

servants) 

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

16 In Matt 12:41–42 // Luke 11:29–32 the total passage with extended sequences of words 

extends over 53 words; while Matt 16:24–26 // Mark 8:34–36 // Luke 9:23–25 is in a total passage of 

51 words. 

17 Mark 13:28–31 // Luke 21:29–38, also from the apocalyptic discourse, show 15 words in 

exact sequence, and thus fall just outside the criteria of 16 or more words.


Of the material that almost certainly contains copied material, it is possible 

to identify one common source with confidence: a Greek version of Ps 110, perhaps 

the LXX. 18 If it was decided on other grounds that it was unlikely that one 

evangelist copied directly from an existing Gospel, then it would be necessary 

to postulate a minimum of two further sources: one, the apocalyptic discourse 

(Mark 13 and parallels), which all three Gospels used, and one used by both 

Matthew and Luke but not Mark (perhaps Q?). Indeed, once one has admitted 

that evidence for such a document exists, it would not be improbable that several 

of the passages that have been temporarily set aside may have been copied 

from such a document. 

It is instructive to compare the visual appearance of the parallels listed 

above as almost certainly containing copying with that given earlier in the article 

from volunteer D13 in experiment 5. The parable in Matt 24:45–51 // Luke 

12:41–48 might serve as an example: 

Matt 24:45–51 (88 words in common 

[81% of words in the Matthean version]; 

longest sequence exactly the same = 28 

words) 

45 Tiv" a[ra ejsti;n oJ pisto;" dou'lo" kai; 

frovnimo" o}n katevsthsen oJ kuvrio" ejpi; 

th'" oijketeiva" aujtou' tou' dou'nai aujtoi'" 

th;n trofh;n ejn kairw'/ 46 makavrio" oJ 

dou'lo" ejkei'no" o}n ejlqw;n oJ kuvrio" aujtou' 

euJrhvsei ou{tw" poiou'nta: 47 ajmh;n 

levgw uJmi'n o{ti ejpi; pa'sin toi'" uJpavrcousin 

aujtou' katasthvsei aujtovn. 

48 eja;n de; ei[ph/ oJ kako;" dou'lo" ejkei'no" 

ejn th'/ kardiva/ aujtou': cronivzei mou oJ 

kuvrio", 49 kai; a[rxhtai tuvptein tou;" 

sundouvlou" aujtou', ejsqivh/ de; kai; pivnh/ 

meta; tw'n mequovntwn, 50 h{xei oJ kuvrio" 

tou' douvlou ejkeivnou ejn hJmevra/ h|/ ouj 

prosdoka'/ kai; ejn w{ra/ h|/ ouj ginwvskei, 

51 kai; dicotomhvsei aujto;n kai; to; mevro" 

aujtou' meta; tw'n uJpokritw'n qhvsei: ejkei' 

Luke 12:41–48 (88 words in common 

[51% of words in the Lukan version]) 

41 Ei\pen de; oJ Pevtro": kuvrie, pro;" 

hJma'" th;n parabolh;n tauvthn levgei" h] 

kai; pro;" pavnta"_ 42 kai; ei\pen oJ 

kuvrio": tiv" a[ra ejsti;n oJ pisto;" 

oijkonovmo" oJ frovnimo", o}n katasthvsei oJ 

kuvrio" ejpi; th'" qerapeiva" aujtou' tou' 

didovnai ejn kairw'/ [to;] sitomevtrion_ 

43 makavrio" oJ dou'lo" ejkei'no", o}n 

ejlqw;n oJ kuvrio" aujtou' euJrhvsei 

poiou'nta ou{tw". 44 ajlhqw'" levgw uJmi'n 

o{ti ejpi; pa'sin toi'" uJpavrcousin aujtou' 

katasthvsei aujtovn. 45 eja;n de; ei[ph/ oJ 

dou'lo" ejkei'no" ejn th'/ kardiva/ aujtou': 

cronivzei oJ kuvriov" mou e[rcesqai, kai; 

a[rxhtai tuvptein tou;" pai'da" kai; ta;" 

paidivska", ejsqivein te kai; pivnein kai; 

mequvskesqai, 46 h{xei oJ kuvrio" tou' 

18 The LXX text of Ps 110:1 from Gramcord (which uses Rahlfs’s edition) is exactly the same 

as that found in Matt 22:44 and parallels. Note that there are a further three parallels that have 15 

words in exactly the same sequence that involve parallels to Ps 110:1: Matt 22:41–46 // Luke 20:41– 

44; Mark 12:35–37 // Luke 20:41–44; and Mark 13:28–31 // Luke 21:29–38.

684 

e[stai oJ klauqmo;" kai; oJ brugmo;" tw'n 

ojdovntwn. 


douvlou ejkeivnou ejn hJmevra/ h|/ ouj prosdoka'/ 

kai; ejn w{ra/ h|/ ouj ginwvskei, kai; 

dicotomhvsei aujto;n kai; to; mevro" aujtou' 

meta; tw'n ajpivstwn qhvsei. 47 !Ekei'no" 

de; oJ dou'lo" oJ gnou;" to; qevlhma tou' 

kurivou aujtou' kai; mh; eJtoimavsa" h] poihvsa" 

pro;" to; qevlhma aujtou' darhvsetai 

pollav": 48 oJ de; mh; gnouv", poihvsa" de; 

a[xia plhgw'n darhvsetai ojlivga". Panti; 

de; w|/ ejdovqh poluv, polu; zhthqhvsetai 

par! aujtou', kai; w|/ parevqento poluv, 

perissovteron aijthvsousin aujtovn. 

This parallel contains several long sequences of words that are in exactly the 

same order, and has a visual appearance very like that observed in those who 

retained their written source in experiment 5. 

Characteristics of Orally Transmitted Materials 

The experimental results have yielded a test to determine whether copying 

is present. Is it further possible to use them to derive a test to show that 

mechanisms of memory are present? Perhaps, although such a test has to be 

expressed more generally than that developed for revealing whether copying is 

present. 

The response of volunteer A10 is a suitable place to begin a consideration 

of the characteristics of material in the transmission of which memory plays a 

significant part. This response contained one of the highest percentages of 

common material in the first part of experiment 1: 62% of words in common 

with the original, and a maximum of six words in sequence: 19 

19 The joke is different from that heard by volunteer A15, which is given earlier in the article. 

Two jokes were used in experiment 1, one that was heard orally, and one that was copied. The joke 

heard and the joke copied were randomly varied. Most volunteers did not understand the first joke 

cited, and all the highest frequencies of common vocabulary belonged to those who heard this second 

joke, which all the volunteers understood.


[Original] 

There was an Irishman, an Englishman 

and Elle sitting together in a carriage 

on a train going through Tasmania. 

Suddenly the train went through a tunnel 

and as it was an old style train, there 

were no lights in the carriages and it 

went completely dark. 

Then there was this kissing noise and 

the sound of a really loud slap. When the 

train came out of the tunnel, Elle and 

the Irishman were sitting as if nothing 

had happened, but the Englishman had 

his hand against his face as he had been 

slapped there. 

The Englishman was thinking: “The 

Irish fella must have kissed Elle and she 

missed him and hit me instead. 

Elle was thinking: “The English fella 

must have tried to kiss me and actually 

kissed the Irishman and got slapped for 

it.” 

The Irishman was thinking, “This is 

great! The next time the train goes 

through a tunnel I’ll make another kissing 

noise and slap that English idiot 

again.” 

Experiment 1 

[Response from participant A10] 

There was an Englishman, an Irishman 

and Elle on a train in Tasmania and 

they were going through a tunnel and as 

it was an old train and there was no 

lights, it suddenly went dark. There was 

a kissing noise and then a slap heard. 

And when they came out the other side 

of the tunnel, the Englishman was 

thinking, the Irishman must have tried 

to kiss Elle, missed and got me. Elle was 

thinking, the Englishman must have 

tried to kiss me but kissed the Irishman 

instead. The Irishman was thinking, 

next time we go through a tunnel I’ll 

have to make that kissing sound again 

and slap that silly Irishman—the 

Englishman. 

The following observations might be made about the parallels that can be 

observed in the responses of both volunteers A15 and A10: 

1. It is possible that oral transmission might produce a high percentage of 

common vocabulary, but the words that are exactly in the same 

sequence tend to be found in short phrases of only a few words. 

2. The common phrases are scattered throughout the text. 

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

4. Changes may be observed in the tenses and moods of the verb (e.g., 

volunteer A15 [see p. 679 above] uses the past tense, while the original 

was in the present tense).

686 


5. Often synonyms are used, as well as short phrases of different words 

that have the same meaning (e.g., “resigned to his fate” [volunteer A15] 

vs. “resigned to his life” [original]). 

Conclusion 2: Memory plays a significant role in the 

relationship between the Synoptic Gospels. 

The qualities listed above as typical of transmission of material where the 

mechanisms of memory are present are characteristic of the majority of the 

parallels between the Synoptic Gospels. This appears to be true of even those 

few parallels that exhibit a high percentage of common vocabulary. Matthew 

21:23–27 and Mark 11:27–33 serve to illustrate parallel passages that have 

more than 50% of words in common. 

Matt 21:23–27 (83 common words [72% 

of the Matthean version]; 9 words in 

exact sequence) 

23 Kai; ejlqovnto" aujtou' eij" to; iJero;n 

prosh'lqon aujtw'/ didavskonti oiJ 

ajrcierei'" kai; oiJ presbuvteroi tou' laou' 

levgonte": ejn poiva/ ejxousiva/ tau'ta 

poiei'"_ kai; tiv" soi e[dwken th;n ejxousivan 

tauvthn_ 24 ajpokriqei;" de; oJ 

!Ihsou''" ei\pen aujtoi'": ejrwthvsw uJma'" 

kajgw; lovgon e{na, o}n eja;n ei[phtev moi 

kajgw; uJmi'n ejrw' ejn poiva/ ejxousiva/ tau'ta 

poiw': 25 to; bavptisma to; !Iwavnnou 

povqen h\n_ ejx oujranou' h] ejx ajnqrwvpwn_ 

oiJ de; dielogivzonto ejn eJautoi''" levgonte": 

eja;n ei[pwmen: ejx oujranou', ejrei' 

hJmi'n: dia; tiv ou\n oujk ejpisteuvsate aujtw'/_ 

26 eja;n de; ei[pwmen: ejx ajnqrwvpwn, 

fobouvmeqa to;n o[clon, pavnte" ga;r wJ" 

profhvthn e[cousin to;n !Iwavnnhn. 27 kai; 

ajpokriqevnte" tw'/ !Ihsou' ei\pan: oujk 

oi[damen. e[fh aujtoi'" kai; aujtov": oujde; 

ejgw; levgw uJmi'n ejn poiva/ ejxousiva/ tau'ta 

poiw'. 

Mark 11:27–33 (83 common words 

[66% of the Markan version]) 

27 Kai; e[rcontai pavlin eij" !Ierosovluma. 

Kai; ejn tw'/ iJerw'/ peripatou'nto" 

aujtou' e[rcontai pro;" aujto;n oiJ 

ajrcierei'" kai; oiJ grammatei''" kai; oiJ 

presbuvteroi 28 kai; e[legon aujtw'/: ejn 

poiva/ ejxousiva/ tau'ta poiei'"_ h] tiv" soi 

e[dwken th;n ejxousivan tauvthn i{na tau'ta 

poih'/"_ 29 oJ de; !Ihsou'" ei\pen aujtoi'": 

ejperwthvsw uJma'" e{na lovgon, kai; 

ajpokrivqhtev moi kai; ejrw' uJmi'n ejn poiva/ 

ejxousiva/ tau'ta poiw': 30 to; bavptisma to; 

!Iwavnnou ejx oujranou' h\n h] ejx ajnqrwvpwn_ 

ajpokrivqhtev moi. 31 kai; dielogivzonto 

pro;" eJautou;" levgonte": eja;n 

ei[pwmen: ejx oujranou', ejrei': dia; tiv [ou\n] 

oujk ejpisteuvsate aujtw'/_ 32 ajlla; 

ei[pwmen: ejx ajnqrwvpwn_ — ejfobou'nto 

to;n o[clon: a{pante" ga;r ei\con to;n 

!Iwavnnhn o[ntw" o{ti profhvth" h\n. 33 kai; 

ajpokriqevnte" tw/' !Ihsou' levgousin: oujk 

oi[damen. kai; oJ !Ihsou'" levgei aujtoi'": 

oujde; ejgw; levgw uJmi'n ejn poiva/ ejxousiva/ 

tau'ta poiw'.


These passages show all the characteristics listed for orally transmitted 

material: while it has a very high common vocabulary, the words that are exactly 

the same in form and sequence are found only in short phrases. There are 

mood and tense changes (e.g., levgonte" vs. e[legon in Matt 21:23 and Mark 

11:28). The common vocabulary is scattered throughout the passage, and the 

two passages have a slightly different length. 

Furthermore, these passages of high common vocabulary are relatively 

rare in the parallels between the Synoptic Gospels. Of the 348 passages of over 

60 words in the UBS Greek New Testament that have a separate subheading, 

only 36 have more than 50% common words. The probability that two parallels 

depend on some facility of memory, such as memorization of oral tradition, 

becomes greater for the parallel passages with much smaller percentages of 

common vocabulary that do not have long sequences of words in common. 

These types of parallels are in the vast majority in the Synoptic Gospels. It is 

therefore not unlikely that memory and mechanisms of oral transmission of tradition 

may have played a greater role in the formation of the Synoptic Gospels 

than has usually been thought. 

Summing Up 

The experiments reported in this article reveal that the characteristics of 

human memory mean that what is remembered from jokes and historical 

accounts is the macro-meaning, not the exact words. On the other hand, some 

genres, such as aphorisms and poetry, tend to be remembered word for word or 

not at all. This means that it is possible to transmit longer sequences of words 

accurately using aphorisms, poetry, and words set to music. These observations 

led to the formulation of a criterion to establish the presence of copying: unless 

found in poetry, words set to music, or aphorisms, 16 or more words that are 

exactly the same in two or more documents indicate that a process of copying 

has taken place. Applying this criterion to the parallels in the three Synoptic 

Gospels reveals that there are at least nine passages where it is almost certain 

that a process of copying has occurred. The presence of these nine passages 

makes it likely that there are other passages that are also the result of copying. 

Nevertheless, overall, the majority of the parallels in the Synoptic Gospels have 

characteristics that are more typical of a process of transmission that involves 

memory rather than straight copying: the common vocabulary is found in short 

sequences of words; there are changes of mood, tense, and grammatical construction; 

synonyms are common; and the passages are of different length. In 

other words, as with the jokes and historical accounts transmitted in the experiments 

by means that involved memory, the macro-meaning is often the same 

but the words are not identical.

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WISDOM FOR THE PERFECT: 

PAUL’S CHALLENGE TO THE CORINTHIAN 

CHURCH (1 CORINTHIANS 2:6–16) 

SIGURD GRINDHEIM 

sgrindheim@hotmail.com 

Beeson Divinity School, Birmingham, AL 35229 

What was at stake when the church in Corinth was divided? Abandoning 

the older quest for a Corinthian heresy, recent studies have rightly tended to 

understand the factions in Corinth against the background of the conventions 

of Greco-Roman rhetoric. It should not be overlooked, however, that Paul 

understood these factions as symptomatic of a grave theological error in 

Corinth. 1 The thesis of this article is that by attempting to excel by worldly stan- 

1 The trend to focus on the factions as an ethical problem rather than a theological one seems 

to have started with Johannes Munck, who remarked that “the Corinthians’ wrong conception of 

the Gospel as wisdom is connected with their misunderstanding of other points; but there is no 

dogmatic controversy in the first four chapters . . . the Corinthians’ shortcomings in respect of their 

bickerings are regarded in this section as primarily ethical failures” (Paul and the Salvation of 

Mankind [London: SCM, 1959], 152). Munck also saw theological implications of the conflict, but 

other scholars have tended to understand the conflict in exclusively sociological terms. Laurence L. 

Welborn observes: “The terms with which scivsma is associated make it clear that it is neither a religious 

heresy nor a harmless clique that the author has in mind, but factions engaged in a struggle 

for power”; and he thinks that “[i]t is no longer necessary to argue against the position that the conflict 

which evoked 1 Corinthians 1–4 was essentially theological in character” (“On the Discord in 

Corinth: 1 Corinthians 1–4 and Ancient Politics,” JBL 106 [1987]: 87, 88). According to Stephen 

M. Pogoloff, “Paul is addressing an exigence of the ethical dimensions of division, not doctrinal 

divergence” (LOGOS AND SOPHIA: The Rhetorical Situation of 1 Corinthians [SBLDS 134; 

Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992], 104). The judgment of Raymond Pickett goes along the same lines: 

“Paul gives no indication that any theological conceptions, or misconceptions, are the cause of the 

dissensions” (The Cross in Corinth: The Social Significance of the Death of Jesus [JSNTSup 143; 

Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997], 37). Similarly, Peter Marshall, Enmity in Corinth: 

Social Conventions in Paul’s Relations with the Corinthians (WUNT 2/23; Tübingen: Mohr- 

Siebeck, 1987), 181; David G. Horrell, The Social Ethos of the Corinthian Correspondence: Interests 

and Ideology from 1 Corinthians to 1 Clement (Studies of the New Testament and Its World; 

Edinburgh: Clark, 1996), 220. Duane Litfin emphasizes Paul’s theological interpretation of the 

689

690 


dards, the Corinthians were running the risk of defining themselves as those for 

whom the gospel was hidden and thus forfeiting their salvation. After a brief 

survey of recent research on the factionalism in Corinth, we shall see how Paul’s 

discourse on wisdom in 1 Cor 2:6–16 serves his rhetorical purpose by undermining 

the basis for the factions. A true comprehension of the gospel is irreconcilable 

with the bickering that characterized the Corinthian church. In order to 

demonstrate our thesis, we will show that the divine wisdom in 1 Cor 2:6–16 is 

to be identified with the gospel, that this wisdom is hidden under its apparent 

foolishness for those who want to be wise according to the standards of this 

world, and that the perfect, who receive this wisdom, are all Christians. We will 

then see that Paul is challenging the Corinthians: Will they side with the wise of 

this world, or will they show themselves as being among the perfect, that is, the 

Christians, who have rejected the standards of the world? The factionalism, 

based on competition by worldly standards, indicates that the former is the 

case. For Paul, sociology is indicative of theology. The uniqueness of 1 Corinthians, 

therefore, can be fully appreciated only when the letter is examined in 

its theological as well as its sociological world. 

I. The Factions 

First Corinthians 1:10–4:21 may be characterized as deliberative rhetoric, 

the thesis statement being found in 1:10: “Now I appeal to you, brothers and 

sisters, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you be in agreement 

and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same 

mind and the same purpose.” 2 The reasons for the factionalism in Corinth were 

issues, but he downplays the implications, insisting that there is “no indication that Paul had discovered 

within their midst theological error of the most grievous sort. There is not the slightest hint to 

suggest that the Corinthians had exchanged the Gospel Paul had preached for another, or that they 

were somehow vitiating its efficacy by denying or distorting some of its central tenets” (St. Paul’s 

Theology of Proclamation [SNTSMS 79; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994], 180). 

Similarly, R. Dean Anderson, Jr., Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Paul (Biblical Exegesis & Theology 

18; Kampen: Kok, 1996), 248. See also Troels Engberg-Pedersen, who criticizes Gerd Theissen’s 

point of view for being “restricted to that of social function” (“The Gospel and Social Practice 

According to 1 Corinthians,” NTS 33 [1987]: 560). Similarly, William Baird and James D. G. Dunn 

have noted the scholarly neglect of the theological dimension of the conflict (William Baird, “‘One 

Against the Other’: Intra-Church Conflict in 1 Corinthians,” in The Conversation Continues: Studies 

in Paul & John in Honor of J. Louis Martyn [ed. Robert T. Fortna and Beverly R. Gaventa; 

Nashville: Abingdon, 1990], 131; James D. G. Dunn, 1 Corinthians [NTG; Sheffield: Sheffield 

Academic Press, 1995], 43). 

2 George A. Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation through Rhetorical Criticism (Chapel 

Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1984), 87; Laurence L. Welborn, “A Conciliatory Principle 

in 1 Cor 4:6,” NovT 29 (1987): 334–35; Margaret M. Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Recon-

Grindheim: Wisdom for the Perfect 691 

manifold. 3 In 1:18–3:23 Paul focuses on the role of wisdom. As has been 

demonstrated numerous times recently, this discussion reflects contemporary 

discussions on rhetoric. 4 His rejection of persuasive words of wisdom in 2:4, 

and a number of the terms employed in this context, such as peiqov", ajpovdeixi", 

duvnami", tevleio" 5 and the correlation of “word” and “wisdom” 6 are best understood 

in this light. 

The population of Corinth consisted mainly of freedmen (Strabo 8.6.23; 

Epict. Disc.4.1.157), a class that was known to indulge in boasting and self-display, 

in order to enhance their status. 7 Considering that words of the kaucgroup 

occur with significantly increased frequency in the Corinthian letters (36 

ciliation: An Exegetical Investigation of the Language and Composition of 1 Corinthians (HUT 28; 

Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1992), 20–64, 198–225; Ben Witherington III, Conflict and Community 

in Corinth: A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary on 1 and 2 Corinthians (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 

1995), 46; Raymond F. Collins, First Corinthians (SP 7; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1999), 

69. How closely related 1 Corinthians as a letter actually is to the known Greco-Roman examples of 

deliberative rhetoric need not concern us here. Cf. the critique of R. Dean Anderson, Jr. (Ancient 

Rhetorical Theory and Paul, 229–38). For our purpose, it suffices to notice that 1:18–4:21 contains 

a unified argument for the thesis in 1:10. 

3 From 1 Cor 11:21–22 we learn that tensions were caused by the differences between the 

poor and the rich. Laurence L. Welborn maintains that the factions in Corinth must be understood 

as conflicts between the upper and lower classes. The root of these conflicts was the patronage system 

and the way the poor became dependent on the rich (“On the Discord,” 99). Similarly, John K. 

Chow, Patronage and Power: A Study of Social Networks in Corinth (JSNTSup 75; Sheffield: 

Sheffield Academic Press, 1992), 123–66. Cf. the more cautious judgment of Margaret M. 

Mitchell, however, maintaining that economy was only one among many reasons for the factions in 

Corinth (Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 94–95). Although the slogans in 1:12 resemble 

political slogans, their form does not warrant the conclusion that they should be labels of clearly 

defined parties associated with Paul, Apollos, Cephas, and Christ (ibid., 82–86). 

4 This is not to deny that Jewish wisdom traditions may have influenced Paul’s language here 

(Gerd Theissen, Psychological Aspects of Pauline Theology [trans. John P. Galvin; Philadelphia: 

Fortress, 1987], 353). But even Jeffrey S. Lamp, in his monograph on Jewish wisdom traditions in 

1 Cor 1–4, admits that rhetoric is the primary background (First Corinthians 1–4 in Light of Jewish 

Wisdom Traditions: Christ, Wisdom, and Spirituality [Studies in Bible and Early Christianity 42; 

Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 2000], 113–14). 

5 Lars Hartman, “Some Remarks on 1 Cor. 2:1–5,” SEÅ 39 (1974): 116; Timothy H. Lim, 

“‘Not in Persuasive Words of Wisdom, but in the Demonstration of the Spirit and Power,’” NovT 27 

(1987): 145–47; Pogoloff, LOGOS AND SOPHIA, 141; Timothy B. Savage, Power through Weakness: 

Paul’s Understanding of the Christian Ministry in 2 Corinthians (SNTSMS 86; Cambridge: 

Cambridge University Press, 1996), 71; Bruce W. Winter, Philo and Paul among the Sophists 

(SNTSMS 96; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 154. 

6 Hans Dieter Betz, “The Problem of Rhetoric and Theology According to the Apostle Paul,” 

in L’apôtre Paul: Personnalité, style et conception du ministère (ed. A. Vanhoye; BETL 73; Leuven: 

Leuven University Press, 1986), 28–32; Welborn, “On the Discord,” 101–2; Pogoloff, LOGOS 

AND SOPHIA, 109–11; Litfin, St. Paul’s Theology of Proclamation, 44, 64, 72–73, 96, 119, 122; 

Anderson, Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Paul, 239; Collins, First Corinthians, 85. 

7 Savage, Power through Weakness, 39–41.

692 


or 37 times) over against the other Pauline letters (fifteen times in the undisputed 

letters and once in Ephesians), one may assume that Paul considered 

boasting to be an issue that needed to be addressed particularly in Corinth. He 

underscored that boasting in anything save the Lord was excluded (1 Cor 1:31), 

as the divine election had turned the world’s status claims upside down 

(1:26–28). 8 When Paul rejected the use of superior words of wisdom (2:1), he 

was likely referring to the kind of rhetoric that was concerned with self-display, 

boasting, and abuse of others. The modifier “superior” seems to denote a form 

of oratory that sought impressive display, in order to be recognized as superior. 9 

Is it possible to more specific? Bruce W. Winter has made a good case that 

the standards Paul rejects in 1 Cor 1–4 are sophistic standards. The sophistic 

movement appears to have gained a significant footing in Corinth at the time of 

Paul. The sophists were known to recruit disciples and engage in bitter 

rivalry. 10 It could be such a rivalry that is reflected in 1 Cor 1:12; 3:1–4. 11 Possibly, 

Paul’s description of himself in 1 Cor 2:1–5 was designed to emphasize the 

contrast between his arrival in Corinth and the conventions for a sophist’s 

arrival in a new town. The sophist was supposed to give a sample of his eloquence, 

for acceptance or rejection by the city. 12 Paul refused to provide such a 

display. 13 His statement in 2:1 need not be taken as a flat rejection of rhetoric, 

therefore, but Paul would not allow his identity as a teacher to be determined 

by anything other than the cross of Christ. 

II. The Wisdom 

To understand Paul’s discourse on the wisdom for the perfect in 2:6–16, it 

is important to note the rhetorical function of this passage in the wider context. 

At the end of the narratio (1:11–17), Paul appeals to his own example and 

introduces the antithesis between “word of wisdom” and “the cross of Christ” 

(1:17). In the first subsequent section of argument (1:18–4:21), he elaborates 

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

Paul, 191. 

9 Savage, Power through Weakness, 72. 

10 Winter, Philo and Paul, 116-44. 

11 Ibid., 170-76. 

12 Favorinus, who was associated with the Second Sophistic, reports having given a sample of 

his rhetoric at such an event (Dio Chrys., Or. 37.1). See also Winter, Philo and Paul, 135, 149–51. 

13 In this regard, Paul’s attitude resembles that of Dio Chrysostom, who in his forty-seventh 

Oration provided a disclaimer that pleasure, beauty, or wisdom (sofiva) should not be expected 

from his speech. See Winter, Philo and Paul, 152–61; similarly Witherington, Conflict and Community, 

100–101.


on this antithesis in 1:18–3:23. 14 The purpose of this section is to juxtapose two 

value systems, that of God and that of the world, and their opposing evaluations 

of the gospel. Paul’s argument throughout this section centers on the reversal of 

values that he introduces in 1:18: the word of the cross appears as foolishness 

for those who are lost, but proves to be the power of God for those who are 

saved. This double character of the word of the cross is then delineated in the 

following verses, so that the “foolish” character is elaborated on in 1:19–2:5 and 

the “powerful” or “wise” character in 2:6–3:23. 15 In 1:19–31 Paul explains how 

God has turned the values of the world upside down. 16 That which is considered 

wise in the world is foolishness for God, and vice versa (1:21, 25; cf. 2:14). 

Appealing again to his own example, Paul then emphasizes that he takes care to 

perform his ministry in accordance with the divine reversal of values. Therefore, 

he is not concerned to appear impressive (2:1–5). God’s wisdom, communicated 

to the elect, is then the focus of 2:6–16. After applying this principle to 

the Corinthians (3:1–4) and once more to himself and to Apollos (3:5–17), Paul 

gives as his concluding advice in 3:18 a call to conform to this reversal of values: 

“If you think that you are wise in this age, you should become fools so that you 

may become wise.” 17 If the Corinthians could apprehend this divine standard, 

there would be no basis for the factionalism. 18 In fact, their evaluation of their 

14 It is possible to see the references to wisdom and foolishness in 1:18–19 and 3:19–20 as 

forming an inclusio, thus identifying 1:18–3:23 as a distinct unit (Collins, First Corinthians, 87). 

15 Gerd Theissen observes the parallel structure between 1:18–2:5 and 2:6–3:23. The section 

1:18–2:5 he subsumes under the heading “The preaching as foolishness,” and 2:6–3:23 under “The 

preaching as wisdom,” finding parallel subsections in 1:18–25 (“The word of the cross as foolishness 

in the world”) and 2:6–16 (“The preaching as wisdom among the perfect”); 1:26–30 and 3:1–4 

(“Application to the community”); 2:1–5 (“Application to the apostle”) and 3:5–23 (“Application to 

the apostles”) (Psychological Aspects, 345). 

16 Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 87. Formally, Dio Chrysostom’s thirtyeighth 

discourse is a parallel. Advising that the Nicomedians achieve concord with the Nicaeans, 

Dio Chrysostom maintained that the conceived gain they would get from the conflict, “primacy,” 

was really no gain at all (Or. 38.32–40). 

17 Contra Mitchell (Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 209), we take this to be the crucial 

piece of advice in 1 Cor 1–4. As we will argue, Paul understands the factions theologically, 

grounded in the Corinthians’ failure to allow their value system to be transformed by the message 

of the gospel. 

18 It has frequently been suggested that Paul’s argument in chs. 1–4 is directed specifically to 

those of the upper classes in the Corinthian church (Gerd Theissen, The Social Setting of Pauline 

Christianity: Essays on Corinth [trans. John H. Schütz; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1982], 72; Elisabeth 

Schüssler Fiorenza, “Rhetorical Situation and Historical Reconstruction in I Corinthians,” NTS 33 

[1987]: 399; Welborn, “On the Discord,” 105). Paul seems to be just as concerned, however, to 

combat any notion that membership in the church should be misunderstood as a tool for climbing 

on the social ladder as to explain that being in Christ meant relinquishment of authority and status. 

The warning against treating the Christian message as a means for enhancing or maintaining one’s 

status seems to have a universal application, for the upper and lower classes alike. That members of

694 


teachers would be radically transformed. Rather than understanding themselves 

as “belonging to” this or that teacher, they would see the teachers as 

belonging to them (3:21–23), the teachers being understood in functional, 

rather than status terms. 19 

These observations lead to the conclusion that it is the same divine wisdom 

that is in view throughout the section, 20 a conclusion that is confirmed 

the lower classes are among Paul’s intended audience seems to be confirmed when he describes 

the Corinthians as saying “I belong to . . .” (1:12). The followers, those who wanted to enhance their 

own status by being associated with someone of repute, are addressed here. Likewise, it is probably 

not correct that while addressing the entire church, Paul’s real concern in chs. 1–4 is a faction that 

had claimed independence from him (N. A. Dahl, “Paul and the Church at Corinth According to 

1 Corinthians 1:10–4:21,” in Christian History and Interpretation: Studies Presented to John Knox 

[ed. W. Farmer, C. F. D. Moule, and N. R. Niebuhr; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 

1967], 325). He is just as eager to dismiss a party that bears his own name (Pogoloff, LOGOS AND 

SOPHIA, 101–2). Moreover, the letter is characterized by deliberative rhetoric, rather than being 

an apology (see n. 2). See also William Baird, who thinks that Paul was not facing a single front of 

opposition in 1 Cor (“‘One Against the Other,’” 123; similarly Dunn, 1 Corinthians, 43). 

19 Winter, Philo and Paul, 195. 

20 Theissen maintains that the wisdom of 2:6–3:23 should be understood as a higher level of 

the wisdom mentioned in 1:18–2:5. This interpretation is based on the assumption that the “perfect” 

should be identified as a mature group of believers (see below) and that a new element is 

introduced with “the rulers of this age” (2:6, 8), but he finds it odd that 1 Cor 2 would be the only 

instance where we hear of a revelation restricted to a particular circle of Christians (Psychological 

Aspects, 346–52; similarly Angela Standhartinger, “Weisheit in Joseph und Aseneth und den paulinischen 

Briefen,” NTS 47 [2001]: 496). In light of the parallel structure between 1:18–2:5 and 2:6– 

3:23, it would be more natural to understand the wisdom mentioned in both passages as the same 

divine wisdom (Sänger, “Die dunatoiv in 1 Kor 1, 26,” 287; E. Elizabeth Johnson, “The Wisdom of 

God as Apocalyptic Power,” in Faith and History: Essays in Honor of Paul W. Meyer [ed. John T. 

Carroll, Charles H. Cosgrove, and E. Elizabeth Johnson; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1990], 141). As 

for “the rulers of this age,” this must be a reference to the earthly authorities responsible for the 

crucifixion, a parallel to “the mighty” of 1:26. An identification of the rulers with demonic powers 

was especially popular among the commentators who explained Paul’s terminology against the 

background of Gnosticism (Ulrich Wilckens, Weisheit und Torheit: Eine exegetisch-religionsgeschichtliche 

Untersuchung zu 1.Kor 1 und 2 [BHT 26; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1959], 61; 

Walter Schmithals, Gnosticism in Corinth: An Investigation of the Letters to the Corinthians [trans. 

John E. Steely; Nashville: Abingdon, 1971], 137). But that is unwarranted. Paul never makes any 

identification of the a[rconte" as the ajrcaiv of Col 1:16; Eph 6:12. Even though a[rcwn in the singular 

is used for Satan, there is no evidence before the second century that the word is used for 

demons (A. Wesley Carr, “The Rulers of This Age—1 Cor ii:6–8,” NTS 23 [1976]: 23–24, 28–30; 

Gordon D. Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians [NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1987], 

104; cf. Julius Schniewind, “Die Archonten dieses Äons: 1. Kor. 2,6–8,” in Nachgelassene Reden 

und Aufsatze [Töpelmann Theologische Bibliothek 1; Berlin: Töpelmann, 1952], 105–7; Gene 

Miller, “!Arcovntwn tou' aijw'no"—A New Look at 1 Cor. 2:6–8,” JBL 91 [1972]: 525–26; Ulrich 

Wilckens, “Zu 1 Kor 2,1–16,” in Theologia Crucis—Signum Crucis: Festschrift für Erich Dinkler 

zum 70. Geburtstag [ed. Carl Andresen and Günter Klein; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1979], 508; 

Markus Bockmuehl, Revelation and Mystery in Ancient Judaism and Pauline Christianity [1990; 

reprint, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997], 163). Anthony C. Thiselton concurs that the word


when we observe how those who appropriate this wisdom are repeatedly designated 

with a dative that sets them apart as an elect group (“saved” in 1:18, 

“called” in 1:24, and “perfect” in 2:6). In 1:18 this message is called “the power 

of God,” a designation that is taken up in 1:24 and identified with “the wisdom 

of God.” This wisdom of God is then recalled in 2:6. This wisdom is announced 

also to those who are not spiritual, but to them it appears to be foolishness 

(2:14), the same reversal of values that characterizes this wisdom in 1:23–24. 

The wisdom of 2:6, therefore, must be identified with the wisdom of God in 

1:21, 24. 21 In 1:21–24 this wisdom is paralleled with “the gospel” (1:17), “the 

word of the cross” (1:18), “the foolishness of the proclamation” (1:21), and 

“Christ crucified” (1:23). 22 In 1:30 Christ Jesus is said to have become wisdom 

denotes secular leaders, but maintains that the connotations are of “a structural power either by 

cumulative inbuilt fallenness or by association with still stronger cosmic powers” (The First Epistle 

to the Corinthians [NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000], 238). As justification for seeing a reference 

to spiritual beings, Thiselton refers to the authority of Walter Wink (Naming the Powers: 

The Language of Power in the New Testament [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984], 44), whose evidence 

in turn is taken from the Ascension of Isaiah (second century C.E.), but he does not show that these 

traditions antedate Paul. 

21 Wolfgang Schrage, Der erste Brief an die Korinther, vol. 1 (EKK 7/1; Neukirchen-Vluyn: 

Neukirchener Verlag, 1991), 240; Michael Wolter, “Verborgene Weisheit und Heil für die Heiden: 

Zur Traditionsgeschichte und Intention des ‘Revelationsschemas,’” ZTK 84 (1987): 304; Helmut 

Merklein, Der Erste Brief an die Korinther: Kapitel 1–4 (ÖTK; Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1992), 224; 

Collins, First Corinthians, 123. 

22 Margaret M. Mitchell, “Rhetorical Shorthand in Pauline Argumentation: The Functions of 

‘the Gospel’ in the Corinthian Correspondence,” in Gospel in Paul: Studies on Corinthians, Galatians, 

and Romans for Richard N. Longenecker (ed. L. A. Jervis and P. Richardson; JSNTSup 108; 

Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), 70. Apparently 2:1–2 provides additional evidence for 

this identification by linking together “mystery” and “Jesus Christ crucified.” But the reading 

musthvrion in 2:1, although well attested (the Chester Beatty papyri and the first hand of Sinaiticus, 

as well as Alexandrinus and the Codex Ephraemi) and preferred by N-A 27 and most translations, is 

probably not original. More likely to be correct is the widely attested variant martuvrion (Vaticanus, 

a later hand of Sinaiticus, Codex Bezae, Origen, and the Majority text). The case must be considered 

together with 1:6, where the two alternative readings are martuvrion tou' qeou' and martuvrion 

tou' Cristou'. The best way to explain all the data is to take martuvrion tou' Cristou' as original in 1:6 

and martuvrion in 2:1. The variant martuvrion tou' qeou' in 1:6 is then explained as an adaption to the 

martuvrion tou' qeou' in 2:1. The variant musthvrion is explained as an adaption to the musthvrion in 

2:7. If, on the other hand, musthvrion is considered original in 2:1, there is no adequate way of 

accounting for the other variants. Bruce M. Metzger insists that martuvrion in 2:1 is a copyist’s error 

through a recollection of 1:6, but then he cannot explain how the reading martuvrion tou' qeou' originated 

in 1:6 (A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament [2d ed.; Stuttgart: United Bible 

Societies, 1975], 545). Moreover, reading musthvrion in 2:1 would take much of the force out of its 

occurrence in 2:7. It is also easier to assume that a copyist had substituted musthvrion for martuvrion 

than vice versa. In the early church, the term musthvrion was far more commonly used for the 

gospel than was martuvrion (G. Zuntz, The Text of the Epistles: A Disquisition upon the Corpus 

Paulinum [London: Oxford University Press, 1953], 101; Gordon D. Fee, “1 Corinthians 1:2, 2:1, 

and 2:10,” in Scribes and Scripture: New Testament Essays in Honor of J. Harold Greenlee [ed. 

David Alan Black; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1992], 6–7.)

696 


from God for us. The most likely conclusion, therefore, is that the wisdom, 

which is spoken in a mystery, is the message of the death of Christ, or more 

comprehensively, the gospel regarding Christ (cf. 1:17a; Rom 1:16). 23 This 

interpretation gains further confirmation when the term musthvrion recurs in 

the plural in 4:1, apparently as a reference to the gospel or God’s plan of salvation. 

24 

This wisdom is not an advanced Christian teaching, therefore, such as a 

special message concerning eschatology. The future glory of the Christian is the 

goal of the wisdom, not its content. This corresponds to a telic force of the 

preposition eij" in the phrase eij" dovxan hJmw'n (2:7b). Sometimes it is suggested 

that the phrase “that which God has prepared for those who love him” (2:9) 

indicates that the mystery is about eschatology, about the eternal inheritance 

for believers. 25 This phrase, however, gives a description of what the rulers of 

this world did not know (2:8). They are later contrasted with “us,” who have 

23 Peter Stuhlmacher, “The Hermeneutical Significance of 1 Corinthians 2:6-16,” in Tradition 

and Interpretation in the New Testament: Essays in Honor of E. Earle Ellis for His 60th Birthday 

(ed. Gerald F. Hawthorne and Otto Betz; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1987), 334; Fee, First 

Epistle, 105–6; Schrage, Erste Brief, 227, 250–51. 

24 C. K. Barrett, The First Epistle to the Corinthians (2d ed.; BNTC; London: Black, 1992), 

100; Fee, First Epistle, 160; Schrage, Erste Brief, 321. 

25 Based on the force of 1 Cor 2:9, Markus Bockmuehl concludes that the content of the hidden 

wisdom is “a deeper knowledge of the inheritance which is in store for those who love God” 

(Revelation and Mystery, 162–64). Similarly, Birger A. Pearson, The Pneumatikos-Psychikos Terminology 

in 1 Corinthians: A Study in the Theology of the Corinthian Opponents of Paul and Its 

Relation to Gnosticism (SBLDS 12; Missoula, MT: Society of Biblical Literature, 1973), 34–35. 

Robin Scroggs argues that the mystery is a teaching that Paul reserves for mature Christians, which 

is kept secret to the Corinthians since they are only immature, not mature (“Paul: Sofo" and pneumatiko",” 

NTS 14 [1967–68]: 44–48). Based on the use of the term musthvrion in apocalyptic literature 

and in Rom 11:25; 1 Cor 15:51, he identifies this secret mystery as Paul’s teaching regarding 

eschatology. As a further argument for this interpretation, there are important parallels in apocalyptic 

literature to the idea of a limited revelation of the mystery of God. In 1 En. 104:12 the fact 

that the wise people will be given the Scriptures is called a mystery, and 2 En. 24:3 relates that the 

mystery is not revealed to the angels. Fourth Ezra teaches that the mystery is revealed only to the 

wise (12:34–38; 14:26, 46–48), but there the idea of a limited revelation is related to the merit theology 

of that book (10:38–39; 12:36). Moreover, Paul understands the mystery as hidden in a way 

radically different from the way it is understood in the apocalyptic literature (and by Scroggs). The 

mystery is not kept secret, but openly proclaimed (see below). It still remains hidden to some people, 

however. Furthermore, Scroggs ignores the identification of the wisdom of God with the word 

of the cross (2:8). It was not ignorance regarding Paul’s secret teaching of the end of days that led 

the rulers of this world to take Jesus to the cross. Rather, it was the importance of the person of 

Jesus and the importance of his work; in Pauline terminology: the gospel or the word of the cross. 

Several scholars have espoused a comprehensive understanding of the content of the mystery, 

so that it includes Paul’s teaching regarding eschatology. See Raymond E. Brown, The Semitic 

Background of the Term ‘Mystery’ in the New Testament (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1968), 41; 

Wilckens, “Zu 1 Kor 2,1-16,” 510; Merklein, Der erste Brief an die Korinther: Kapitel 1–4, 229, 234. 

See also Markus Barth, Ephesians 1–3 (AB 34; New York: Doubleday, 1974), 125–26.


received the spirit of God, “so that we know that which is given us from God” 

(2:12). The best contextual clue to what it is that “is given us from God” is found 

in 1:30, where Christ Jesus is referred to as God’s gift. That Christ is the beforehand 

planned gift of God to his people (cf. 2:9) would also be the interpretation 

that fits best with Paul’s teaching elsewhere. When he writes about something 

that is predetermined by God, it is usually the elect themselves (Rom 8:29–30; 

9:23; 11:2; Eph 1:5) or the gospel of Christ (Rom 1:1–3; Gal 3:8; Eph 1:9–10). 

III. Hiddenness and Revelation 

This divine wisdom, which is hidden in a mystery, 26 is revealed by the Holy 

Spirit (2:10, 12). That the mysteries of divine wisdom must be revealed is a concept 

that is known from Jewish wisdom literature (Wis 6:22–24). Divine wisdom 

is also said to reveal mysteries (Sir 4:18; Wis 7:21–22). More closely 

related are the passages in Daniel where secrets are revealed to the prophet 

(Dan 2:19–23), 27 not by virtue of his superior wisdom (Dan 2:30), but because 

the Holy Spirit is in him (Dan 4:6). 

The connection with Daniel prompts the question of whether Paul has a 

particular experience in view. Possibly Paul has in mind his experience on the 

road to Damascus, 28 but there is no clear reference to that event in this context. 

Neither does the quotation from the Scriptures (v. 9) betray the source of the 

revelation. 29 The function of this quotation is to explain the concept of hiddenness, 

not that of revelation. What Paul is concerned to point out in the following 

verses is that appropriation of divine wisdom requires a special ability. Natural 

human beings lack this ability (2:14), which is an exclusive attribute of the spirit 

of God (2:11b). Therefore, only those who have been given this spirit can 

understand God’s wisdom (2:12). Paul’s mention of revelation seems to be a 

26 The prepositional phrase in 2:7, ejn musthrivw/, can be taken either with lalou'men or with 

qeou' sofivan. The latter is in line with how Paul’s argument runs in this passage (E. B. Allo, Saint 

Paul: Première Épître aux Corinthiens [2d ed.; EBib; Paris: Gabalda, 1934], 41; Karl Prümm, “Mystères,” 

DBSup 6:193; Fee, First Epistle, 104–5; Schrage, Erste Brief, 251). 

27 H. H. Drake Williams III, The Wisdom of the Wise: The Presence and Function of Scripture 

Within 1 Cor. 1:18–3:23 (AGJU 49; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 166–68. 

28 Seyoon Kim points out that it was on this occasion that Paul changed from viewing the crucified 

Christ as a skavndalon to viewing him as the wisdom of God (1 Cor 1:23; Gal 3:13), that the 

designation “Lord of glory” recalls Paul’s descriptions of how Christ appeared to him (1 Cor 9:1; 2 

Cor 3:18; 4:4–6; Gal 1:16), and that in parallel mystery passages in Col 1:23c–29; Eph 3:1–13, an 

essential part of the mystery is the inclusion of the Gentiles, which in turn was the essence of the 

call Paul received when he met the risen Christ (Gal 1:16) (The Origin of Paul’s Gospel [WUNT 

2/4; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1981], 78–82). 

29 Contra Gregory K. Beale, John’s Use of the Old Testament in Revelation (JSNTSup 166; 

Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 251–52.


general reference to the fact that knowledge of this mystery is given by revelation 

through the Holy Spirit, not by the use of human wisdom. 

This is not a matter of a revelation of things otherwise unheard of, but of 

the ability, by means of what is called revelation, to appropriate what is 

preached openly. In 1 Cor 1:23 it is clearly seen that this wisdom of God is 

preached to all, to those who are saved as well as to those who perish. 30 Apparently, 

this wisdom had also been announced to the rulers of the world, but they 

failed to apprehend it. Had they done so, they would not have crucified Christ 

(2:8). When Paul says that wisdom is spoken among the perfect (2:6), the meaning 

must be that what is spoken is only received as wisdom by the perfect. This 

concept of revelation finds its closest parallel in Eph 1:17: 31 “that the God of 

our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of glory, may give to you a spirit 32 of wisdom 

and of revelation in the knowledge of him.” The kind of revelation that is spoken 

of here is related to a condition of the heart (Eph 1:18). 33 The heart that is 

rightly disposed toward the Lord receives this revelation. 

Some scholars maintain that there is also a reference to redemptive history 

here. The thought would then be that the mystery was previously hidden but is 

now revealed as a consequence of the Christ-event. The “us” of v. 10 would 

then refer to the generations after the revelation in Jesus Christ. 34 It is unlikely, 

30 Prümm, “Mystères,” 190, 198; A. E. Harvey, “The Use of Mystery Language in the Bible,” 

JTS 31 (1980): 330; Bockmuehl, Revelation and Mystery, 160. 

31 The position adopted in this essay is that of Pauline authorship of Ephesians. See Heinrich 

Schlier, Der Brief an die Epheser: Ein Kommentar (3d ed.; Düsseldorf: Patmos, 1962), 22–28; A. 

Van Roon, The Authenticity of Ephesians (NovTSup 39; Leiden: Brill, 1974), 11–29; M. D. Goulder, 

“The Visionaries of Laodicea,” JSNT 43 (1991): 15–39; D. A. Carson, Douglas J. Moo, and 

Leon Morris, An Introduction to the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1992), 305–9; 

Stanley E. Porter and Kent D. Clarke, “Canonical-Critical Perspective and the Relationship of 

Colossians and Ephesians,” Bib 78 (1997): 78–81; Peter T. O’Brien, The Letter to the Ephesians 

(Pillar New Testament Commentary; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), 4–41. 

32 A reference to the Holy Spirit is probably intended (Joachim Gnilka, Der Epheserbrief 

[HTKNT; Freiburg: Herder, 1971], 90; Barth, Ephesians 1–3, 148; Andrew T. Lincoln, Ephesians 

[WBC 42; Dallas: Word, 1990], 57; Ernest Best, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Ephesians 

[ICC; Edinburgh: Clark, 1998], 163; O’Brien, Ephesians, 132), as in 1 Cor 2:10. 

33 There is a debate among commentators about whether there is a reference to baptism 

here. At any rate, a personal transformation is in view (Gnilka, Epheserbrief, 91; Barth, Ephesians 

1–3, 148, 150; Rudolf Schnackenburg, Ephesians: A Commentary [3d ed.; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 

1991], 74–75; Lincoln, Ephesians, 58; O’Brien, Ephesians, 134). 

34 Archibald Robertson and Alfred Plummer, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the 

First Epistle of St. Paul to the Corinthians (2d ed.; ICC; Edinburgh: Clark, 1914), 43; Rudolf 

Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament (London: SCM, 1952), 1:106; Nils Alstrup Dahl, 

“Formgeschichtliche Beobachtungen zur Christusverkündigung in der Gemeindepredigt,” in Neutestamentliche 

Studien für Rudolf Bultmann zu seinem siebzigsten Geburtstag am 20. August 1954 

(BZNW 21; Berlin: Töpelmann, 1954), 4; Brown, Semitic Background, 49; Barrett, First Epistle, 

71; Fee, First Epistle, 105. Hans Conzelmann refers to this idea as the Revelationsschema, which 

he finds fully developed in the Deutero-Pauline letters. A Zwischenstufe can be observed in


however, that any such reference is intended here. The contrast is not between 

the present and the past but between that which is from God and that which is 

of the flesh. Note how the two different systems of power and wisdom are designated 

by Paul: on the one hand, “of this age” (1:20; 2:6, 8), “of the world” 

(1:20, 21, 27, 28; 2:12), “according to the flesh” (1:26, 29), “of human beings” 

(1:25; 2:5, 13), and on the other hand, “of God” (1:21, 24, 25; 2:1, 7, 12), “of the 

Spirit” (2:10, 13, 14), and “of Christ” (2:16). These designations clearly point 

toward a fundamental dualism between that which is without God and that 

which belongs to God, rather than to a dualism between the before and the 

now. 35 Moreover, the “us” of v. 10 recalls the “we” of v. 6, who speak wisdom 

among the perfect. In the immediate context this group is contrasted with “the 

rulers of this age,” 36 who were responsible for the crucifixion of the Lord. 37 The 

opposing groups in question both have the privilege of living in the decisive age 

in redemptive history, but only one of the groups has received divine revelation 

through the Spirit. As recipients of divine revelation, the “us” of v. 10 are identified 

as an elect group, and, in the larger context, this picks up the motif of the 

divine calling and election of 1:24–28. This elect group is set over against those 

who appear to be wise, mighty, of noble descent, and powerful according to the 

standards of this world, not over against a group of any other period. Paul 

teaches a reversal of values that is made manifest through divine revelation. 

Certainly, there is ample evidence for connecting the term “mystery” with 

the idea of a divine plan that was previously hidden but has been revealed at the 

coming of Christ (Rom 16:25–26; Eph 3:4–5, 9–10; Col 1:26–27). But this 

seems to be a later development of the term. There is no certain evidence of 

this connotation in the early Pauline letters. 38 

1 Corinthians (Der erste Brief and die Korinther [KEK; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 

1969], 80). Chantal Reynier points out the parallels to Rom 16:25–26 and Col 1:26, but concedes 

that the pattern of temporality that he finds in those verses is not so clearly manifest in this passage 

(Évangile et mystère: Les enjeux théologiques de l’épître aux Éphésiens [LD 149; Paris: Cerf, 1992], 

142). Walter Grundmann further notes the parallel to the immature in Gal 3:23–4:11 and observes 

that the coming of Christ brings humanity to maturity (“Die nhvpioi in der urchristlichen Paränese,” 

NTS 5 [1958–59]: 190–91). But the fact that the metaphor in Gal 3:23–4:11 is the same does not 

necessarily mean that the referent is the same. While in 1 Cor 3:1–3 the characterization of the 

Corinthians as immature is used as a rebuke, in Gal 3:23–4:11 it is not implied that those who were 

immature before the coming of Christ are to be scolded. It is unwarranted to see a reference to the 

progress of redemptive history based on the fact that the same metaphor is used as in Gal 

3:23–4:11. 

35 Litfin, St. Paul’s Theology of Proclamation, 175. 

36 See n. 20 above. 

37 Fee explains that the mystery “remains hidden” from the rulers of this world (First Epistle, 

105). But the inference of the categories “hidden from all,” “revealed to some,” and “hidden from 

others” is based on eisegesis. 

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

700 


The time marker “before the ages” (v. 7b) refers not to a time when the 

divine wisdom was hidden (as is the case in Rom 16:25; Eph 3:9) but to a time 

when it was being prepared. 39 Nor does this time marker refer to past history, 

as in the parallel expression in Eph 3:9. In Eph 3:9 the preposition is ajpov, 

which can refer to past ages, but here the preposition is prov, which has to be 

translated “before the ages,” that is, referring to eternity, as it does in the only 

NT parallel, Jude 25. 

A different “redemption historical” view has been proposed by James A. 

Davis. He maintains that Paul in this passage sets divine wisdom against the 

wisdom of the Torah. 40 The negative descriptions in 1:26–29 refer to the Jews, 

who seek wisdom in the Torah. With the coming of Christ the law is set aside as 

something that belonged to an earlier period. 41 

There are several problems with this interpretation, however. It is remarkable 

that Paul would call the wisdom of the Torah a wisdom of this age and a 

wisdom of the world. 42 Davis thinks that the Torah can be identified with the 

wisdom of this age because it was designed for a prior world order. As we have 

seen, however, the force of Paul’s argument is not that this wisdom is of the 

prior world order but of this world order. The close association of the wisdom 

of the law with the flesh that this interpretation implies (1:26) is also problematic. 

In Rom 7:7–25 it is pointed out how the law can function as an opportunity 

for sin (vv. 7, 11), but Paul takes care to guard against a flat identification of the 

law and the flesh (v. 14). If Paul in 1 Cor 1:26 were saying that the wisdom of 

the law is a wisdom of the flesh, we would expect a modification similar to that 

in Rom 7:14. True, Paul may call a confidence in the righteousness of the law a 

confidence in the flesh (Phil 3:4, 6), but he never makes a similar statement 

regarding the wisdom of the law. It is intrinsically unlikely that he would do so, 

while insisting that the gospel he preached was found in the Torah (Rom 3:21b, 

31; Gal 3:8; 4:21). 43 

39 Similarly Thiselton, First Epistle, 242; contra Reynier, Évangile et mystère, 142. 

40 James A. Davis, Wisdom and Spirit: An Investigation of 1 Corinthians 1.18–3.20 Against 

the Background of Jewish Sapiential Traditions in the Greco-Roman Period (Lanham, MD: University 

Press of America, 1984), 89. Similarly Stuhlmacher, “Hermeneutical Significance,” 341. 

Angela Standhartinger has proposed that the wisdom in 1 Cor 1:17–3:4 should be understood 

against the background of Joseph and Aseneth. As Joseph, to whom wisdom is attributed (Jos. Asen. 

4:7; 13:14–15), is given to Aseneth (Jos. Asen 15.6), so the crucified Christ, the divine wisdom, is 

given to the church (Standhartinger, “Weisheit,” 496). The parallel is very remote at best. The wedding 

motif, essential in Joseph and Aseneth, is missing from 1 Corinthians. 

41 Davis, Wisdom and Spirit, 72–73, 77–78, 94. 

42 Litfin, St. Paul’s Theology of Proclamation, 206. 

43 Davis observes that the terms used for the rejected wise persons (1:20) could be taken to 

refer to Jewish scribes and wise persons. Even though this may be correct, it shows only that Paul is 

polemical toward contemporary Jewish wisdom; it does not say why. Martin Hengel, one of the 

scholars on whom Davis relies, observes that the predicates given to Christ in 1 Cor 1:30—wisdom,


Michael Goulder has attempted to revive F. C. Baur’s hypothesis that 

1 Corinthians reflects the conflict between the Petrine and Pauline forms of 

Christianity. According to this view, the false wisdom is the halakic interpretation 

of the Torah, and Paul’s reply is that one should “not go beyond what is 

written” (4:6), a case in point being the kosher laws discussed in chs. 8–10. 44 

The advantages over James A. Davis’s interpretation are obvious. It would be in 

keeping with Paul’s teaching elsewhere to identify a particular Jewish approach 

to the law, not the Torah as such, with the flesh and this world order, as opposed 

to that which comes from God. A main obstacle to this interpretation too, however, 

is that it can only poorly account for the licentiousness Paul addresses in 

Corinth (chs. 5-7). 45 It is also doubtful that Paul’s opponents would concede 

that their halakic interpretation of the Torah was merely “words taught by 

human wisdom” (2:13), as these rulings were clearly understood to be established 

by divine authority. 

Containing no likely reference to redemptive history, the connotations of 

the term “mystery” in this context are therefore best understood as being something 

that is inaccessible. The hidden wisdom, which is the word of the cross, 

appears to the wise person of this world as weakness and foolishness. Although 

it is proclaimed openly, it remains hidden from those who want to be wise 

according to the standards of this world. 46 One can come to know this wisdom 

only if one abandons any claim to what is regarded as credentials in this world 

(1 Cor 3:18; cf. 1:26–29) and appropriates for oneself the reversal of values that 

characterizes the message of the cross. This is the paradoxical nature of the 

gospel. 47 

righteousness, sanctification, and redemption—correspond to the salvific gifts that a pious Jew 

would ascribe to the Torah (The Son of God [London: SCM, 1976], 74). This observation can 

equally well be related to the idea that Paul believed that the effect of his message was that the law 

was fulfilled (Rom 3:31; 8:4). William Baird (review of Wisdom and Spirit: An Investigation of 

1 Corinthians 1:18–3:20 Against the Background of Jewish Sapiential Traditions in the Greco- 

Roman Period by James A. Davis,” JBL 106 [1987]: 150–51) also points out that Davis’s study lacks 

any serious attempt at understanding 1 Corinthians in its historical context and that his hypothesis 

cannot explain the practices Paul goes on to address in chs. 5–10. 

44 Michael D. Goulder, “SOFIA in 1 Corinthains,” NTS 37 (1991): 516–21. Cf. C. K. Barrett, 

who identifies a Peter-party but also stresses the difference between a party who claimed allegiance 

to Peter and Peter himself (“Cephas and Corinth,” in Essays on Paul [Philadelphia: Westminster, 

1982], 33, 37). 

45 Richard Hays, “The Conversion of the Imagination: Scripture and Eschatology in 

1 Corinthians,” NTS 45 (1999): 397. 

46 Wolter, “Verborgene Weisheit,” 304; Romano Penna, “The Wisdom of the Cross and Its 

Foolishness as Foundation of the Church,” in Wisdom and Folly of the Cross, vol. 2 of Paul the 

Apostle: A Theological and Exegetical Study (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1996), 54–55. 

47 Gerhard Sellin, “Das ‘Geheimnis’ der Weisheit und das Rätsel der ‘Christuspartei’ (zu 

1 Kor 1–4),” ZNW 73 (1982): 81, 89–90; Stuhlmacher, “Hermeneutical Significance,” 339–40; 

Reynier, Évangile et mystère, 154–55; Merklein, Der erste Brief an die Korinther: Kapitel 1–4, 228;

702 


IV. Who Are the Perfect? 

The wisdom that is in a mystery is something Paul speaks among the perfect. 

48 Who are these? Did Paul count the Corinthians among the perfect? 

Another way of putting this question is whether all Christians, 49 or only some of 

them, 50 are counted among the perfect or the spiritual (pneumatikov"), which is 

used synonymously. 

The antithesis between pneumatikov" and yucikov" is puzzling, as Paul’s 

usual antonym for pneumatikov" is savrkino". Much energy has been expended 

explaining the background for this terminology. The previously popular view 

that this terminology reflects early Gnosticism has generally been abandoned. 51 

Jean-Noël Aletti, “Sagesse et Mystère chez Paul: Réflexions sur le rapprochement de deux champs 

lexicograpiques,” in La Sagesse Biblique: De l’Ancien au Nouveau Testament (ed. Jacques Trublet; 

LD 160; Paris: Cerf, 1995), 366–67; Thiselton, First Epistle, 231, 241; Standhartinger, “Weisheit,” 

494. Dismissing the older assumption that the Corinthians held to an “over-realized eschatology,” 

E. Earle Ellis correctly observes that the Corinthians had a misguided conception of how the 

believer shared in the glory of Christ (“‘Christ Crucified,’” in Prophecy and Hermeneutic in Early 

Christianity [1974; WUNT 18; reprint, Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1978], 78; similarly Wilckens, 

Weisheit und Torheit, 20). They thought that they already in this life should experience their participation 

in the resurrection. Paul shows them, however, that a true apprehension of God’s wisdom 

manifested itself in a sharing in the crucifixion of Christ in this life. Thus, a true apprehension of 

the wisdom of God manifested itself in what for the world appeared as weakness and foolishness. 

48 Tevleio" is variously translated. The basic idea of its Hebrew equivalent, !mt, is that of 

wholeness and completeness (B. Kedar-Kopfstein, “!mt,” TWAT 8:691), a meaning that also can be 

observed in the Greek tevleio" (cf. 1 Cor 13:10). In opposition to nhvpio", it is used with the meaning 

“mature,” the thought being that of someone who is fully grown. When used in an ethical sense 

it has the connotations of integrity and undividedness (Gerhard Delling, “tevlo" ktl.,” TDNT 

8:67–77). 

49 Günther Bornkamm, “musthvrion ktl.,” TDNT 4:819; P. J. Du Plessis, TELEIOS: The Idea 

of Perfection in the New Testament (Kampen: Kok, 1959), 184; Martin Winter, Pneumatiker und 

Psychiker in Korinth: Zum religionsgeschichlichen Hintergrund von 1. Kor. 2,6–3,4 (Marburger 

Theologische Studien 12; Marburg: Elwert, 1975), 214; Fee, First Epistle, 100–103; Johnson, “Wisdom 

of God,” 142; Schrage, Erste Brief, 249; Merklein, Der erste Brief an die Korinther: Kapitel 

1–4, 225, 234; Christian Wolff, Der erste Brief des Paulus an die Korinther (THKNT 8; Berlin: 

Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1996), 54; Collins, First Corinthians, 129; Thiselton, First Epistle, 

233, 267–68. 

50 Allo, Première Épître aux Corinthiens, 40; Hugo Odeberg, Pauli brev till korintierna 

(Tolkning av Nya Testamentet 7; Stockholm: Svenska Kyrkans Diakonistyrelses Bokförlag, 1944), 

66; Wilckens, Weisheit und Torheit, 53; Rudolf Schnackenburg, “Christian Adulthood According to 

the Apostle Paul,” CBQ 25 (1963): 357–58; Margaret E. Thrall, The First and Second Letters of 

Paul to the Corinthians (CBC; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1965), 24; Scroggs, “Paul,” 

44–48; Brown, Semitic Background, 42; Stuhlmacher, “Hermeneutical Significance,” 334; 

Theissen, Psychological Aspects, 352; Barrett, First Epistle, 69; Witherington, Conflict and Community, 

126; Bockmuehl, Revelation and Mystery, 164–65; Standhartinger, “Weisheit,” 496. These 

scholars typically stress that insight into the wisdom that only the perfect can apprehend is potentially 

available to all Christians since they have received the Spirit. Similarly Karl Prümm, who 

stresses that the appropriation of the mystery is gradual (“Mystères,” 191, 197–98). 

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


Instead it has become more common, alongside the tendency to find roots of 

later full-blown Gnosticism in Hellenistic Judaism, to look for the background 

for this terminology in a Hellenistic-Jewish context. 52 More specifically, it is 

often considered to be dependent on the Hellenistic-Jewish exegesis of Gen 

2:7. Philo finds here a contrast between the heavenly person and the earthly 

person. His terminology is somewhat confusing, but may be summarized as follows: 

In Gen 1:26–27 Philo sees the creation of the heavenly, immortal part of 

the soul, the nou''", created, or rather breathed, by God, according to the image 

of the Logos. In Gen 2:7, however, the heavenly part was joined with the 

earthly, mortal part, the sw'ma (Opif. 134–35; Leg. 3.161; Somn. 1.34; Her. 56). 

This dichotomy can in turn be seen to correspond to two different types of 

human beings, the heavenly and the earthly (Leg. 1.31–32), one that lives by 

reason, by the divine spirit (qeivw/ pneuvmati), and one that lives by blood and the 

pleasures of the flesh (Her. 57). 53 Against the Corinthian understanding of spirituality 

as a nature given by God, Paul presumably emphasizes that true spiritu- 

John Painter, “Paul and the pneumatikoiv at Corinth,” in Paul and Paulinism: Essays in Honor of 

C. K. Barrett (ed. M. D. Hooker and S. G. Wilson; London: SPCK, 1982), 245; Theissen, Psychological 

Aspects, 353–54. Wilckens, in his earlier work, concluded that in 1 Cor 2:6–16 Paul had 

adapted to the terminology of his Gnostic opponents to such a degree that he had betrayed his own 

theology (Weisheit und Torheit, 60), but Wilckens later abandoned this position (“Zu 1 Kor 

2,1–16,” 524–26, 529). The hypothesis of Gnostic terminology has been taken up by Schrage, who, 

anachronistically, assumes that Paul has been influenced by the language of the Nag Hammadi 

writings (Erste Brief, 263). 

52 See C. K. Barrett, “Christianity at Corinth,” in Essays on Paul, 12, 24; R. McL. Wilson, 

“Gnosis at Corinth,” in Paul and Paulinism, ed. Hooker and Wilson, 110–12. 

53 Pearson, Pneumatikos-Psychikos Terminology, 17–21; Richard A. Horsley, “Pneumatikos 

Vs. Psychikos: Distinctions of Spiritual Status Among the Corinthians,” HTR 69 (1976): 275–78; 

idem, “Wisdom of Word and Words of Wisdom in Corinth,” CBQ 39 (1977): 233; Wilckens, “Zu 

1 Kor 2,1–16,” 531; Gregory E. Sterling, “‘Wisdom Among the Perfect’: Creation Traditions in 

Alexandrian Judaism and Corinthian Christianity,” NovT 37 (1995): 362–65; Thiselton, First Epistle, 

268–69. It is maintained that in 1 Cor 15:42–49 Paul gives his alternative interpretation of Gen 

2:7. Over against the Philonic interpretation Paul stresses that the earthly person Adam in time is 

the primary, and the heavenly person, who is Christ, in time is the secondary. Moreover, he rejects 

the idea of two parts of human beings as created by God. Thus, Paul overturns the Corinthians’ idea 

of spiritual existence as something attainable for human beings by cultivating the heavenly part of 

himself, and he replaces it with a dualism between “the present age” and “the age to come” (Pearson, 

Pneumatikos-Psychikos Terminology, 24–26; Horsley, “Pneumatikos Vs. Psychikos,” 274; 

Wilckens, “Zu 1 Kor 2,1–16,” 532; Sterling, “‘Wisdom Among the Perfect,’” 360-61). It is unlikely 

that in 1 Cor 15:42–49 Paul is concerned to combat the Philonic interpretation of Gen 2:7, however. 

Paul insists that the natural (yucikov") person was the first and the spiritual (pneumatikov") 

person was the second, but Philo does not see any temporal sequence in the creation account; 

rather it presents a logical order. Hence, there is no temporal priority of the heavenly person over 

the first actual person in the Philonic interpretation of Gen 1:26–27; 2:7. Neither is there any contrast 

between the heavenly person and the first actual person (Robin Scroggs, The Last Adam: A 

Study in Pauline Anthropology [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1966], 120–22).

704 


ality is not something inherent in human beings, but something that must be 

given by the Holy Spirit. 54 

The explanatory value of this reconstruction of the theology of Paul’s 

opponents is very sparse, however. As we have seen, the problem that Paul is 

concerned with here is the tendency among the Corinthian Christians to evaluate 

their teachers by the standards of rhetoric. There is no need to identify a 

deliberately anti-Pauline teaching in Corinth. Neither is the Philo-hypothesis 

really helpful in explaining the specific pneumatikov"–yucikov" terminology, as 

this contrast does not occur in Philo. Nor does Philo ever use the term pneumatikov" 

for the heavenly part of human beings or this kind of human being. 55 

Richard A. Horsley, who is one of the main proponents for this hypothesis, is 

forced to conjecture that this terminology originated among the Corinthians 

themselves and that they associated it with the Philonic distinction between the 

heavenly and the earthly person. 56 

It must be admitted, however, that Paul’s choice of the term yucikov" is 

somewhat mysterious. 57 The term yucikov" is relatively rare in first-century 

Greek, but in all its NT occurrences it denotes something in absolute antithesis 

to that which is of God and God’s spirit (1 Cor 15:44, 46; Jas 3:15; Jude 19). It is 

possible that Paul chose this term in this context in order to denote a more 

absolute opposition to pneumatikov" than what he intended with the word 

savrkino"/sarkikov" (see our discussion of 3:1–4 below). 

The way Paul’s argument runs in 1 Cor 1–3 leads us to think that the “perfect” 

must be identified with all believers. We have seen that the content of wisdom 

is the gospel and that the revelation of this wisdom comes about by the 

Holy Spirit through a reversal of values on the recipient’s part: that which 

appears to be foolishness is acknowledged as divine wisdom. The “perfect,” 

those who appropriate this wisdom (2:6), seem to be all those who accept the 

gospel, all Christians. 

54 Egon Brandenburger, Fleisch und Geist: Paulus und die dualistische Weisheit (WMANT 

29; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1968), 135; Pearson, Pneumatikos-Psychikos Terminology, 

38–39; Wilckens, “Zu 1 Kor 2,1–16,” 515; Sterling, “‘Wisdom Among the Perfect,’” 371–72. 

Similarly Joachim Theis, Paulus als Weisheitslehrer: Der Gekreuzigte und die Weisheit in 1 Kor 

1–4 (BU 22; Regensburg: Pustet, 1991), 497. 

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

271. 

56 Horsley, “Pneumatikos Vs. Psychikos,” 284. 

57 According to a search in the TLG data base there is no parallel in contemporary literature 

to the contrast between persons who are yucikoiv and pneumatikoiv. Fee suggests that Paul’s use of 

pneumatikov" is based on the LXX use of yuchv for “natural human being” (First Epistle, 116; cf. 

Thiselton, First Epistle, 267). In accordance with his tendency to support simultaneously almost all 

hypotheses regarding the background for Paul’s terminology in 1 Cor 2, Thiselton also suggests that 

Stoic terminology may have influenced Paul, but he does not provide any evidence that shows why 

yucikov" would be an apt term as an antonym for pneumatikov" (First Epistle, 270).


The recipients of the revelation, hJmi'n dev of 2:10, which refers to the same 

group as the immediately preceding toi'" ajgapw'sin aujtovn (v. 9), must be taken 

as an inclusive reference, with which Paul also intends the Corinthians. 58 The 

perfect are also called the spiritual, those who have received the spirit of God 

(v. 12), and these understand that which comes from God. The opposite of 

being a pneumatikov" is being a yucikov", which means to be unreceptive to 

what comes from the spirit of God. 

The antithesis that has been prominent all the way since 1:18 is that 

between the believers and those who are lost: 59 

“those who are saved” vs. “those who are lost” (1:18) 

“those who believe” vs. “Jews demand signs and Greeks desire wisdom” 

(1:21–22) 

“those who are called” vs. “the wise” (1:24, 27) 

“the perfect” vs. “the rulers” (2:6) 

“for our glory” vs. “those who perish” (2:7, 6) 

“to us God has revealed” vs. “none of the rulers of this world knew” 

(2:10, 8) 

“those who love him” vs. “they crucified the lord of glory” (2:9, 8) 

“the Spirit that is from God” vs. “the spirit of the world” (2:12) 

“spiritual” vs. “natural human being” (2:15, 14) 

“the mind of Christ” vs. “foolishness for them” (2:16, 14) 

An identification of the perfect with all those who have come to faith in 

Christ would correspond to a Jewish background for the term tevleio". In the 

OT (Gen 6:9; 2 Sam 22:24; Job 1:1; Ps 15:2; 18:24; Prov 11:5), as well as in 

Qumran (1QS 2:2; 4:22; 1QH 9:36) and in Jewish wisdom literature (Sir 39:24; 

44:17), !mt is used for someone who is righteous. 60 The Qumran literature also 

attests to the thought that divine wisdom was a prerogative of the Qumran 

group (1QS 4:22; 9:18; 11:6–7; 1QH 10:13–14; 20:11–12). 

As weighty evidence for not taking the Corinthians as being among the 

perfect, however, we note that they are referred to as fleshly and immature in 

58 Schrage, Erste Brief, 256; Merklein, Der erste Brief an die Korinther: Kapitel 1–4, 234; 

Wolff, Erste Brief, 58. Allo concedes that the hJmi'n dev must be taken inclusively and refer to all 

Christians but maintains that in v.13 Paul goes on to talk about a limited group, the perfect and 

spiritual (Première Épître aux Corinthiens, 45). This distinction is untenable. The object of revelation 

in v. 10 must be the wisdom of vv. 6-10, the wisdom spoken among the perfect (v. 6). 

59 Plessis, TELEIOS, 179. 

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

Wicked,” in Studies in the Religion of Ancient Israel (VTSup 23; Leiden: Brill, 1972), 160–61. Scott 

notes, however, that even though there is an absolute distinction in wisdom literature between the 

righteous (qdx, which is a correlate of !mt) and the wicked, the acquisition of wisdom is understood 

more as a gradual process.

706 


3:1–4. The contrast between the tevleio" and the nhvpio" is well attested. 61 Paul 

says that he had to speak to the Corinthians as fleshly and that he could not 

speak to them as spiritual, which is a precondition for understanding the wisdom 

that comes from God (2:13–15). 

Paul’s use of the term tevleio" in other contexts also seems to militate 

against taking the term as a referent for the Corinthians. Tevleio" usually refers 

to a state that is seen as a goal for believers. Apart from here, this adjective is 

used seven times in the canonical Pauline letters, five times referring to the 

believers or the church as a whole. In four of those instances it seems to 

describe a state not yet fully achieved: The Corinthians are urged to strive for 

perfection in understanding (1 Cor 14:2, where tevleio" also is set over against 

nhvpio"). The goal of the different ministries in the church is to establish the 

church as a perfect person (Eph 4:13). It is the goal of the teaching of Paul to 

present every person perfect in Christ (Col 1:28), and Epaphras prays that the 

Colossians will stay perfect (Col 4:12). In the fifth instance, Paul encourages 

those who are perfect to share his attitude in pressing toward the goal (Phil 

3:15). The identification of “those who are perfect” is a major exegetical problem 

in Philippians. Observing that o{soi in Paul is commonly used inclusively 

(cf. Rom 6:3; 8:14; 2 Cor 1:20; Gal 3:27; 6:16), so as to refer to all (at least 

potentially), Peter T. O’Brien rightly concludes that “o{soi ou\n tevleioi is openended: 

it does not assert that every believer at Philippi is ‘mature,’ but it leaves 

the way open for the ‘conscientious judgment of every reader’ whether he or 

she fits the description. Paul is skillfully seeking to draw all his readers into this 

group.” 62 This use of the term “perfect” also reflects the paradoxical nature of 

the gospel. Paul has just waived all claims of perfection for himself (3:12) and is 

now in effect saying that Christian perfection is bound up with the acknowledgment 

that one is lacking in perfection. 63 

The parallel in Eph 4:13 is particularly interesting. The perfection is there 

linked with knowledge of the Son of God and unity in faith. Turning to Corinth, 

61 Delling, tevlo", 69. 

62 Peter T. O’Brien, The Epistle to the Philippians (NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 

1991), 436–37. Similarly Jean-François Collange, The Epistle of Saint Paul to the Philippians (London: 

Epworth, 1979), 135; Gordon D. Fee, Paul’s Letter to the Philippians (NICNT; Grand Rapids: 

Eerdmans, 1995), 356; Markus Bockmuehl, The Epistle to the Philippians (BNTC; London: Black, 

1998), 225–26. 

63 Francis W. Beare, The Epistle to the Philippians (2d ed.; BNTC; London: Black, 1969), 

131; Ulrich B. Müller, Der Brief des Paulus and die Philipper (THKNT; Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 

1993), 171. Paul’s denial of his own perfection in 3:12 need not be understood as militating 

against taking o{soi inclusively (contra Gerald F. Hawthorne, Philippians [WBC 43; Waco: 

Word, 1983], 156; Wolfgang Schenk, Die Philipperbriefe des Paulus [Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 

1984], 267).


we note that the believers there are scolded for their lack of unity; the church is 

characterized by schism and strife (1 Cor 3:3). These observations lead to the 

conclusion that the Corinthians, by virtue of their disunity, demonstrate that 

they are not among the perfect. Perfection, on the other hand, is a state toward 

which Christians should strive, an effort in which the Corinthians are regrettably 

lacking. The instance in Col 1:28 seems to confirm this conclusion. 64 In 

this passage as well, perfection is not a present reality for every Christian but 

rather an eschatological reality. 65 We note also that the concept of revelation in 

this passage parallels Eph 1:17, where the thought is of a gradual progress in 

insight. 66 

These findings, then, seem to concur with the impression we get from 

Heb 5:11–6:3, where the author complains that the recipients of his letter still 

needed milk and could not take solid food, and therefore must be characterized 

as immature. The solid food, more advanced biblical teaching, is reserved for 

the perfect, that is, those who because of practice have trained their senses to 

distinguish (diavkrisin, cf. sugkrivnonte" in 1 Cor 2:13 and ajnakrivnei in 2:15) 

between good and evil. 

1 Corinthians 3:1–4 is puzzling. Paul now says that the Corinthians are 

fleshly and walk in a human fashion. Although he introduces the terms nhvpio", 

a well-known antonym for tevleio", and savrkino"/sarkikov", his own favorite 

antonym for pneumatikov", he does not recall the key negative term from 

2:6–16, yucikov". Nor does he flatly deny that the Corinthians are spiritual, but 

64 For Pauline authorship of Colossians, see Werner G. Kümmel, Introduction to the New 

Testament (Nashville: Abingdon, 1975), 340–48; Peter T. O’Brien, Colossians, Philemon (WBC 44; 

Waco: Word, 1982), xli–liv; Carson, Moo, and Morris, Introduction, 331–34; Porter and Clarke, 

“Canonical-Critical Perspective,” 78–81; Bockmuehl, Revelation and Mystery, 178–79. Jean-Noël 

Aletti concludes that the letter “est très probablement de Paul” (Saint Paul Épitre aux Colossiens 

[EBib 20; Paris: Gabalda, 1993], 22–30, 208–9, 277–80). See also John M. G. Barclay, who maintains 

that if Colossians were not by Paul it must have been from someone so close to him that it still 

is a “Pauline” letter (Colossians and Philemon [NTG; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997], 

35). Similarly James D. G. Dunn, who thinks that Paul authorized Timothy to write the letter (The 

Epistles to the Colossians and to Philemon [NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996], 38). 

65 O’Brien, Colossians, Philemon, 89–90; Murray J. Harris, Colossians & Philemon (Exegetical 

Guide to the Greek New Testament; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1991), 73; Dunn, Epistles, 126. 

Eduard Schweizer notes that the word parivsthmi can be used both for installation into office and 

presentation before God’s judgment (The Letter to the Colossians [London: SPCK, 1976], 111). 

Some scholars understand this as a perfection attainable in the present life for which Christians are 

encouraged to aim (Eduard Lohse, Die Briefe an die Kolosser und an Philemon [2d ed.; KEK; Göttingen: 

Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1977], 124–25; Joachim Gnilka, Der Kolosserbrief [HTKNT; 

Freiburg: Herder, 1980], 104; Aletti, Colossiens, 146). If this interpretation is correct it would be in 

even better accordance with our general argument here, “perfection” being a goal for believers. 

66 Barth, Ephesians 1–3, 150.

708 


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

There seems to be a different perspective here. Whereas Paul in 2:6–16 

thought in terms of an absolute dualism, in 3:1–4 the perspective is of a distinction 

between mature and immature Christians. 68 As the terminological links 

show, however, the absolute dualism is not forgotten. The maturity that Paul 

wants the Corinthians to reach is characterized by nothing else than a realization 

of the implications of the state they had already reached as Christians. 

Their value system and consequent behavior, however, are indicative of a lack 

of conformity with the gospel. 

In an attempt to account for all the evidence, 69 our conclusion must run 

along similar lines as Peter T. O’Brien’s interpretation of the tevleioi in Phil 

3:15 (see above). There seems to be an intentional ambiguity on Paul’s part. 

Paul is challenging the Corinthians to define themselves in relation to his 

gospel. The wisdom he preaches appears as foolishness for those who pursue 

wisdom by the standards of sophistic rhetoric, but for the spiritual, or perfect, it 

is the wisdom of God. Where do the Corinthians fall down? 

This interpretation seems to be confirmed by the two instances outside 

this context where Paul uses the term pneumatikov" as an attribute of persons. 

In 1 Cor 14:37 and Gal 6:1 Paul implies that the qualities of the spiritual person 

are to be expected from every believer, but he still sees the need to encourage 

it. To be spiritual is thus at the same time a status bestowed upon every Christian 

and a goal for which every Christian must strive. 

In 1 Cor 2:14–16 the Corinthians are challenged to show themselves as 

spiritual. This does not mean that Paul wants them to reach a state previously 

completely unknown to them. Rather, they are urged to make use of the gift 

they received when they came to faith in Christ. They received the spirit of God 

and became spiritual. Let them now show themselves as such. The effect of our 

interpretation is that one becomes perfect in the same way as one becomes a 

Christian: by accepting the word of the cross in faith, which amounts to a reversal 

of the values of the world. 70 To be spiritual, then, is to have apprehended the 

word of the cross in such a way that it has transformed the entire existence of 

67 Fee finds a Pauline irony here. Even though the Corinthians are among the perfect, Paul 

still has to talk to them as immature (First Epistle, 102–3). Similarly, J. Christiaan Beker, Paul the 

Apostle: The Triumph of God in Life and Thought (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1980), 218; Johnson, 

“Wisdom of God,” 143. 

68 Davis, Wisdom and Spirit, 125–30. 

69 Cf. Schrage, who speaks of a “doppelte Linienführung” (Erste Brief, 249). Schnackenburg 

observes concerning the Corinthians that “they are pneumatics and yet they are not” (“Christian 

Adulthood,” 358). 

70 Similarly Delling, “tevlo",” 76; Barrett, First Epistle, 69; and Pearson, who observes that 

anyone who has received the gift of the spirit can be called spiritual, but that the full realization of 

this existence still lies in the future (Pneumatikos-Psychikos Terminology, 41).


the believer into its image—to a cruciform life, a life characterized by self-sacrificing 

love, and where power is manifest through weakness. 71 

By expecting of the Christian preachers that they excel by means of 

sophistic rhetoric, the Corinthians side with the rulers of this world and thus 

put themselves in a position where they are unable to receive the gospel. 

Hence, Paul cannot speak to them as spiritual, but he has to speak to them as 

fleshly and immature. They are in danger of forfeiting the divine gift they have 

received. 72 

V. Conclusion 

We have seen that, although there is no identifiable heterodox teaching 

Paul is combating in 1 Cor 1–4, his evaluation of the schisms is profoundly theological. 

The factionalism is rooted in a misapprehension of the gospel. Instead 

of having their self-identity in the word of the cross, the Corinthians rely on a 

kind of rhetoric that was supposed to allow them to excel in personal status, to 

the detriment of others. This is a characteristic of worldly wisdom, which stands 

in an antithetical relationship to God’s wisdom. Divine wisdom, identified with 

the gospel, remains hidden under its apparent foolishness for those who want 

to be wise according to the standards of this world, even though it is proclaimed 

openly. By pursuing worldly status, the Corinthians are running the risk of 

defining themselves among those for whom the gospel is hidden and thus forfeiting 

the divine gift. The divisions are therefore indicative of the fact that the 

Corinthians are jeopardizing their salvation. Paul has to challenge them to show 

themselves as what they already are, as spiritual. Only as such can they apprehend 

divine wisdom. Paul therefore renews the call to abandon all claims to 

what is impressive in this world and rather to identify with the cross of Christ, 

in self-sacrificing love, and with the power of God, which is manifest in weakness. 

The fruit of this will be the unity of the church. 

71 Aída Besançon Spencer and William David Spencer, “The Truly Spiritual in Paul: Biblical 

Background Paper on 1 Corinthians 2:6–16,” in Conflict and Context: Hermeneutics in the Americas 

(ed. Mark Lau Branson and C. René Padilla; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1986), 245–48. 

72 Similarly Wilckens, “Zu 1 Kor 2,1–16,” 511–13; C. C. Newman, Paul’s Glory Christology: 

Tradition and Rhetoric (NovTSup 69; Leiden: Brill, 1992), 239; Thiselton, First Epistle, 247.

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JBL 121/4 (2002) 711–744 

JEWISH LAWS ON ILLICIT MARRIAGE, 

THE DEFILEMENT OF OFFSPRING, 

AND THE HOLINESS OF THE TEMPLE: 

A NEW HALAKIC INTERPRETATION 

OF 1 CORINTHIANS 7:14 

YONDER MOYNIHAN GILLIHAN 

yonder.gillihan@yale.edu 

99 Augur Street, Hamden, CT 06517 

I. A New Halakic Interpretation 

In 1 Cor 7:12–13 Paul rules that no believer married to an unbeliever 

should initiate divorce. The next verse provides justification for the ruling in 

two parts: first Paul sets forth the principle that grounds the ruling, hJgivastai 

ga;r oJ ajnh;r oJ a[pisto" ejn th'/ gunaiki; kai; hJgivastai hJ gunh; hJ a[pisto" ejn tw'/ 

ajdelfw'/, “for the unbelieving husband is sanctified by the wife, and the unbelieving 

wife is sanctified by the brother.” 1 In v. 14b this grounding principle is 

substantiated by the proof, ejpei; a[ra ta; tevkna uJmw'n ajkavqartav ejstin, nu'n de; 

a{giav ejstin, “otherwise your children would be impure, but as it is they are 

holy.” 2 The modern interpreter must answer a number of questions: What does 

I would like to thank Adela Yarbro Collins for her careful readings and improvements of several 

drafts of this article. Christine Hayes generously made available the manuscript of her forthcoming 

book Gentile Impurities and Jewish Identities: Intermarriage and Conversion from the 

Bible to the Talmud (Oxford University Press). Richard Saller gave guidance regarding pagan family 

mores. Thanks also to participants in the 2001 New England SBL conference, especially H. 

Attridge, D. Martin, S. Berg, M. Goff, and K. Wilkinson, who provided challenging feedback to an 

earlier presentation of this research. 

1 The gavr is argumentative, and the ejn phrases are instrumental. Paul similarly uses instrumental 

ejn phrases with hJgivasqai in Rom 15:16, where he calls the offering of the Gentiles “sanctified 

by the Holy Spirit” (hJgiasmevnh ejn pneuvmati aJgivw/). 

2 Conzelmann rightly points out that the present indicative is rare in the principal clause of 

an unreal condition, which evpei; a[ra introduces (Hans Conzelmann, I Corinthians [Philadelphia: 

Fortress, 1975], 123 n. 36). Nu'n dev marks “reality in contrast to an assumed case,” and should be 

711

712 


Paul mean when he claims that an unbelieving spouse (a[pisto") is sanctified 

(hJgivastai) by the believing spouse? What relationship between impurity and 

holiness does the children’s status presuppose? Why would the Corinthians 

have accepted Paul’s identification of their children as holy? How is the impurity 

or holiness of the children related to the sanctification of the spouse? How 

does the holiness of the children prove that the unbelieving spouse is made 

holy by the believing spouse? Unfortunately no “handbook of ancient Corinthian 

sexuality and social status” is extant, nor do we have access to the instruction 

contained in Paul’s earlier letter mentioned in 5:9, 3 or to the letter to Paul 

in which the Corinthians asked about sexual conduct and marriage (7:1). 4 To 

what, therefore, may we turn for illumination on the logic underlying the 

ruling? 

Some scholars have turned to ancient halakot in an attempt to understand 

Paul’s argument in 1 Cor 7:12–16, and with justification. 5 There is strong evidence 

in the NT and other ancient literary and archaeological sources for a sizable 

and influential community of Jews at Corinth. 6 The Christian community 

translated “but as it is,” or even “but in reality.” See H. Smyth, Greek Grammar (Cambridge, MA: 

Harvard University Press, 1984) §2924. 

3 Walter Schmithals proposed that Paul’s first letter consisted of 2 Cor 6:14–7:1 + 1 Cor 

6:12–20; 9:24–10:22; 11:2–34; 15; 16:13–24 (Gnosticism at Corinth [Nashville: Abingdon, 1971], 

95). In light of more recent arguments for the unity of 1 Corinthians (e.g., Conzelmann, I Corinthians, 

2–5; Margaret Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation [Louisville: Westminster/John 

Knox, 1992], 184–295), this elaborate rearrangement seems unlikely, but the idea that Paul’s invective 

against “unequal yoking” in 2 Cor 6:14–7:1 provoked the questions about marriage between 

believers and nonbelievers that 1 Cor 7:12–16 answers is attractive, if ultimately not demonstrable. 

Many scholars have, however, argued against the authenticity of 2 Cor 6:14–7:1, most notably 

Joseph A. Fitzmyer (“Qumran and the Interpolated Fragment in 2 Cor 6:14–7:1,” CBQ 23 [1961]: 

271–80) and Joachim Gnilka (“2 Cor 6:14–7:1 in the Light of the Qumran Texts and the Testaments 

of the Twelve Patriarchs,” in Paul and the Dead Sea Scrolls [ed. Jerome Murphy-O’Connor et al.; 

New York: Crossroad, 1990], 48–68). Hans Dieter Betz has gone so far as to identify the passage as 

“anti-Pauline” (“2 Cor 6:14–7:1: An Anti-Pauline Fragment?,” in idem, Paulinische Studien [Tübingen: 

Mohr-Siebeck, 1994], 20–45). For a summary of scholarly debate and an argument for 

authenticity, see Jan Lambrecht, “The Fragment 2 Corinthians 6:14–7:1: A Plea for Its Authenticity,” 

in R. Bieringer and J. Lambrecht, Studies on 2 Corinthians (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 

1994), 531–49. 

4 In addition, the Corinthians were concerned about food sacrificed to idols (8:1), spiritual 

gifts (12:1), and the collection for the churches (16:1); likewise we must infer the details of their 

debates concerning these issues. For discussion of Paul’s response to written questions in a letter 

from Corinth, see Conzelmann, I Corinthians, 114–15; C. K. Barrett, A Commentary on the First 

Epistle to the Corinthians (London: A. & C. Black, 1968), 154; Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of 

Reconciliation, 225. 

5 Most notably, Joachim Jeremias, Infant Baptism in the First Four Centuries (London: 

SCM, 1960), 37–40, 44–48; Peter J. Tomson, Paul and the Jewish Law (Minneapolis: Fortress, 

1990), 103–24; also J. Massyngberde Ford, “‘Hast Thou Tithed Thy Meal’ and ‘Is Thy Child 

Kosher?’” JTS 17 (1966): 71–79. 

6 In Acts 18:8–17 the Corinthian synagogue leader, Crispus, becomes a believer during Paul’s

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

there had a number of prominent Jewish members and was familiar with certain 

aspects of Jewish law. If the Crispus and Sosthenes mentioned in 1 Corinthians 

are the same as the synagogue leaders who appear in Acts 18, then the 

Corinthian congregation would have been under the influence of Jewish- 

Christian leaders from the beginning. Paul, a self-described @Ebrai'o" ejx 

@Ebraivwn and a Farisai'o" (Phil 3:5), knew Jewish law thoroughly and would 

have been able to advise concerned believers about halakic issues and to expect 

at least some of them to understand halakic argumentation when he made it. 

It is clear that our passage is halakic: Paul’s goal in writing the instruction 

in 7:12–16 is to apply the commandment of the Lord against divorce casuistically 

to “mixed” marriages in which one partner is a believer and the other is 

not. 7 Like the halakic interpreters behind 4QMMT, who distinguish between 

what is bwtk and what !yb`j wnjna, and the rabbis named in the Mishnah, whose 

interpretations are clearly distinguished from key verses of Torah, 8 Paul distin- 

mission to the city, and another leader, Sosthenes, is beaten by a crowd of Jews after Paul appeared 

before the proconsul Gallio on charges of worshiping God contrary to Jewish law. Men with these 

names appear in 1 Corinthians: Sosthenes addresses the congregation with Paul in 1:1, and in 1:14 

Paul refers to Crispus as one of the only Corinthians whom Paul had baptized. Acts depicts Paul 

preaching to the Jews at Corinth (18:1–5, 8) and residing with Titius Justus, a sebomevno" to;n 

qeovn—probably a Gentile who worshiped in the synagogue and followed some Jewish regulations—who 

lived next to the synagogue (18:7). The centurion Cornelius is similarly described in 

Acts 10:2, 22 (eujsebh;" kai; fobouvmeno" to;n qeovn). Ernst Haenchen writes that such descriptions 

“may . . . imply membership of the group of Gentiles who took part in synagogue services without, 

by adopting the whole of the law, becoming really proshvlutoi, i.e., fully entitled members of the 

Jewish religious community” (The Acts of the Apostles [Louisville: Westminster, 1971], 346). 

In Acts, Paul ultimately directs his greatest evangelical energy to the Gentiles after the Jews 

opposed him (18:5–6). Evidence from 1 Corinthians supports Luke’s picture of a mixed group of 

converts: in 1:18–25 Paul contrasts the message of the gospel to the traditional desires of Jews for 

miracles and Greeks for wisdom, emphasizing that the cross, God’s power and wisdom, is able to 

bring salvation to both peoples. The Corinthian community may have been concerned about circumcision 

(7:18); concern about food purity (8:1–6) is consistent with the Jewish community, and 

the fact that some at Corinth observed stricter purity regulations than others suggests a mixture of 

ethnic or religious background that would lead naturally to varying “strengths” of conscience 

(8:7–13). 

The presence of a sizable Jewish community at Corinth is evidenced also in Philo’s Legatio 

ad Gaium, in which he mentions Corinth among those towns in which the Jews have established 

colonies (§281). In addition an inscription over a door of a Corinthian building, dated between 100 

B.C.E. and 200 C.E., reads . . . GwGHEBR . . . , which scholars reconstruct as [suna]gwgh; @Ebr[aivwn]; 

it marked a modest synagogue. See A. Deissmann, Light from the Ancient East (New York: George 

H. Doran, 1927), 16–17 n. 7. 

7 Jesus’ commandment occurs in the oldest traditions, Mark 10:1–12 and Q (Luke 16:18); 

Matt 5:32 (from Q) and 19:9 (from Mark) both add the exception of porneiva. 

8 See, e.g., 4QMMT B 27–29, 64–66, 70, 76–77. All citations of 4QMMT will be from the 

edition of John Strugnell and Elisha Qimron, Qumran Cave 4.V: Miqs\at Ma>asåe Ha-Torah (DJD 

10; Oxford: Clarendon, 1994). In the Mishnah, citations of Scripture are not typically marked, but 

the names of various rabbis are attached to debated rulings. For example, in m. Yeb. 12:6 the rite of

714 


guishes between the revealed commandment, which he identifies as coming 

from oJ kuvrio" (7:10–11), and his interpretation, which he introduces with levgw 

ejgwv oujc oJ kuvrio" (7:12). 9 The commandment of the Lord in 7:10–11 is 

addressed to toi'" gegamhkovsin and binds both spouses; clearly the addressees 

are believers married to believers, since both are expected to recognize the 

authority of a commandment “from the Lord,” and to obey. In 7:12–16, however, 

only one spouse is obligated to observe the commandment, while the 

a[pisto" is entitled to consent to remain living with the believer or to divorce 

(see 1 Cor 7:15a). There is no hint that the living arrangement will bring about 

belief in the unbeliever. In 7:14 Paul gives the principle that justifies the ruling: 

the unbelieving spouse is sanctified by the believing spouse. As evidence that 

this principle is true Paul points to the fact that the children are holy, not 

h\a·lîs\â is described with verbatim citations of Deut 25:7–10 interspersed with notes about how various 

rabbis performed portions of the ceremony. In 13:1 legal opinions about which women are 

entitled to refuse levirate marriage are given, preceded by the name of the rabbinic school or 

teacher responsible for the opinion. Citations of the Mishnah are from Mishnayoth, vols. 1–7 (ed. 

P. Blackman; Gateshead: Judaica Press, 1983). 

9 When Paul distinguishes between his interpretation of a commandment and the commandment, 

he is simply following halakic form and considers his interpretation binding: in 7:20 he claims 

that his rulings direct the congregation toward the commandments of God, and in 7:25 and 40 Paul 

describes himself as “one on whom the Lord has conferred the mercy of being trustworthy,” and as 

one who has “the Spirit of God” (trans. Conzelmann). The binding authority of Paul’s interpretation 

is also apparent in his explanation of his ruling that all should remain as they were when they 

were called by God (1 Cor 7:17): after exhorting the circumcised and uncircumcised to remain as 

they are he writes, “thus I ordain in all the congregations.” It is interesting that Paul applies halakic 

exegetical method to a new authoritative legal source: Jesus’ recollected words. Paul’s exegetical 

method reveals the authority that Jesus’ teaching had already acquired, since here it bears the same 

authority as the Torah. See Raymond F. Collins’s generally good discussion, Divorce in the New 

Testament (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1992), 34–35, 42–46. Collins’s statement that Paul’s 

halakic treatment of divorce is “rather comprehensive, though non-legalistic” (p. 40), however, 

seems like special theological pleading: How is casuistic rule-making not legalistic? What does 

“legalistic” mean? 

The interpretive voices of pre- and post-Pauline halakot, such as the “we” of 4QMMT and 

the various named rabbis of the Mishnah, similarly assumed for themselves authority to prescribe 

and proscribe behavior, and to judge purity and protect holiness among the people of Israel. 

Although “rabbinic discussions [in the tannaitic literature] are characterized by differences of opinions, 

disputes, and debates,” it is often clear in the Mishnah whose views were rejected and whose 

were regarded as authoritative (Gary Porton, “Halakah,” ABD 3:27). The concluding lines of 

4QMMT illustrate the Qumran sect’s assessment of their interpretive authority: “Consider all these 

things and ask Him that He strengthen your will and remove from you the plans of evil and the 

device of Belial so that you may rejoice at the end of time, finding that some of our practices are 

correct. And this will be counted as a virtuous deed of yours, since you will be doing what is righteous 

and good in His eyes, for your own welfare and for the welfare of Israel” (C 28–32). While 

both Paul and the authors of MMT claimed responsibility for interpretations of revealed law, both 

believed that their interpretations were uniquely able to bring their adherents into conformity with 

the commandments of God.


impure. The children’s present holiness proves that the unbeliever is already 

sanctified, and that the sanctification does not refer to a future act of entering 

the community. If the unbelieving spouse were not already sanctified, then the 

children would be impure. As it now stands, they are holy; thus the a[pisto" is 

somehow already sanctified, even though remaining an unbeliever. What logic 

is at work here? 

First, it is apparent that the holiness of the children depends solely on the 

sanctification of both parents. If both parents are sanctified, the children are 

holy; were one spouse not sanctified, then the children would be impure. 10 The 

relationship between impurity and holiness here is strikingly different from 

that found in other Pauline passages, where “impurity” (ajkaqarsiva) is a 

species of immoral activity, while “holiness” (aJgiasmov", aJgiwsuvnh) is manifested 

in activity that is moral and pleasing to God. 11 There is no hint of a moral 

judgment of the children in Paul’s claim that they are holy instead of impure. 

Rather, their holiness is a status that the children attain solely on the basis of 

their parents’ sanctification. Now, while Paul must argue that the unbelieving 

spouse is sanctified, he takes for granted that the Corinthians will agree with his 

assertion that the children are holy. 12 What warrants the Corinthians’ acceptance 

of Paul’s identification of the children as holy? Paul’s argumentative proof 

is presented e concessu and seems most naturally to depend on the children’s 

participation in the life of the community, whom Paul regularly calls a{gioi. 13 

Because the children come and go and interact freely with the holy community, 

their holy status must be recognized and accepted; were they not holy, they 

presumably could not be counted among the a{gioi, on account of their impu- 

10 Against speculation that the sanctification of the children must include baptism, not only is 

baptism nowhere to be found as a requirement for the children’s holiness, but a definite requirement 

is given: both parents must be sanctified. Within the context of Paul’s argument in 7:12–16, 

only the sanctification of both parents may be identified as the cause of the children’s holiness. 

Although it is likely that children were baptized when an entire household converted, such as in 

Acts 18:8, such an act of sanctification is not crucial for Paul’s judgment that they are holy. In Paul’s 

argument their holiness depends on the sanctification of both parents; indeed, if baptism were considered 

to be the cause of the children’s holiness, Paul could not adduce their holiness as proof that 

the unbeliever is sanctified by the believer. See A. Robertson and A. Plummer, A Critical and 

Exegetical Commentary on the First Epistle of St Paul to the Corinthians (ICC; 2d ed.; Edinburgh: 

T & T Clark, 1914), 142, and section 2, below, for further discussion. 

11 In 1 Thess 4:7 Paul writes: ouj ga;r ejkavlesen hJma'" oJ qeo;" ejpi; ajkaqarsiva/ ajll! ejn aJgiasmw'/, 

and in 2 Cor 7:1, kaqarivswmen eJautou;" ajpo; panto;" molusmou' sarko;" kai; pneuvmato", ejpitelou'nte" 

aJgiwsuvnhn ejn fovbw/ qeou'. Similarly in Eph 5:3, moral impurity is of the same order as 

porneiva and pleonexiva, none of which are fitting among toi'" aJgivoi". Paul also identifies impurity 

as a category of immoral activity in Rom 1:24; 6:19; 2 Cor 6:17; 12:21; Gal 5:19; 1 Thess 2:3; so also 

Col 3:5; Eph 4:19; 5:5; Rev 17:4. 

12 Jeremias, Infant Baptism, 45. 

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

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

716 


rity. It seems most likely that the children in question are being raised as believers, 

or at least have full access to the religious life of the community. Otherwise 

it is difficult to imagine how their holiness could function as an argumentative 

proof. 14 

In 7:15 Paul allows the believing spouse to be divorced if the unbeliever 

initiates it. If the unbeliever initiates divorce, then clearly she or he persists in 

unbelief, yet the status of the children is not mentioned and is assumed to 

remain one of holiness. Thus, while the unbeliever remains in the marriage, she 

or he is sanctified by the believing spouse. In 7:16 Paul introduces the possibility 

that the believing spouse may save the unbeliever, that is, that under the 

influence of the believing spouse the unbeliever will believe in Christ and enter 

the community. This is unrelated to the fact that the unbeliever is sanctified by 

his or her relationship to the believer. The fact that Paul presents this possibility 

in ambiguous terms—to paraphrase, “For how do you know whether you will 

save your unbelieving spouse?” 15 —confirms that the unbeliever’s sanctification 

does not imply salvation. 16 If this is true then the sanctification of the unbeliever 

has less import for the unbeliever, and more for the marriage. A pressing 

concern of the members of the Corinthian congregation seems to have been 

that they not be in forbidden marriages; for this to happen both partners had to 

be sanctified, that is, legally eligible. By ruling that the unbelieving spouse is 

sanctified by the believer, Paul effectively ruled that mixed marriages are, in 

fact, licit. Thus, in 7:14 the meaning of hJgivastai is “is sanctified” in the sense of 

“is eligible” for licit marriage to a believer. 17 That the unbeliever may initiate 

14 Whether we may infer that 1 Cor 7:12–16 solely addressed the concerns of believers married 

to unbelievers whose children were brought up within the community is not completely clear, 

but this social situation would fit Paul’s argument most closely, contra Gerhard Delling, who claims 

that the children are grown adults who have rejected baptism and faith in Christ (Delling, “Nun 

aber sind sie heilig,” in Gott und die Götter: Festgabe für Erich Fascher zum 60. Geburtstag 

[Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1958], 84–93). See Conzelmann, I Corinthians, 123, for a 

persuasive argument against Delling. 

15 tiv ga;r oi\da" guvnai, eij to;n a[ndra swvsei"_ h} tiv oi\da" a[ner eij th;n gunai'ka swvsei"_ 

16 Paul’s ruling addresses two specific questions: (1) What is the force of the Lord’s commandment 

for a believer married to an a[pisto"? (2) What is the status of a believer whose a[pisto" 

spouse secures a divorce? The possibility exists that the believer may influence the unbeliever, but 

this is not a certainty; if the unbeliever divorces, it is in the best interest of the believer to accept the 

divorce and to be free of the former obligations of the marriage. Paul’s justification for this, “for 

God has called you for peace” (v. 15), suggests that the strife that would result from refusing 

divorce, either by insisting that the commandment of the Lord was binding upon both parties or by 

pursuing a lawsuit in the public court, would be inconsistent with the principle that the community 

of believers should not engage in public conflict with or attempt to judge unbelievers. See 1 Cor 

5:12; 6:1–8; Rom 12:18–13:7. 

17 Calvin’s interpretation of this aspect of the verse remains valuable: “Tametsi autem hanc 

sanctificationem varie accipiunt, ego simpliciter ad coniugium refero, hoc sensu: videri in speciem 

posset fidelis uxor contagionem ducere ab infideli marito, ut sit illicita societas: sed aliter res habet.


divorce suggests that the power of the sanctification is limited to the duration of 

the marriage; thus it appears that the effect of the sanctification is limited to 

causing the marriage, while it lasts, to be between mutually eligible partners. 18 

Paul’s use of sanctification language is further illuminated by halakot concerning 

marriage in m. Qiddushin. Here @yviWDyqi, “sanctifications,” refers to a 

man’s betrothal of a woman; @yviWDyqi also refers to the betrothal gift, and to the 

act of licit betrothal itself. The noun @yviWDyqi is derived from the piel verb vDEq', 

one idiomatic meaning of which is “to betroth.” 19 In m. Qidd. 2:1 20 we find a 

striking linguistic parallel to 1 Cor 7:14 as the verb to sanctify is used consistently 

to describe an act of licit betrothal: 

A man betroths (`dqm) [a woman] by himself (wb) or through his agent. A 

woman is betrothed (t`dqtm) by herself (hb) or through her representative. 

A man betroths (`dqm) his daughter [to another] . . . either by himself or 

through his representative. 

If we translate the piel and hithpael participles in this ruling more literally, its 

relationship to Paul’s ruling becomes unmistakable: the rabbis recognized that 

a man sanctifies a woman for licit marital union when he gives her the @y`wdq; a 

woman is sanctified by her fiancé for licit marital union when she accepts the 

@y`wdq, and so forth. The rabbis’ Hebrew, like Paul’s Greek, makes the object of 

sanctification the spouse, and both use instrumental prepositions to express 

agency: hJgivastai ejn appears to be a faithful appropriation of b `dqm/t`dqtm. 21 

Pluris enim est pietas unius ad coniugium sanctificandum quam alterius impietas ad inquinandum. 

Pura igitur conscientia habitare potest fidelis cum infideli: nam quoad usum et communionem tori 

ac totius vitae, sanctificatur, ne sua immunditia fidelem inquinet” (Commentarius in Epistolam 

Pauli ad Corinthios I [ed. G. Baum et al.; Brunsvigae: C. A. Schwetschke et Filium, 1892], 411–12). 

18 Paul concludes by addressing the situation of an believer whose unconverted spouse 

divorces: ouj dedouvlwtai oJ ajdelfo;" h] hJ ajdelfh; ejn toi'" toiouvtoi" (v. 15b). The believer is forbidden 

to initiate divorce, but, as Conzelmann writes, “is not subjected to any constraint because of the 

pagan’s behavior. He can marry again,” if the a[pisto" divorces (I Corinthians, 123). This passage 

exemplifies Paul’s rule in 1 Cor 5:12 that believers have judicial authority over other believers, but 

not over unbelieving outsiders: were the a[pisto" a believer, then Paul would have had authority to 

command him or her to remain married and to pronounce judgment on violators of the commandment. 

(Compare 1 Cor 5:3–5, where the offender obviously claims membership in the community 

of believers. In addition, 6:1–8 illustrates Paul’s conception of the community as having judicial 

authority in disputes between members, an authority entirely independent of the legal structures 

operative outside of the community.) In the eschatological future, however, Paul anticipates o{ti oiJ 

a{gioi to;n kovsmon krinou'sin (1 Cor 6:2). See Conzelmann, I Corinthians, 102, 104–5 for comment. 

19 See P. Blackman’s discussion in Mishnayoth vol. 3, Seder Nashim, 449. 

20 The piel of `dq is used identically throughout the tractate; for another example, see m. 

Keth. 7:7. 

21 Note, however, that the use of the preposition b to identify the personal agency by which 

betrothal occurs is unusual. Most frequently, as Hayes points out, the object of the preposition is 

“the mechanism—the object or act—by which the betrothal becomes valid: an act of cohabitation,

718 


It is significant that Paul uses the passive of aJgiavzw to describe the sanctification 

of the unbeliever, male or female, given that the Mishnah (esp. b. Qidd. 

2.1–3.11) distinguishes between the male act of betrothing (piel `dqm) and the 

female act of being betrothed (hithpael t`dqtm or, more usually, pual t`dwqm). 

Paul’s usage puts the believer, male or female, in the more powerful “male” role 

of sanctifying/causing licit betrothal, while the unbeliever implicitly becomes 

“feminized.” 22 

The rabbis assumed that the act of betrothal, or “sanctification,” implied 

the licitness of the marital union. 23 This is precisely what Paul implies in 1 Cor 

7:14—the marital union is licit because the unbelieving spouse is “sanctified”— 

a legal status typically associated with the female spouse. Paul seems to be 

using the Greek equivalent of a Pharisaic-rabbinic betrothal idiom. It is apparent 

that he must introduce a new literalness into the idiom aJgivasqai ejn / Ab `dq 

in order to argue that the unbeliever is sanctified for licit marital union. When 

the rabbis wrote that a man `dqm his future spouse, the “sanctification” presupposed 

the licitness of the marital union on the basis of the pre-betrothal status 

of both spouses. The meaning of `dq is “to betroth” rather than literally “to 

sanctify,” since the eligibility of the betrothed was assumed. In contrast, Paul 

wrote his ruling to address the status of already existing marriages. 24 When he 

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

Impurities). 

22 Obviously some precision in the translation is lacking: in m. Qidd. 2:13 the object of the 

preposition is the subject of the verb, so that the idiom is reflexive: “a man betroths (a woman) by 

himself or through his agent”; “a woman becomes betrothed (to a man) by herself or through her 

representative.” The Ab phrases identify the independent agency of both parties in the betrothal 

agreement, who act in their own behalf, respectively: the man as he offers and the woman as she 

accepts the betrothal gift to secure the marriage contract. In 1 Cor 7:14 the objects of the ejn 

phrases are the spouses of the sanctified, and these phrases identify the agency of each spouse to 

guarantee that the partner is sanctified and that the betrothal is licit. The Jewish custom of ascribing 

independent agency to both parties in a marriage contract makes Paul’s ruling possible: because 

a man may offer a betrothal gift to a woman by himself, he has the ability to identify her formally as 

a licit, “sanctified” partner; likewise because a woman may accept a betrothal gift from a man by 

herself, she has the formal ability to identify him as a licit partner. While it is not clear that such 

careful thought preceded Paul’s usage of this idiom, it seems clear enough that the idiom would 

have been available to the former Pharisee, and that he found it convenient and appropriate for his 

argument. 

23 In m. Yeb. 2:3–4 we find similar language of holiness used to describe prohibitions: a childless 

brother’s widow may be prohibited from marrying a brother-in-law because of h`wdq—that is, 

because he is a high priest, a mamzer, or a Gibeonite. In each case holiness is violated: in the former, 

that of the high priest, who should not marry a widow; in the last two, that of the Israelite 

woman, who must not marry a mamzer or Gibeonite. 

24 This is apparent from the location of 1 Cor 7:12–16, immediately before Paul’s commands 

to “remain as you are” in 7:17–24. Most importantly, in v. 25 he changes subjects and begins speaking 

peri; tw'n parqevnwn, “about the unmarried.” Thus, the rulings in 7:10–16 pertained to those 

already married, and those in 7:25–38 to the unmarried. It is unlikely that Paul would have recom-


wrote that one spouse hJgivastai by the other, he meant that the act or state of 

being married to a believer, and not the premarital status of the spouses, literally 

sanctifies the unbelieving spouse as an eligible partner and effects the licitness 

of the union. We might say that the Pharisaic/rabbinic betrothal idiom has 

come under the influence of the commandment of the Lord against divorce, so 

that licitness of marriage is now judged on the basis of the indissolubility of the 

marital bond (by the believer) rather than on the basis of the premarital status 

of each spouse. 25 

M.Qiddushin 3:12 illuminates the significance of the children’s status in 

1 Cor 7:14. This passage treats the status of the children of licit and illicit sexual 

unions. The rabbis ruled as follows: 

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

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

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

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

In every case in which there is holiness 26 [in the marriage arrangement] and 

there is no transgression, the offspring follows the father [in status]. . . . And 

in every case in which there is holiness but there is transgression, the offspring 

follows the parent of inferior status. . . . And in the case of any woman 

whose marriage to such is not holiness, but with others would be holy, the 

offspring is a mamzer. And which is such? In the case of a man who has sexual 

intercourse with one of the prohibited degrees of marriage in the Law. . . . 

Two degrees of licit marriages are recognized here: in the superior, both 

spouses are eligible to marry each other; in these cases the status of the off- 

mended or even allowed believers to marry nonbelievers. It is likely that his insistence that widows 

remarry movnon ejn kurivw/ (7:39) means that they may marry only those within the believing community. 

25 It is not correct to call Paul’s ruling a “concession” for which he creates the legal fiction of 

the unbeliever’s sanctification, pace Christine Hayes, who writes, “Paul is lenient and willing to 

view the unbeliever as if eligible for marriage with the believer and to view the marriage as if licit 

and valid” (Gentile Impurities). First, Paul forbids Corinthian believers from divorcing unbelievers, 

against the apparent wishes of some to separate themselves from all nonbelievers (e.g., 1 Cor 

5:9–10). This is an imposition of stricter law, not a concession to believers’ desires (although to 

those upon whom divorce from a beloved but unbelieving spouse was urged, Paul’s ruling would 

have come as a relief!). Second, in Paul’s view, the Lord’s prohibition against divorce binds any 

believer to any existing marriage and necessarily makes any believer’s spouse a licit partner. Paul’s 

legal fiction is limited to making explicit the basis of the unbeliever’s status as a licit partner, which 

the prohibition against divorce already implies. The principle of sanctification by marriage was created 

not in order to justify an exception to the rule against believer–unbeliever intermarriage, as 

Hayes claims, but to add weight to Paul’s ruling against divorce in the case of mixed marriages. 

26 Blackman translates @y`wdq as “licit betrothal.” My translation emphasizes, however, that 

licit marriage is described as “holy” in the Mishnah.


spring follows that of the father. The inferior form of licit marriage involved 

some transgression of eligibility laws and resulted in the higher-status spouse 

having children of lower status. 27 A harsher penalty fell upon those whose 

union was with absolutely forbidden partners, namely, the near-of-kin and others 

specified in Lev 18:6–18. 28 Offspring of such unions were mamzerim. 29 

Mamzerim were impure and posed a threat to the holiness of the land of 

Israel, especially to the temple. Biblical and postbiblical Jewish legislators 

emphatically stressed their exclusion: Deut 23:3 forbids them and their descendants, 

to the tenth generation, from entering the holy assembly of Yahweh. 30 

27 The transgressions of the law allowed here are even punishable by scourging, according to 

m. Mak. 3:1. No one of priestly lineage was allowed to marry a divorced woman, a widow, or a person 

of mamzer or Gibeonite status or descent. This includes, of course, a woman who has performed 

h\a·lîs\â. If a person of priestly descent married one of these lower statuses, that one was 

penalized by a diminishing of the status of the offspring. For a similar ruling, see m. Yeb. 2:4. The 

rationale for this ruling was that the [rz, “seed,” of the holy priestly line would be profaned (Lev 

21:7; cf. Ezek 44:22). 

28 The rabbis described these, vis-à-vis the woman, as @y`wdq wyl[ hl @ya`, “in which there is 

not for her licit betrothal (or ‘sanctification’) regarding them.” Those forbidden were, specifically, 

hrwtb twyr[h, “the (ones whose) nakednesses (are forbidden) in the Torah.” See also m. Yeb. 2:3. 

29 For an excellent discussion of ancient Jewish rulings on marriage and the status of offspring, 

see Christine Hayes, “Intermarriage and Impurity in Ancient Jewish Sources,” HTR 92 

(1999): 3–36. Hayes traces the development of prohibitions against Jewish–Gentile intermarriage 

beginning with those in Leviticus and Deuteronomy, which were limited to the seven Canaanite 

nations and motivated both by the fear that the Gentile spouse would alienate the Jewish spouse 

from the Israelite religion (e.g., Deut 7:2–4) and by specific interethnic enmities (Deut 23). The 

later rulings in Ezra 9:1–2; 10:19; Nehemiah; Mal 2:11–12; 4QMMT; and Jubilees, which prohibit 

all Jewish–Gentile intermarriage, were motivated or justified by the “novel reason that marital 

union with a Gentile profanes (that is, renders nonholy) the holy seed” of the Jewish people (ibid., 

10). See Hayes’s expanded discussion in Gentile Impurities. 

B. Schereschewsky provides a handy survey of the rabbinic passages (“Mamzer,” EncJud 

11:840–42); for philological analysis, see A. Geiger, Urschrift (Breslau, 1857), 52–55; A. Büchler, 

“Familienreinheit und Familienmakel in Jerusalem,” in Festschrift Adolf Schwarz zum siebzigsten 

Geburtstage 15. Juli 1916 (ed. Samuel Krauss; Berlin: R. Lèowit, 1917), 133–62; and L. Freund, 

“Über Genealogien und Familienreinheit,” in ibid., 163–92. Geiger argues that rzmm derived from 

rz ![m and meant, in the biblical texts (Deut 23:3; Zech 9:6), a child born of a mixed marriage. 

Against this view, see L. Epstein, Marriage Laws in the Bible and the Talmud (Cambridge, MA: 

Harvard University Press, 1942), 160, 184, and the extended discussion, 279–90. Epstein argues 

that mamzer could not have meant “of a mixed marriage” because the Deuteronomist “had not yet 

issued a general prohibition against such marriages.” Epstein concludes, without philological analysis, 

that the term mamzer in Deut 23:3 appears to be racial, and most likely refers to an ethnic 

group that occupied the city of Ashdod, knowledge about which perished at an early stage (p. 184). 

Space does not permit full discussion, but see n. 48 below. 

30 “Even to the tenth generation” (yrIyci[} r/D !G") in Deut 23:3 originally meant “forever,” as 

the gloss !l;/[Ad[' after yrIyci[} r/D !G" in 23:4 proves. See below, n. 48, for discussion of the redaction 

of Deut 23:3–5. The holiness of the camp of Israelites is given as the reason for these exclusions in 

Deut 23:14. In m. Yeb. 8:3 the mamzer, whether male or female, is eternally forbidden to marry an 

Israelite.


Similarly, in 4QFlor 1 i 2–4 the mamzer is forbidden to enter the temple, ayk 

!` w`wdq. 

The dangers and legal consequences of marriages between unequal partners 

and other forbidden sexual unions occupied Jewish thinkers in the centuries 

preceding and following Paul’s career. 31 The earliest extant postbiblical 

halakot on mixed marriages are found in 4QMMT, which the editors identify as 

a composition of the Essenes written between 159 and 152 B.C.E., 32 and 

Jubilees, which should be dated ca. 170–140 B.C.E. 33 If we date the final redaction 

of the Mishnah to around 200 C.E. and accept that it contains earlier rulings 

that originated with the Pharisees, then we have a selection of halakot 

concerning mixed marriages from a variety of Jewish groups writing over three 

and a half centuries. Roughly in the middle of this period, between 53 and 55 

C.E., Paul handed down his ruling in 1 Cor 7:12–16. 34 

Two sections of MMT are germane. The first, B 39–49, identifies forbidden 

sexual unions within the context of regulations aimed at maintaining the 

purity of the temple. 35 Two prohibitions pertaining to impure males, including 

mamzerim, appear here: first, they were prohibited from marrying Israelites; 

31 This concern stands in stark contrast to the apparent lack of concern for the illegitimate 

status of children born of forbidden marriages in Roman society. While Augustus’s reforms forbade 

illegitimate children from enrollment in the registry of freeborn citizens, this law was not applied 

consistently. It was possible for freeborn citizens to be identified as illegitimate offspring with little 

social stigma. See S. Dixon, The Roman Family (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992), 

124–26. 

32 On the composition of the document, see the remarks of Qimron and Strugnell, Qumran 

Cave 4.V, 116–21, 131–32, 161–62; also Lawrence H. Schiffman, Reclaiming the Dead Sea Scrolls 

(New York: Doubleday, 1995), 83–95, 245–55; and idem, “The Sadducean Origins of the Dead Sea 

Sect,” in Understanding the Dead Sea Scrolls (ed. H. Schanks; New York: Random House, 1992), 

35–49; also James C. VanderKam’s answer to this article, “The People of the Dead Sea Scrolls: 

Essenes or Sadducees?” in the same volume, pp. 50–62. 

On the dating of 4QMMT, see Qimron and Strugnell, Qumran Cave 4.V, 121. See A. 

Yardeni’s analysis of the paleography and dating of the manuscripts of MMT in Qimron and 

Strugnell, 3–25. For a cogent challenge to the common identification of MMT as a letter addressed 

to the opponents of the Essenes, see S. Fraade, “To Whom It May Concern: 4QMMT and its 

Addressee(s),” RevQ 76 (2000): 507–26. Fraade argues that MMT most likely “was composed with 

intramural study as its function, but in the form of a communication between the leadership of the 

community and its extramural opponents” (pp. 524–25). 

33 James C. VanderKam, “Jubilees, Book of,” ABD 3:1030–31. 

34 Hans Dieter Betz and Margaret Mitchell, “Corinthians, First Epistle to the,” ABD 1:1140. 

35 39 [And concerning the Ammonite] and the Moabite and the mamzer [and him whose testicles] 

have been crushed [and him] whose male member [has been cut off], who (nevertheless) 

enter 40 the congregations [ . . . and] take [wives to be]come one bone 41 [and enter the sanctuary 

. . . ] 42 [ . . . ] impurities. . . . 44 [ . . . and] one must not let them be united (with an Israelite) and 

make them 45 [one bone . . . and one must not] let them en[ter] 46 [the sanctuary. . . . 48 [For all 

the sons of Israel should beware] of any forbidden unions 49 and be full of reverence for the sanctuary. 

(Trans. Qimron and Strugnell, Qumran Cave 4.V, 50–51).

722 


second, they were prohibited from entering the holy temple because of their 

defiling impurities. In MMT the two prohibitions seem to stand in some formal 

relationship. 36 The text refers to violation of the prohibition against intermarriage 

thrice, and each time alongside the prohibition against impure statuses 

entering the temple: in B 39–40 the prohibited status groups are said to enter 

the congregation, take (Israelite) wives, and enter the sanctuary. The only 

extant word from the immediately following sentence(s) is twamf (B 42), which 

certainly refers to the impurities associated with the prohibited statuses and 

implies the defilement of the people and temple. B 43–46 continue this 

thought by presenting in quick succession prohibitions against cohabitation, 

intermarriage, and entering the sanctuary. While the details of the relationship 

between unlawful marriage and entrance into the temple in these lines are lost, 

B 48–49 stress that reverence for the sanctuary should motivate observance of 

marriage restrictions. What relationship between illicit marriage and temple 

purity underlies this exhortation? First, the authors worried that impure 

spouses would enter the holy temple; second, illegal sexual unions generated 

moral impurity, which defiled the people and threatened the land; third, the 

fact that the offspring of such illegal marriages were impure mamzerim, worried 

them. 37 Were the authorities to fail to stop the practice of illegal marriage 

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

hamf. 

37 Rulings on the illegal unions that produce mamzerim vary in the Mishnah: in m. Yeb. 4:12 

the rabbis rule that any child born of a remarriage or a marriage between a brother-in-law and a 

woman to whom he had submitted to h\a·lîs\â, or her near kin, is a mamzer. The Sages agree only that 

children of those who married the near of kin of one’s divorced wife are mamzerin; all other children 

are not. In 4:13 the following positions are described regarding who is a mamzer: R. Akiba, the 

offspring of every case of prohibited near-kin marriage; Simon the Temanite, any born of a sexual 

union punishable by death at the hands of heaven; R. Joshua, any born of a sexual union punishable 

by death at the hands of the court. In 10:1 the rabbis rule that any children born to a woman who 

mistakenly believes her husband to be dead and marries another, are mamzerim; 10:3, 4 elaborate 

this scenario. 

It is clear is that status as a mamzer could also be expressed as “defilement of seed,” as in 

MMT B 81; in some illegal marriages the rabbis ruled that seed was not defiled—that is, the offspring 

were not mamzerim—but the status of children followed that of the lesser party in the marriage. 

Given the “radicalization” of the law that we find in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Jubilees, it is 

reasonable to infer that the offspring of illegal marriage, which Yahweh pledges to destroy, was 

thoroughly defiled—mamzer—and not merely compromised in status. See below for a discussion 

of the relevant passages. 

It should be noted that the rabbis never advocate the execution of innocent mamzerim. 

Indeed, m. Hor. 3:8 concludes, $rah ![ lwdg @hkl !dwq !kj dymlt rzmm, “(if) a mamzer be a 

scholar, he ranks above the high priest that is an ignorant man.” While we recognize in the rabbis’ 

rulings on mamzeruth a distinction between moral and ritual impurity—the mamzer is ritually 

impure but not morally guilty— the mamzer’s ritual impurity is more problematic than the ritual 

impurity of the maimed or leprous, since mamzer impurity is a direct product of morally impure 

sexual activity. Solutions to their existence could never be comprehensive and satisfactory, as rab-


among the people, the impurity 38 of mamzerim would be multiplied throughout 

Israel, defiling the temple. 39 

Thus we recognize that the impure status of the mamzer precluded his or 

her access to that which was holy, namely, the temple, and that recognition of 

this principle motivated Jews to avoid illegal marriages. MMT B 75–82 confirms 

that the author had the status of offspring in mind when he ruled against 

certain unions: 

75 Concerning the practice of zenuth that exists among the people: (this 

practice exists) despite their being so[ns] of holy [seed] . . . Because they 

(Israel) are holy, and the sons of Aaron are [most holy.] 80 And you know that 

some of the priests and the people intermarry 81 and mix and defile the holy 

seed and also 82 their own seed, with female outsiders. 40 

binic debate over their status proves. See Epstein, Marriage Laws, 279–90; and Hayes, Gentile 

Impurities, ch. 7. Jubilees idealized Yahweh’s divine eradication of defiled seed from the face of the 

earth (see below). 

38 The specifically “impure” status of a mamzer is recognized by R. Tarfon in m. Qidd. 3:13, 

where he rules that it is possible “to purify” (rhfyl) the offspring of a mamzer. 

39 Qimron and Strugnell emphasize that “in early Judaism, contaminating the Temple was 

considered the most severe sin” (Qumran Cave 4.V, 131). The Essenes’ distress at its defilement 

appears in CD 4:12–18, where `dqmh amf appears as one of the three “nets of Belial” that have 

ensnared Israel. The others are arrogance and twnz, illegal sexual union. Again, illegal sexual union is 

paired with defilement of the temple. CD 4:20–5:2 elaborates on the species of zenuth. See Joseph 

A. Fitzmyer’s discussion in “The Matthean Divorce Texts and Some New Palestinian Evidence,” in 

To Advance the Gospel (2d ed.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 91–97. 

40 The translated text is as follows: 

. . . lar`y `dwq bwtk`m `dq 76 [[rz yn]b hmhw ![h ^wtb hs[nh twnwzh l[w 75 

!ynhkh txqm` !y[dwy !t[aw] 80 [!y`wdq y`wd]q @wtha ynbw !y`wdq hmh` llg[b] 79 

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

This translation draws upon that of Christine Hayes and reflects Hayes’s argument that the type of 

intermarriage against which MMT legislates is not priestly–lay (as Qimron argues [Qumran Cave 

4.V, 171–75]) but Israelite–Gentile (Hayes, “Intermarriage and Impurity,” 27–29). Hayes’s argument 

makes four points: (1) B 79 distinguishes between the “holy” seed of the laity of Israel and the 

“most holy” seed of the priests. “Contamination of holy seed [l. 81] must thus refer to contamination 

of ordinary Israelites.” (2) The ![ in the phrase ![h ^wtb in line 75 refers specifically to the 

laity of Israel, as in line 80, and not generally to the nation. This claim is supported by the assertion 

that ![ means “lay Israelites” as opposed to “priests” throughout MMT, “a fact duly acknowledged 

by Qimron.” (3) The term twnz does not generally refer to priestly–lay intermarriage in the Dead Sea 

Scrolls but to incest, polygamy, intercourse with a menstruant, and marriage to a Gentile (CD 4:17, 

20–21; 7:1). It is, therefore, “at least equally possible” that twnz here means “intermarriage with 

Gentiles.” (4) Finally, “the mixture of holy seed and most holy seed (which is what intermarriage of 

Israelite and priest would be) would in no way impair the status of the holy seed, though it may 

reduce the status of the most holy. Yet lines 81–82 make it clear that both the seed of the priests 

and the seed of the Israelites are being harmed. In order to account for the profanation [sic] of both 

holy and most holy seed, the zenut mentioned here must involve a third party.” The third party, 

whose profane seed can defile both holy and most holy seed, must therefore be that of the Gentiles.

724 


The Essenes recognized that illegal marriage resulted in the defilement of holy 

seed—their concern is not merely that the status of offspring is lowered 

through intermarriage, but that the holy seed is actually defiled, resulting in the 

proliferation of impure mamzerim, whose presence threatened the temple. 

The same relationship between illegal marriage, mamzerim, and the 

defilement of the temple appears in Jubilees. 41 In Jub. 16:8–9 Yahweh vows to 

eradicate the seed of Lot from the face of the earth, because they came through 

incest with his daughters. In 16:9 this judgment is justified thus: “they were polluting 

themselves and they were fornicating in their flesh and they were causing 

pollution upon the earth” (16:5). 42 This pollution, first, came from moral 

impurity that defiled the holy people: as the author writes, “Israel is a holy 

nation to Yahweh his God, . . . there is nothing which appears which is as defiled 

as [sexual immorality] among the holy people” (33:20). If allowed to survive, 

the presence of the mamzerim might suggest that Yahweh ignored or even 

blessed the incest of Lot and his daughters. 43 However, Yahweh’s vow to obliterate 

the mamzerim suggests that their impure status was a primary pollutant: 

the polluted and polluting offspring of twnz must be destroyed—the parents’ 

repentance from moral impurity was not enough. Concern for the holiness of 

Israel also warranted execution for Israelites who married foreigners and committed 

adultery (30:7–17) or incest (41:25–28). 44 The swift execution of the 

offenders—especially women—was likely intended to prevent conception from 

producing mamzerim. It is important to note that Jubilees, like the rabbis, does 

not advocate the execution of mamzerim by a human court. However, Jubilees 

41 Similarities between the rulings in MMT and Jubilees are not surprising, given that numerous 

copies of Jubilees were found at Qumran in several caves and an explicit reference to it seems to 

be made in CD 16:3–4. 4Q384 frag. 9.2 also refers to a [!y]t[h twqlj[m rps], which seems to be 

the same book mentioned in CD 16:3–4 (!hytw[wb`b !hylbwyl !yt[h twqljm rps). The rest of the 

title, if it was present, is now lost. Copies of Jubilees were found in caves 1, 2, 3, 4, and 11. 

42 The translation is from O. S. Wintermute, “Jubilees: A New Translation and Introduction,” 

OTP 2:35–142; see also the translation by James C. VanderKam, The Book of Jubilees (2 vols.; 

CSCO 510, 511; Louvain: Peeters, 1989), 94–95. 

43 See the discussion of Jacob Neusner on different conceptions of impurity and purity in the 

Second Temple period in his The Idea of Purity in Ancient Judaism (New York: Brill, 1973), 

114–16. Jubilees appears to attribute the existence and effects of sin and impurity to the influence 

of demons. For example, in his “testament,” Noah warns his sons that “the demons have begun to 

mislead you and your children” to disobey the commandments of Yahweh (7:27). This same view is 

clearly articulated in the “discourse on the two spirits” in 1QS 3:13–4:26. This may be contrasted to 

the Levitical view of impurity, which divests it of demonic origins. See Jacob Milgrom, Leviticus 

1–16: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 3A; New York: Doubleday, 

1991), 43. 

44 Jubilees 30:15–16 makes explicit the idea that anyone who sins sexually or allows sexual sin 

to persist unchallenged is guilty of defiling the sanctuary of Yahweh; curses come upon the entire 

land until the sin is properly punished (cf. 41:26).


idealizes their destruction at the hands of Yahweh as preferable to their being 

allowed to live and threaten Israel’s holiness. 

It did not escape the author of Jubilees that in Gen 38 the twin sons Zerah 

and Perez, born from the father-in-law–daughter-in-law incest of Judah and 

Tamar, were not destroyed or even regarded as unclean. 45 Indeed, the Davidic 

monarchy came through Perez’s descendants, who should have been regarded 

as mamzerim! That this problem was recognized by the author of Jubilees is 

demonstrated by his solution in 41:27: the angels tell Moses, “And we told 

Judah that his two sons had not lain with [Tamar] and therefore his seed stood 

for a second generation and would not be uprooted.” In Gen 38:6, Judah 

betrothed his son Er to Tamar, but Er was destroyed by Yahweh for evildoing. 

His brother Onan famously avoided providing offspring for Er by “spilling his 

seed upon the ground”; for this sin Yahweh put him to death as well (38:10). 

The author of Jubilees seems to believe either that Er was killed before he had 

sexual intercourse with Tamar, or, as the rabbis interpreted, that both Er and 

Onan were punished for the sin of masturbation, and neither one of them actually 

consummated the marriage or levirate duty by having sexual intercourse 

with Tamar. 46 

However the failure of Er and Onan to consummate the marriage and 

levirate duty with Tamar was understood, it seems that the author of Jubilees 

decided that the sexual union of Judah and Tamar was not actually illegal, since 

she had only been betrothed to Er and had not actually completed the marriage 

bond by having sexual intercourse with him. By removing Tamar from consummated 

marriage to Er, and by making Onan’s sin masturbation instead of coitus 

interruptus, the author of Jubilees effectively ruled that Tamar’s union with 

Judah was only apparently incestuous, but not actually, since without sexual 

intercourse with Judah’s sons, Tamar was not actually Judah’s daughter-in-law. 

As a result of this logic, Zerah and Perez were judged not to be mamzerim and 

therefore not to present a polluted and polluting threat to the holiness of 

Israel’s land, people, and sanctuary. Therefore Yahweh did not destroy them 

from the face of the earth as he destroyed the offspring of Lot. 47 Most impor- 

45 For a thorough analysis of the interpretation of Gen 38 in ancient Jewish literature, see E. 

Menn, Judah and Tamar (Genesis 38) in Ancient Jewish Exegesis: Studies in Literary Form and 

Hermeneutics (Leiden: Brill, 1997). 

46 The rabbinic description of “onanism,” which is severely condemned, is “having sexual 

intercourse in secret” (twngb `rwj) and “trampling (or ‘threshing’; both are metaphors for coitus) 

away from face-to-face and scattering (semen) on the outside” ($wjbm hrwzw !ynpbm `d). The first 

phrase of the second expression refers to masturbation, while the latter refers to coitus interruptus. 

For rabbinic discussion, see especially b. Nid. 13a; references are from Louis Ginzberg, The Legends 

of the Jews, vol. 5 (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1925), 333. 

47 If my interpretation of Jubilees is correct, it appears that the author conveniently ignores 

the law in Deut 22:23–24, which stipulates that a man who rapes a betrothed virgin (hl;WtB]) is guilty

726 


tantly, the ancestors of David—and perhaps even more importantly Solomon— 

who built the temple, remained “demonstrably” unpolluted. 48 

of violating his neighbor’s wife (hV;ai). At least in this species of illegal sexual intercourse, a 

betrothed virgin has full legal status as a wife; if she does not call out for help then she is to be 

stoned for adultery along with her rapist. 

48 In light of the Deuteronomic prohibition against mamzerim entering the sanctuary, r/D !G" 

yrIyci[} (Deut 23:3), it is interesting that David represents the tenth generation of the offspring of 

Judah and Tamar (1 Chr 2:3–3:9; Ruth 4:18–22; also Matt 1:2–6; cf. Luke 3:31–33). Solomon was 

born in the eleventh generation, and under his reign the temple was finally built. If the Davidic 

genealogy was reconstructed with the Deuteronomic ruling in mind, then we have evidence that 

Jewish theologians as early as the turn of the fourth century B.C.E. (see Ralph Klein, “Chronicles, 

Book of 1–2,” ABD 1:994–95; also idem, “Ezra-Nehemiah, Books of,” ABD 2:732) perceived the 

sexual union of Judah and Tamar as twnz, and Perez’s status as mamzer. Only after the impurity of 

mamzeruth had departed from the family line—that is, in the eleventh generation—could the temple 

be built. 

In order for Deut 23:3 to support the purity of the Davidic line after the tenth generation, 

the Chronicler was required to distinguish the prohibitions against the Ammonite and Moabite 

from entering the assembly of Yahweh (Deut 23:4–5) from the prohibition against the mamzer 

(Deut 23:3): the mamzer must be excluded only for ten generations, but the Ammonite and 

Moabite forever. Two aspects of Deut 23:3–5 appear to make such a distinction difficult: first, 

while the mamzer is excluded “even unto the tenth generation,” it appears that this phrase means 

“forever,” since the same phrase is thus glossed in the prohibition against the Ammonite and 

Moabite in v. 4. Second, the wording of vv. 3 and 4 is perfectly identical, except for the names of 

and pronouns referring to the excluded parties, and the addition of !lw[ d[ in v. 4. It appears that 

Deut 23:4 is intended to complement or refine 23:3; in any case, the grouping of the prohibitions is 

a natural one, given that the Ammonites and Moabites were mamzer races, offspring of the incestuous 

union of Lot and his daughters (Gen 19:30–38). (Contra Epstein [Marriage Laws, 184], 

mamzer in Deut 23:3 refers not to an ethnic group but to progeny of transgressive sexual intercourse. 

In support of this, the only other biblical occurrence of mamzer is in Zech 9:6, which 

describes the destruction of Philistine cities. That a mamzer will occupy Ashdod seems to mean 

that those whom the Philistines regarded as legitimate heirs and rulers of the land will be overrun 

by another race [LXX, ajllogenei'"] in war, and the “pride of Philistia,” its wealth, cities, and people, 

will belong to the conquerors. Understood is that Philistine women will become the wives of the 

victors, thus producing, in the eyes of the Philistines, illegitimate or “mixed” offspring. The conclusion 

of the curse against Philistia, “Ekron shall become like the Jebusites,” is significant: after David 

conquered the Jebusites, he “took more concubines and wives,” apparently from among them 

[2 Sam 5:13 NRSV].) 

It appears, however, that the Chronicler’s requirement to distinguish between the mamzer 

and the Ammonite and Moabite was already fulfilled by Deut 23:5: this verse obfuscates the 

mamzer status of the Ammonites and Moabites by providing an alternative reason for their exclusion: 

“because they did not meet you with food and water on your journey out of Egypt, and 

because they hired against you Balaam son of Beor, from Pethor of Mesopotamia, to curse you” 

(NRSV). I would argue that Deut 23:5 was appended to vv. 3–4 precisely in order to distinguish 

between the exclusions of the mamzer and of the Ammonite and Moabite, with the result that the 

mamzer could be excluded only for ten generations, while the others were excluded forever. With 

this distinction in place it became possible to identify Solomon as legally pure from mamzer status, 

since he was the eleventh generation after the mamzer Perez, and eligible to enter the hw:hy“ lh'q]— 

that is, to build the temple. Were the Ammonite and Moabite excluded on account of their mamzer


The Jewish communities that produced these rulings were concerned to 

define and promote licit marital unions among the people of Israel; the people’s 

concern for the status of their children enabled these laws to be enforced. 

While the rabbis disagreed with the authors of MMT and Jubilees about the 

types of marriage that would create impure offspring, all of these communities 

assumed a general relationship between holiness and impurity within the context 

of marriage: illegal sexual unions and marriages generated moral impurity 

that threatened the holiness of the temple. Children of absolutely forbidden 

sexual unions were mamzerim and were forbidden to enter the holy temple 

where the holy people worshiped their holy God. 49 

Paul perceived that certain members of the Corinthian community—perhaps 

Jewish believers, or pagan believers who shared Jewish concerns—wished 

to avoid impure marriages, and he recognized that their motivation for seeking 

divorce from an unbeliever might be concern for the holiness of the community 

status, as Deut 23:3–4 alone suggests, then the Davidic line would have been forever defiled and 

denied access to the temple. Thus, Deut 23:5 guaranteed the purity of the line after Solomon, most 

importantly insofar as access to the temple was concerned. It is reasonable to date Deut 23:3–4 to 

the earlier stage of the text, that is, the seventh–sixth centuries B.C.E. (see Joseph Blenkinsopp, 

“Deuteronomy,” NJBC, 95), and v. 5 to the later, postexilic stage, most likely during the time of 

Ezra and Nehemiah, when anxieties over intermarriage were first expressed in terms of the holiness 

of Israelite seed. Both the genealogy of 1 Chr 2–3, which contains too few generations for the 

time between Judah and David (see S. Japhet, I and II Chronicles [Louisville: Westminster John 

Knox, 1992], 76–77) and the law of the mamzer in Deut 23 appear to have been manipulated. It is 

likely that the schematic arrangement of the genealogy from Perez to Solomon into eleven generations 

was based on the mamzer law that we find in Deuteronomy, and that both this law and the 

Davidic genealogy were worked out in the context of the reforms of Ezra and Nehemiah. For a 

summary of debate about the relationship between Ezra and the Chronicler, see Robert North, 

“The Chronicler: 1–2 Chronicles, Ezra, Nehemiah,” NJBC, 362–63. 

Later the rabbis also renarrated the story of Judah and Tamar to eliminate the taint of incest. 

Ginzberg focuses on the legends that treat Tamar and Judah as extremely pious (Legends, 2:33–37): 

she is a prophet who knew that David and the Messiah would come through her offspring, and he is 

compelled to have sexual intercourse with her by “the angel that is appointed over the passion of 

love” (p. 34). After the trial, absolute absolution is granted by a heavenly voice which proclaims, “Ye 

are both innocent! It was the will of God that it should happen!” (p. 36) See Ginzberg’s notes for 

references to the rabbinic sources (Legends, 5:332–36). 

49 The rulings of the rabbis differ from those of MMT and Jubilees in some important ways: 

for one thing, the rabbis were more systematic and detailed in their descriptions of what precisely 

constituted an illegal marriage. Unlike the other communities, they recognized degrees of transgression 

and did not consider every illegal marriage unholy, and the offspring thereof mamzer. It is 

difficult to imagine the author of Jubilees, who found it necessary to contrive the rather counterintuitive 

reconstruction of the details of the union of Judah and Tamar in order to explain why 

Zerah and Perez were legitimate offspring, allowing that a marriage between mutually ineligible 

partners ever could possess the quality of holiness. Despite such differences in ancient conceptions 

of illegal marriage, we find striking consistency in the communities’ concerns about marriage and in 

their assumptions about the threat to holiness that impure unions and their offspring represented.

728 


(he himself had introduced such concerns!). Paul speaks exclusively in the 

Corinthian letters about the community as the temple whose holiness must be 

guarded. In 2 Cor 6:16 he writes, “What agreement has the temple of God with 

idols? For we are the temple of the living God . . .” (RSV). If the letter fragment 

2 Cor 6:14–7:1 came to the Corinthian community before 1 Corinthians was 

written, then it is likely that the community understood the commandment to 

avoid “being unequally yoked with unbelievers (ajpivstoi")” in 6:14 as against 

mixed marriage, and that they perceived the impurity that mixed marriage 

brought as a threat against the “temple” of the community. Paul obviously 

understood these convictions. In 1 Cor 6:19 he calls the individual body of a 

believer a temple of the Holy Spirit; if one sins sexually, then this temple is 

defiled. 50 As Adela Yarbro Collins has argued, Paul’s “excommunication” of the 

incestuous man in 1 Cor 5:3–5 represents an attempt to guard the holiness of 

the believing community against the impurity generated by sexual sin. 51 Paul 

recognized the threat to the holiness of the temple—now the community of 

believers—that sexual sin posed, but when ruling on the licitness of marriage 

between believers and unbelievers, he was more influenced by the legal 

authority of the prohibition of the Lord against divorce than by the thought that 

believer–nonbeliever intermarriage might generate impurity that would 

threaten the “temple.” 52 

50 Cf. 1 Cor 3:16–17, in which Paul warns that any who destroy God’s temple—the community 

of believers—would be destroyed by God. While this warning refers to instigating factionalism, 

it confirms that Paul’s identification of the community as the temple functioned as a deterrent to 

behavior that would compromise its integrity. Paul assumed that reverence for the temple would 

motivate the Corinthians’ obedience. 

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

251–63. 

52 Pace Hayes, it does not seem necessary to identify a principle of “carnal impurity” underlying 

Paul’s rulings on believer–unbeliever intermarriage and the status of their offspring. Paul does 

not anywhere suggest that sexual intercourse with an unbeliever is sufficient to transmit impurity to 

the believer and into the body of Christ. Instead, impurity comes into the community through specific 

impure sexual acts, such as intercourse with a prostitute (povrnh, 1 Cor 6:15–16) or incest 

(1 Cor 5:1–5). Were impurity contracted by contact with unbelievers, then the community would 

have to withdraw from all contact with outsiders—and this is precisely what Paul argues is not the 

case in 1 Cor 5:9–13. Instead, the main source of impurity against which believers must guard is the 

actions of believers: “Do not associate with the immoral” means “Do not tolerate believers who 

behave immorally,” not “Do not have dealings with unbelievers.” In Paul’s view, then, unbelievers 

are not inherently impure, although they engage in activities that are morally impure. Paul’s desire 

for unmarried or widowed believers to remain celibate or to marry only other believers stems from 

his desire for the community to avoid the influence of unbelievers, and the appearance that unbelievers 

have the approval of the community. Hayes’s analysis of later interpretations of Paul’s rulings 

is excellent: not only the patristic writers but also the Corinthians themselves detected 

something akin to the principle of “carnal impurity” in Paul’s letters, but this principle is a post- 

Pauline inference, and one against which Paul argued in his lifetime. It seems to me that Paul’s 

concern with impurity is virtually identical to that in Jub. 30:15–16; see n. 44 above.


Paul used Jewish betrothal language in a new way when he ruled that an 

unbeliever is “sanctified” by a believing spouse. Given the prohibition of Jesus 

against divorce, any marriage in which there was a believer was ruled to be licit, 

and Jewish language of betrothal provided a linguistic proof that the sanctification 

of the spouse and the licitness of the union were guaranteed. Paul’s legal 

stance toward intermarriage more closely resembles that of the Mishnah than 

MMT or Jubilees. While he recognizes a boundary separating the community 

of believers from unbelievers, analogous to the boundary between Jews and 

Gentiles, 53 he does not agree with MMT and Jubilees that insider–outsider 

marriage results in the ritual defilement of offspring. Instead, like the rabbis, 

Paul allows that (at least preexisting) marriage between an insider and an outsider 

may be sanctified—that is, licit—although it is not the superior form of 

licit marriage. 54 Paul differs from the rabbis, however, in his stance toward the 

status of the offspring of exogamy: he does not rule that offspring born within 

an exogamous marriage take on the status of the inferior spouse (see m. Qidd. 

3:12); instead he affirms that the children are “holy,” that is, have full access to 

the temple constituted by the sanctified community. Finally, it is worth noting 

that the two species of sexual sin that Paul addresses at greatest length in 

1 Corinthians—incest (5:1–5) and other forms of porneiva such as prostitution 

(6:15–20)—appear to be condemned entirely on the grounds that they generate 

moral impurity which defiles the body of Christ, not mamzer offspring 

whose ritual impurity threatens the holiness of the community. This does not 

exclude the possibility that Paul, like the rabbis, might have regarded the offspring 

of incest and other “severe” forms of porneiva as ritually impure mamzerim. 

We may only point out that Paul emphasizes moral impurity much more 

strongly than ritual impurity, and his only statement on mamzeruth denies that 

exogamy automatically results in ritually impure children. It is completely possible, 

however, that Paul would have agreed with the Jewish consensus that the 

53 In Romans Paul explicitly reorients the Jew–Gentile ethnic boundary to mark the boundary 

between the morally and soteriologically defined groups: the “circumcised” are any, Jew or 

Gentile, who are obedient to God’s commandments, and the “Jew” is one who inwardly and spiritually 

follows God (Rom 2:27–29). The “children of Abraham” are any, Jew or Gentile, who participate 

in the patriarch’s archetypal faith in God’s promises (Rom 4). True “Israel” consists of all of 

the “children of the promise,” Jew and Gentile, chosen by God (Rom 9:6–18), who persist in faith 

(11:13–24). When Paul proclaims that “all Israel will be saved” (Rom 11:26), he has in mind the 

promises to ethnic Israel as they apply to the newly defined community of believers, since he seems 

to maintain that ethnic Jews who “persist in unbelief” (ejpimevnwsin th'// ajpistiva/) will not be included 

in the community of God’s people (11:23). 

54 The superior form Paul identifies as that which occurs ejn kurivw/, that is, between two 

believers (1 Cor 7:39). See Conzelmann’s comments on 1 Cor 7:10, 39 (I Corinthians). Clearly a 

marriage ejn kurivw/ is one in which both spouses have come under the authority of Jesus Christ and 

so observe the commandments of “the Lord” against divorce (7:10–11), etc.

730 


children of incest and other forms of porneiva were mamzer, and that he would 

have excluded such children from the holy community. 55 

We have answered the questions posed at the beginning: (1) What does 

Paul mean when he asserts that a nonbeliever is “sanctified” by the believing 

spouse? The marriage is between two people of “sanctified” status, so the marriage 

is licit. The commandment of the Lord against divorce may be observed 

in mixed marriages without fear that the marriage is forbidden. (2) How does 

the sanctification occur? It appears that the prohibition of Jesus against divorce 

effected the sanctification of all marriages in which at least one spouse was a 

believer. In mixed marriages the prohibition implied that the unbeliever was, 

for the believing spouse, a licit partner. (3) How is the impurity or holiness of 

the children related to the sanctification of the spouse? And (4) how does the 

holiness of the children prove that the unbelieving spouse is made holy by the 

believing spouse? Paul proves that believer–unbeliever intermarriages were 

licit by pointing out that their children are not mamzerim, impure offspring of 

illegal marriage, but holy. The children of such intermarriages were allowed 

into the holy space of the temple; that is, they were allowed to participate fully 

in the religious life of the community of a{gioi. If their parents’ marriage were 

not licit, or, as Paul and the rabbis put it, if the unbelieving spouse were not 

“sanctified,” then the impurity of the children would exclude them from the 

“temple.” With this proof Paul points to the Corinthians’ practice of including 

the children of mixed marriages in the life of the community, aiming to persuade 

them by presenting their own actions as confirmation that they already 

knew and acted in accordance with the truth that he proclaimed. 

It is interesting that in 1 Cor 7:14 Paul’s conception of the threat to holiness 

that the offspring of sexual impurity posed did not differ much from that of 

other Jewish interpreters of the law in the centuries preceding and following 

his career. For his contrast between the children’s potential statuses as impure 

or holy to work, Paul had to accept that certain kinds of nonmoral impurity 

legitimately should exclude individuals from participating in the worship of the 

community. 56 It is questionable whether Paul would have enforced such exclu- 

55 Would Paul have included a mamzer in the life of the community? What stance would Paul 

have taken toward the offspring of the stepmother–stepson incest condemned in 1 Cor 5:1–5? 

Acceptance or rejection are both conceivable; I suspect that the latter is likely, given that it would 

have been difficult to admit mamzer offspring into the community without appearing to approve of 

the sexual union whence the child came, and that Paul applies the principle of mamzer exclusion in 

1 Cor 7:14. It is possible that elsewhere Paul might have argued that while the sexual sin was 

morally defiling, the offspring were not ritually defiled and could become full members of the holy 

community, but there is no direct evidence to support this view. Possibly Paul could have conceived 

of a person who was ajkavqarto" kata; savrka ajlla; a{giazovmeno" ejn Cristw'/ !Ihsou'. Such 

speculation lacks historical precision, but makes good theological and ethical sense in communities 

that continue to esteem Paul’s writings as authoritative. 

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


sion, since he argues at length elsewhere that other traditionally excluded statuses, 

for example, uncircumcised Gentiles, are not to be excluded from full 

participation in the holy community of believers. 57 If Paul would have included 

a mamzer in the community just as he included the uncircumcised, as we might 

hope that he would, then we may perceive an ad hoc quality in Paul’s argument 

in 1 Cor 7:12–16 and an inconsistency in his interpretation of Jewish law. He 

uses Torah positively when he anticipates that it might be effective rhetorically, 

given a particular audience with Jewish concerns, and elsewhere negates it 

when it is more useful. This might, however, be too hasty a judgment and perhaps 

should be phrased more positively: Paul employs legal language that suits 

his rhetorical context and is free to vary his interpretation of the law in order to 

maximize his persuasiveness. In the apostle’s own words, 

To the Jews I became as a Jew, in order to win Jews; to those under the law I 

became as one under the law—though not being myself under the law—that 

I might win those under the law. To those outside the law I became as one 

outside the law—not being without law toward God but under the law of 

Christ—that I might win those outside the law. (1 Cor 9:20–21 RSV) 

II. Interpretations of 1 Corinthians 7:14 

among Moderns and Ancients 

The logic underlying Paul’s ruling has been described as “inscrutable” by 

many modern scholars, and attempts to discern the reasoning have produced 

amazing varieties of interpretations. Gerhard Delling provides an appropriate 

maxim: “so viele Köpfe, so viele Sinne.” 58 The range of modern scholarly opinions 

surveyed by Delling and many other interpreters after him confirms the 

near opacity of Paul’s logic. 59 Modern attempts to contextualize Paul’s language 

and logic within various social and linguistic environments have produced readings 

that cohere with certain strands of thought about sanctification and impurity, 

but coherence is gained by violating the grammar and syntax of the words 

or at the cost of the integrity of Paul’s argument: problematic terms in 1 Cor 

7:14, especially “holiness” and “purity,” are ignored or altered, or statements 

elsewhere in 1 Corinthians that contradict a proposed interpretation are 

be freed from mamzer status as a general rule: if this were the case, then his argument that the 

unbeliever is a licit partner for the believer would have no proof. 

57 See, e.g., Rom 2:28–29; 3:29–30; 1 Cor 7:18; Gal 2:11–3:28. 

58 Delling, “Nun aber sind die heilig,” 84. 

59 Ibid., 84–87; see also, e.g., Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, “Works without faith in I Cor., vii, 

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

Liturgical Press, 1992), 40–64.

732 


ignored. Such coherence-producing innovations occur with equal frequency 

when scholars use comparative material in rabbinic and pagan sources, or no 

comparative material at all. I would like to suggest that the various approaches 

of contemporary scholars to Paul should be understood as analogous to the various 

backgrounds of Paul’s Corinthian contemporaries: Paul’s contemporaries 

at Corinth most likely had as much difficulty understanding Paul’s language and 

logic as modern interpreters do. 

The varieties of interpretation fall into three broad categories. In the first 

group are scholars who argue that the sanctification of the unbelieving spouse 

can mean only that the unbeliever becomes one of the a{gioi by coming under 

the influence of the believing spouse. J. C. O’Neil takes the perfect verb hJgivastai 

“to refer to a future event,” citing such usage in classical literature and other 

parts of the NT, including Rom 14:23. 60 On the basis of these parallels he concludes 

that “Paul means to signify by these words that there is hope for the salvation 

of the unbelieving partner,” since, for Paul, sanctification occurs only 

through baptism and entry into the community of believers. 61 The same logic 

convinces him that the children’s holiness could only have come through baptism. 

62 Margaret Mitchell proceeds similarly, arguing, “Because a{gio" is the 

specific term for a Christian insider, if an unbeliever becomes ‘sanctified’ 

[aJgiavzesqai], this means that they join the community. . . . Their contact with 

‘the body of Christ’ through their spouse may bring sanctification.” 63 In a 

bolder formulation, W. D. Davies cites 1 Cor 7:14 as evidence that “[a] Christian 

husband or wife can make his or her partner Christian.” 64 The physical 

60 See J. C. O’Neil, “1 Corinthians 7,14 and Infant Baptism,” in L’Apôtre Paul: Personnalité, 

Style, et Conception du Ministère (ed. A. Vanhoye; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1986), 

358–59. 

61 Ibid., 360, 358. As proof that the sanctification of the unbelieving spouse and the holiness 

of the children come through baptism, O’Neil points to 1 Cor 1:13, in which Paul seems to argue 

that the salvation of the Corinthians came only through Christ’s crucifixion and the believers’ baptism 

in his name. 

62 Ibid., 360–61. 

63 Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 123 n. 352. Mitchell adduces Heb 10:14; 

Acts 20:32; 26:18; and 1 Cor 6:11 as proof that the sanctification of unbelievers must mean that they 

join the community. Against claims that Paul consistently uses forms of aJgiavzw to mean “sanctified 

through baptism,” or “sanctified by joining the community” it should be recognized that the verb 

occurs only five times in the undisputed Pauline letters, and only in 1 Cor 6:11 does it seem to have 

a connection to baptism. Even there it is not clear that the sanctification is a concomitant of baptism. 

Elsewhere it means “consecrated” in a quasi-cultic sense as an offering to God (Rom 15:16), 

“made holy” by Christ Jesus, without reference to baptism (1 Cor 1:2), and “made holy” by God, not 

Jesus Christ or baptism (1 Thess 5:23). To be sure, these uses presuppose that the sanctified are oiJ 

a{gioi, the body of believers, most of whom had been baptized, but the verb is rare and has a range 

of meanings that precludes simple identification with a result of baptism or even faith in Christ. 

64 W. D. Davies, Paul and Rabbinic Judaism: Some Rabbinic Elements in Pauline Theology 

(2d ed.; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1955) 56. It is surprising that Davies does not note the halakic


union of the unbeliever with the believer within the marriage results in the 

unbeliever’s inclusion into the “quite physical” unity of the body of Christ. 65 A 

close reading of 1 Cor 7:12–16—especially the doubtfulness of the unbeliever’s 

salvation expressed in v. 16—demonstrates that these interpretations are 

wrong. In Calvin’s still-insightful words, “Interea nihil prodest haec sanctificatio 

coniugi infideli: tantum eo valet, ne eius copula fidelis inquinetur, et profanetur 

ipsum matrimonium.” 66 

The second approach is by far the commonest: most scholars analyze the 

act of sanctification as the transmission of an “objective,” or dinglich, nonsoteriological 

holiness, as though in this situation Paul used or invented a conception 

of holiness not found elsewhere in his letters. It is a thing or quality transferred 

from one person to another, in a way identical to ancient conceptions of impurity. 

These scholars argue that the holiness of the children is a result of the same 

process that sanctifies the spouse. Paul’s argument is, in effect, that if the principle 

that sanctified the spouse were not active, then the children could not 

possibly be sanctified. But because they are holy—and somehow the Corinthians 

agree that they are—then the unbelieving spouse must also be affected by 

the sanctifying process. G. R. Beasley-Murray puts it thus: 

Above all it is to be recognized that the holiness of the child is commensurate 

with that of the unbelieving parent; a valid explanation of the former must 

also account for the latter. ‘The unbelieving husband has become consecrated 

(hJgivastai) in the wife . . . as may be understood from the fact that 

your children are consecrated (a{gioi). It is impermissible to draw a distinction 

between two conceptions of holiness here, on the grounds that the parent 

is said to be only hJgivastai, whereas the child is a{gio". 67 

nature of 1 Cor 7:12–16 in his study of “rabbinic elements” in Paul’s thought. Almost equally surprising 

is the omission of any discusion of the relationship between the children’s status and the 

sanctification of unbelieving spouse in Peter J. Tomson, Paul and the Jewish Law. His explanation 

of the unbeliever’s sanctification is similar to that of Davies: “Apparently de facto union with a 

Christian constituted de facto union with the body of Christ” (p. 119). See his analysis of “Paul’s 

divorce halakha” (1 Cor 7:12–16) (pp. 116–22). 

65 Davies, Paul and Rabbinic Judaism, 56. Richard Hays argues almost identically: “Or, to put 

it a bit more provocatively, holiness is—as it were—a venereal disease, passed from one spouse to 

the other. . . . [Paul] deduces that the unbelieving spouse is sanctified through the believing spouse. 

This line of thought leads naturally to the idea expressed in verse 16, that perhaps the unbelieving 

spouse will be saved through the believer. . . . It is usually assumed that Paul refers here to the hope 

that the unbeliever will be converted through the love and witness of the believer; however, given 

Paul’s mysterious notion of quasi-physical vicarious sanctification (v. 14), it seems equally possible 

that he holds out the hope for God somehow to save even the unbeliever on the soteriological coattails 

of the believer” (The Moral Vision of the New Testament [San Francisco: HarperCollins, 

1996], 360). 

66 Calvin, Commentarius in Epistolam Pauli ad Corinthios I, 412. 

67 G. R. Beasley-Murray, Baptism in the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1962),

734 


Because he insists on equating the unbeliever’s sanctification with the children’s 

holiness, Beasley-Murray must conclude that Paul uses a conception of 

holiness that differs markedly from that which occurs regularly in his epistles: it 

is not the result of baptism, nor does it refer to the inclusion of the children or 

the unbeliever in the people of God, either by conversion or by vicarious participation 

in the believer’s sanctification. 68 Instead Paul conceives of holiness as a 

quality setting apart the entire family through the sanctification of a single 

member, just as the ajparch; furavmato" consecrates the entire fuvrama in the 

Jewish sacrificial system. 69 Beasley-Murray appeals to Paul’s use of this sacrificial 

analogy with reference to Israel in Rom 11:16–20: while that which is specially 

set apart for God might persist in unbelief, the possiblity exists that the 

consecrated people will come to believe, and thereby become fully sanctified in 

Christ. In the same way the unbelieving children and spouse become consecrated 

to God as a result of the believing spouse’s sanctification, and the possibility 

exists that these unbelievers will attain salvation as a result of the 

believer’s influence. 70 

This appealing—and very Lutheran 71 —explanation fails on several 

193. Beasley-Murray cites with approval the paraphrastic NEB: “The heathen husband now 

belongs to God through his Christian wife . . . otherwise your children would not belong to God, 

whereas in fact they do” (p. 193 n. 3). 

68 Ibid., 194. See also his polemic against the notion that holiness is transmitted to family 

members through physical contact, both sexual union and childbirth (pp. 194–95). 

69 Ibid., 195–96; see Num 15:20 (LXX); Rom 11:16. 

70 Ibid., 196–97, 199. Raymond F. Collins argues similarly: the unbelieving spouse and the 

children “are not separated from God; rather they belong to God because of the holiness of their 

parents. Paul’s argument is analogous to the Jewish understanding of the family. In traditional 

Judaism, the family was subsumed into a covenantal relationship with Yahweh because of the 

father. . . . 

“Since children of mixed marriages have been drawn into the holiness sphere of their Christian 

parent, there is no need to assume that these children are called holy because they have 

adopted a mode of conduct similar to that of their parents. There is certainly an ethical implication 

in Paul’s use of ‘holy’ and its congates (hagi-) but there does not seem to be any reason to assume 

that in verse 14cd ‘holy’ has a denotation that is principally ethical, whereas, in the first part of the 

verse (v. 14ab), its principal meaning was ‘belonging to God’” (Divorce, 53). 

71 Beasley-Murray repeats the basic argument set forth by Delling (“Nun aber sind sie 

heilig,” 91–92) four years prior to Beasley-Murray’s Baptism: “die [erwachsene] ‘Kinder’ selbst 

lehnten die Taufe ab,” in the same way as the unbelieving parent. The aim of Paul’s instruction in 

1 Cor 7:14 is to address the believing spouse’s fears “daß der Verkehr mit ungetauften Kindern 

verunreinigen könnte (und natürlich so verunreinigen könnte, daß die christliche Existenz der 

Eltern dadurch gefährdet wäre). ‘Von euren Kindern trennt ihr euch ja auch nicht!’” 

As Delling acknowledges (p. 91), his argument closely follows that of Martin Luther. Luther 

writes: “Wenn ein christlich Gemahl große Kinder hätte mit einem unchristlichen Gemahl (wie es 

dazumal oft geschah), und die Kinder sich noch nicht wollten taufen lassen, noch Christen werden; 

sintemal niemand soll zum Glauben gezwungen, sondern von Gott williglich gezogen werden 

durchs Evangelium: so soll darum die Mutter oder der Vater die Kinder nicht lassen, noch mütter-


grounds, the first of which is grammatical: ejpei; a[ra is an emphatic subordinating 

conjunctive phrase introducing the causal clause that provides the warrant 

for the claim that the unbelieving spouse is sanctified: 72 “because then” (if the 

unbeliever were not sanctified) the children would be impure, but in fact they 

are holy. Beasley-Murray interprets the passage as though ejpei; a[ra were wJ", 

ou{tw", or kaqwv": “just as” or “in the same manner that” the children are holy. 

Paul’s Greek identifies a causal, not an analogous, relationship between the 

unbeliever’s sanctification and the children’s holiness. The two statuses exist in 

some relationship; indeed, Paul’s Greek makes clear that the children’s holiness 

proceeds out of the unbeliever’s sanctified status. Paul, however, also makes 

clear that the unbeliever is sanctified by the believing spouse—and so the statuses 

of the unbelieving spouse and of the children are clearly of different origins. 

Further, if we affirm a causal relationship between the unbeliever’s 

sanctification and the children’s holiness, then we need not identify the statuses 

as perfectly equal. The holiness of the children and the unbelieving spouse provided 

both with access to the community. The forms in which the unbelieving 

parent and the children exercised this access, however, might have differed 

dramatically. The unbeliever may have been eligible for @y`wdq, licit marriage to 

a member of the believing community, without being sanctified in Christ 

through faith and baptism, while the holy children may have been raised as 

believers; it is also possible that the sanctified unbeliever may have been saved 

through the believing spouse by becoming a believer, while the holy children 

may have abandoned faith in Christ as adults. The strength of Paul’s argument 

lies in the fact that the offspring of licit marriages were holy, that is, eligible to 

participate in the religious life of the community. Doubtless many children of 

believer–unbeliever mixed marriages did thus participate, which provided Paul 

with proof that such marriages were licit. 

Conzelmann implies that Jewish conceptions of impurity and holiness 

have been transformed by the eschatological framework of Paul’s thought. Following 

Delling, Conzelmann argues that Paul subtly corrects the Corinthians’ 

conception of holiness and impurity as transmitted by a purely material fashion, 

and introduces the idea that both are communicated by “ascription” (Zuordnung). 

73 While formerly holiness was constantly threatened by impurity that 

liche oder väterliche Pflicht entziehen oder versagen, als thäten sie Sünde daran, und sich verunreinigten 

an den ungläubigen Kindern, sondern sollen ihnen leiblich vorstehen und sie versorgen, 

eben sowohl, als wären sie die allerheiligsten Christen. Denn sie sind nicht unrein noch unheilig 

(spricht er), das ist, dein Glaube kann sich an ihnen üben, daß er rein und heilig bleibe” (Martin 

Luther, Auslegungen des siebenten Capitels der ersten Epistel St. Pauli an die Corinther, in idem 

Sämtliche Schriften, Band 8 (ed. J. G. Walch; Groß Oesingen: Verlag der Lutherischen Buchhandlung, 

1987], 1061). 

72 See Smyth, Greek Grammar, §2240–41. 

73 See Delling, “Nun aber sind sie heilig,” 93.

736 


could be transferred by physical contact, Paul reveals that, through Christ, the 

holiness of the “saints” now overcomes impurity and renders all relationships— 

and therefore all participants therein—sanctified for the believer: 

the “world” is denied any power of its own; in concrete terms, this means any 

such power over believers. The world is desacralized. . . . Through the believing 

partner, the marriage between a pagan and a Christian is withdrawn from 

the control of the powers of the world. In living together with the world, the 

‘saints’ are the stronger party. 74 

Conzelmann equates the sanctification of the unbeliever with the children’s 

holiness by asserting that “the understanding of holiness (and uncleanness) in v. 

14b is the same as in v. 14a,” and he then contributes two suggestive questions, 

which he answers with tentative affirmation: “Is Paul . . . simply appealing to 

actual views and to facts, that is, that the Christians do not as a matter of fact 

regard their children born of mixed marriages as unclean? Not even the unbaptized?” 

75 

Conzelmann suggests that the relationship between the holiness of the 

unbelieving spouse and the children is that of analogy: just as the children of 

believers are holy and undefiled/undefiling to the believer, so also holy/sanctified 

status is ascribed to the unbelieving spouse, who remains undefiling to the 

believer. Jerome Murphy-O’Connor proceeds similarly but protests that the 

sanctification of the unbeliever must mean something equivalent to other discussions 

of sanctification in Paul. 76 He concludes that the unbeliever’s act of 

remaining in the marriage must justify Paul’s assessment of her or him as “holy,” 

since the unbeliever acts in accordance with the commandment of the Lord 

against divorce. His or her behavior is marked by a certain uprightness, as is 

that of the children, which makes the analogy between their holiness and the 

unbeliever’s sanctification perfect: 

just as children whose conduct has been formed according to Christian standards 

grow naturally into the act of faith, so there is hope that the unbeliever, 

whose conduct (at least in one area) already conforms to Christian standards, 

will also come to accept Christ one day. 77 

Similarly O. Larry Yarbrough and Dale Martin argue that Paul viewed the 

statuses of the children and the unbelieving spouse as the result of the same 

74 Conzelmann, I Corinthians, 122. 

75 Ibid., 123. Conzelmann provides some guidance: the children are born of mixed, not 

Christian, marriages, and were most likely not baptized; if they were baptized, “the whole problem 

becomes unintelligible,” since the baptismal source of their holiness would make the unbelieving 

parent’s status irrelevant (pp. 123 nn. 39, 41). 

76 Murphy-O’Connor, “Works without faith in I Cor., vii, 14,” 352–56. 

77 Ibid., 361.


sanctifying or purifying force radiating out from the believer. Yarbrough argues 

that Paul inferred from the holy status of the children, whom the Corinthians 

agreed became holy “because of the believing parent,” that 

the believing partner also sanctifies the non-believing partner, because 

otherwise (ejpei; a[ra) the children would also be unholy (lit. “unclean”). That 

is, what the believing partner accomplishes for the child he also accomplishes 

for the non-believing spouse. 78 

Martin’s argument is similar: Paul claims 

that the unbelieving partner is made holy “in” the believing partner (7:14). 

That is why their children, who would otherwise be “unclean” (akatharta) are 

now “holy” (hagia). In Greek, “holiness” language does not always function in 

opposition to “uncleanness” or pollution; but here it obviously does, as indicated 

by Paul’s opposition of hagia and akatharta in verse 14 (hagioteµs is the 

solution to the problem of akatharsia). Paul extends the boundaries of purity 

to include even the unbelieving partner and the children in a marriage. 

Whereas we often think about contamination as resulting from proximity, 

Paul here allows that the opposite of contamination, cleansing, may also work 

by proximity. 79 

This approach leaves the logic of holiness and impurity in the passage unclear; 

indeed, both Yarbrough and Martin attempt to clarify the opposition between 

ajkavqarta and a{gia in v. 14b by glossing the terms as perfect antitheses: holy 

versus unholy (Yarbrough) or pure versus impure (Martin). 80 

Finally, Martin interprets the preposition ejn in the phrases ejn tw'/ ajdelfw'/ 

and ejn th'/ gunaikiv as a marker of location or association, as in the phrase ejn 

Cristw'/ !Ihsou' (e.g., Rom 8:1): 

Paul extends the boundaries of purity to include even the unbelieving partner 

and the children in the marriage. . . . He insists that the purity of Christ 

holds such power that it may, in certain situations, purify even nonbelievers. 

The Christian is purified by his or her location “in” Christ; by extension, the 

78 O. Larry Yarbrough, Not Like the Gentiles: Marriage Rules in the Letters of Paul (Atlanta: 

Scholars Press, 1984), 112. 

79 Dale Martin, The Corinthian Body (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995), 218. 

80 Compare Luther’s claim that Paul says that the children “sind nicht unrein noch unheilig” 

(Auslegungen, 1061). The identification of holiness and impurity as opposites is not without support, 

since Paul opposes holiness or sanctification and impurity in 1 Thess 4:7 and Rom 6:19 (cf. 

also 2 Cor 6:17). (Neither Yarbrough nor Martin cites these parallels.) However, in these passages 

the opposition is between categories of moral activity, whereas in 1 Cor 7:14 the impure or holy status 

of the children is not related to their moral activity, but is strictly legal insofar as it is determined 

entirely by the legal status of the parents’ marriage. Therefore the opposition in 1 Cor 7:14 is not 

directly parallel to the oppositions in 1 Thess 4:7 and Rom 6:19. Discussions about licit marriage 

and the status of offspring in the literature of the rabbis, Qumran, and Jubilees provide the most 

illuminating parallels.

738 


unbelieving spouse is purified by his or her location “in” the believing 

spouse. 81 

As Martin acknowledges, this reading leaves a major problem unresolved: if the 

unbeliever is sanctified by location and contact within the believing community, 

how is it that she or he remains without salvation? What concept of sanctification 

does not include salvation? 82 If we understand the phrase hJgivasqai ejn 

instrumentally and recognize it as a Greek appropriation of the Pharisaic/rabbinic 

betrothal idiom Ab `dq, then the problem is resolved: Paul simply means 

that the marriage is licit, since by Jewish convention the eligible status of one 

spouse was confirmed by the other’s act of entering into a “holy” or licit marriage 

contract. 

Attempts to interpret the sanctification of the unbeliever and the holiness 

of his children as results of the same process create as many problems as they 

solve. For one thing, the glosses required to turn holiness and impurity into a 

perfect antithesis obscure the logic of the legal formula behind Paul’s ruling, 83 

and the relationship between the spouse’s sanctification and the children’s holy 

status becomes merely an analogy. The children’s holiness is not dependent on 

the unbeliever’s sanctified status, nor is it clear how their impurity would be 

related to the unbeliever’s lack of sanctification. The logic underlying Paul’s ruling, 

as I have argued, is best expressed in a formula that retains his categories: 

“saint” (male or female member of the holy community) + legal (“sanctified”) 

partner → holy offspring; “saint” + illegal partner → defiled, impure offspring, 

mamzerim. 84 This formula was hardly an innovation, as its appearance in other 

81 Martin, Corinthian Body, 218. 

82 Ibid., 218–19. 

83 See Hayes’s discussion of the relationship between the categories holy/profane and 

pure/impure (“Intermarriage and Impurity,” 5). See also Jacob Milgrom, “Priestly (‘P’) Source,” 

ABD 5:454–61; D. Wright, “Holiness (OT),” ABD 3:237–49. 

84 Martin argues that Paul introduced the idea that holiness, like impurity, may result “from 

proximity,” citing the rabbinic idea that purity could be transferred from pure water to impure 

water “simply by contact . . . before being introduced into a miqveh” as an analogy to Paul’s ideas in 

1 Cor 7:14 (Corinthian Body, 293 n. 57). This reading is flawed in that the rabbis did not believe 

that purity could be transferred from one body of water to another “simply by contact.” Martin cites 

only E. P. Sanders’s discussion of rabbinic/Pharisaic conceptions of purity in Judaism: Practice and 

Belief 63 BCE-66 CE (Philadelphia: Trinity Press International, 1992), 226; it is worth examining the 

Pharisaic practice and belief in m. Miqwa


halakic literature proves. Paul’s innovation, as most commentators rightly 

stress, was in the extension of the terms of sanctification to outsiders, his sanctioning 

of a species of exogamy, that is, that which preceded one of the partner’s 

joining the community of believers. 

Other scholars attempt to understand 1 Cor 7:14 within the context of 

other halakot regarding marriage. Joachim Jeremias contextualizes our passage 

within rabbinic debates about proselyte baptism and the question of how children 

born to proselytes were initiated ritually into the Jewish community. He 

identifies “the language of Jewish ritual” in Paul’s unusual usage of aJgiavzesqai, 

and notes: 

Judaism distinguishes between children who were begotten and born “not in 

holiness” (i.e. before conversion to Judaism), and children who were begotten 

and born “in holiness” (i.e. after conversion to Judaism). The former were 

baptized when the parents changed their religion; the latter were not. . . . 

Anyone who was born “in holiness” did not need the baptismal bath. This terminology 

of the law concerning proselytes is adopted in I Cor. 7.14c, when 

Paul says that the children of Christian parents are not “unclean,” but “holy.” 85 

However, he argues, this does not mean, as might appear, that the Pauline 

church did not baptize infants born to Christian parents: in Col 2:11 “Paul . . . 

names baptism ‘the Christian circumcision’ (hJ peritomh; tou' Cristou')”; thus it 

is likely that the holiness of the children in 1 Cor 7:14 depends on baptism, 

which, as a new form of circumcision, could very well have been administered 

on the eighth day after birth. 86 

struction of a connecting hole (hbwqn) (m. Miqw. 6:1) or by the use of a pipe (@wls) full of pure water 

joining their surfaces (m. Miqw. 6:8). (See the translation and comments of P. Kehati, Tohorot, vol. 

4 [Jerusalem: Maor Wallach, 1986], 75–76.) It is important to note that the drawn water was not 

purified simply by contact; rather it was considered to be mixed into the pure water and to have 

acquired its properties completely. If the pure water was less than forty seahs, then the mingling 

procedure would not work unless the drawn water were less than three logs, but a miqweh containing 

forty or more seahs of pure water could not be rendered impure by any amount of drawn water. 

The miqweh water analogy is misleading, therefore, for two reasons: first, neither Paul nor 

the rabbis behind m. Miqwa

740 


Several shortcomings mark Jeremias’s study. Relatively minor problems 

are the doubtfulness that Colossians is a genuine letter of Paul, 87 and Jeremias’s 

simplistic identification of the “circumcision of Christ” in Col 2:11 with the 

description of baptism in 2:12. 88 A more important methodological problem is 

that Jeremias does not quote the rabbinic literature that he cites at any length, 

and he makes no linguistic comparisons between “similar” concepts and rulings 

expressed in the rabbis’ Hebrew and Aramaic, and Paul’s Greek. He points to 

“the language of the Levitical purification ceremonies” to explain Paul’s use of 

ajkavqarta in 1 Cor 7:14, but cites no examples. 89 The reader is left to wonder 

what Levitical law or context Jeremias had in mind. Further, he identifies “holiness” 

as defining the state into which children are born; this state is determined 

on the basis of the parents’ conversion to Judaism, but Jeremias does not 

attempt in any way to relate this holiness to the concept of impurity that Paul 

uses. Perhaps of greatest detriment to his comparative task, the halakot that 

Jeremias cites discuss the status of children born after their parents converted 

to Judaism. His parallels do not pertain specifically to true “mixed marriages,” 

and are therefore inappropriate for comparison with 1 Cor 7:12–16. 90 

J. Massyngberde Ford attempted another halakic interpretation of our 

passage, suggesting that it answers the concerns of a “brotherhood of Pharisees” 

at Corinth. These “‘Pharisee-Christians’ regarded themselves as a ‘chosen 

race,’ a ‘royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people’ (1 Pet. ii. 9) and 

began to adopt priestly genealogical rules on account of this.” 91 Ford’s thesis 

requires at least one exceedingly dubious interpretation of the text: she must 

argue that an a[pisto" husband or wife is not one who does not believe in the 

gospel of Christ; rather an a[pisto" is the equivalent of a member of the ![ 

$rah, one “who through ignorance was careless in the observance of laws of 

Levitical purity and of those relating to the priestly and Levitical gifts,” or a 

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

177–83. 

88 Even if we accept the letter as authentic, Col 2:11 does not make explicit the identification 

of baptism with circumcision, let alone the idea that baptism had come to replace circumcision in 

the Pauline churches (contra Lohse, Colossians and Philemon, 101–2). It makes perfect sense to 

understand circumcision as a metaphor for spiritual or moral transformation; such metaphor was 

familiar among Jewish communities. This transformation, done “without hands”—that is, by the 

spiritual power of Christ—was accompanied by the physical act of baptism, done in the community 

by community members. It makes less sense to identify spiritual circumcision with physical baptism 

(which, like circumcision, was done “by human hands”) than to recognize that the two are separate 

and complementary aspects of coming under the authority and power of God by entering into 

the community of believers. For metaphorical uses of circumcision in Jewish literature, see Deut 

10:16; 30:6; Jer 4:4; 1QS 5:5. 

89 Jeremias, Infant Baptism, 46. 

90 So also Ford, “‘Hast Thou Tithed Thy Meal?’” 76. 

91 Ibid., 79.


mamzer, offspring of forbidden sexual union or uncertain parentage; both were 

“non-pure Jewish-Christian[s],” believing members of the Corinthian community 

but ineligible to be married to those of priestly status. 92 The impossibility 

of this interpretation is evident when one reads the immediately following 

verses: clearly the a[pisto" is not a member of the believing community, since 

Paul indicates that he or she is not saved, that is, a “convert” who has believed 

in Christ and been baptized, nor is it possible to know whether he or she will 

be, even through the influence of the believing spouse (1 Cor 7:16). 

It is thoroughly unclear whether the Corinthians would have understood 

Paul’s argumentation in 1 Cor 7:14. I suggested at the beginning of this article 

that some members of the congregation were familiar with Jewish ideas about 

mixed marriages and the status of offspring; certain prominent members of the 

synagogue such as Crispus and Sosthenes might have understood Paul’s language 

and ideas fully, while others would have missed the Hebrew-based 

betrothal idiom and the logic of marriage laws altogether. If his audience misunderstood 

Paul and, like so many modern interpreters, made sense of the ruling 

without any knowledge of the Hebrew idiom and the rules governing the 

status of offspring of mixed marriages, this would not have been the first time 

Paul failed to get his point across. Throughout the Corinthian correspondence 

we witness Paul correcting interpretations and developments of ideas and practices 

that he himself had introduced to the community. 93 Dale Martin argues 

that Paul’s disputants probably found his argument in 1 Cor 7:14 unpersuasive, 

since Paul’s claims that sexual intercourse with a prostitute pollutes the body of 

Christ (1 Cor 6:15–20) while a believer sanctifies an unbelieving sexual partner 

through marriage seem contradictory. 94 To those without an adequate knowledge 

of Jewish law Paul’s logic is inscrutable; 95 we may safely assume that those 

who understood his argumentation fully in ancient times, as today, were in the 

minority—if any may ever make such claim! 

This study supports the old notion that Jewish and pagan groups had different 

linguistic and logical structures governing certain aspects of sociality and 

92 Ibid., 77, 74–75. 

93 See especially 1 Cor 5:9–13. Many scholars argue that problems with libertinism, ecstatic 

worship, and emphases on knowledge and wisdom at Corinth arose out of teachings and practices 

that Paul himself introduced. First Corinthians was written to correct a sort of “hyper-Paulinism” 

by introducing greater theological emphasis on the cross. See, e.g, Conzelmann, I Corinthians, 

15–16. Further, as Mitchell rightly observes, when judged by its effectiveness in resolving the 

problems at Corinth, “1 Corinthians was a failure.” Not only were the factions not reconciled, Paul 

also managed to incur the enmity of both sides, as is evident from the strife in 2 Corinthians (Paul 

and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 303; cf. Martin, Corinthian Body, 251). Compare Paul’s 

protests in Rom 3:3-8 against the claim that he taught antinomianism. 

94 Martin, Corinthian Body, 250–51. 

95 As Martin notes (Corinthian Body, 218).

742 


that such structures were not always mutually intelligible—but it also confirms 

that local logic and linguistic symbols describing social relationships could take 

on new meanings when transferred to and interpreted within new cultural contexts. 

This reading of 1 Cor 7:14 illustrates the opacity of one culture’s language 

and logic (ancient Jewish) to another (modern Western) in a way that should 

suggest the range of difficulties that pagan readers of Paul encountered in firstcentury 

Corinth. At the same time that our verse reveals differences between 

ancient Jewish and pagan ways of thinking about the world and human sociality, 

it also illustrates the powerful penetration of Jewish culture into Greco-Roman 

culture. In our verse is embedded, in Greek language, a virtually unassimilable 

fragment of Hebrew legal thought. Its presence in the Pauline corpus, however, 

which has been authoritative for all Christian communities since the second 

century, has demanded its assimilation, and generations of Christian 

interpreters have struggled and managed to find, innovate, or supply, and then 

apply its meaning within their various communities, despite their ignorance of 

the ancient Jewish legal logic upon which 1 Cor 7:14 depends. 96 Their success—however 

limited—confirms that a text’s coherence, or at least its appropriation 

within a system of thought, does not always depend on the author’s 

intention. This is, of course, old news to scholars of religion. 97 

Tracing the history of the interpretation of this text among the ancients is a 

task worthy of fuller treatment than is possible here. 98 In conclusion, we should 

take careful notice of the fact that in 1 Cor 7:12–16 Paul used language that 

held different meanings for pagan and Jewish readers, that he did so in a way 

that enabled both to understand his message in terms that seemed familiar. 

Much has been written about the cultural context in which Paul’s prohibitions 

of men’s and women’s initiation of divorce would have made most sense. Some 

interpreters, most importantly Joseph A. Fitzmyer, Peter J. Tomson, and E. P. 

Sanders, and M. Davies, observe that in 1 Cor 7:10–11 Paul followed Jewish 

law when he wrote that a man may not divorce (ajfivenai) his wife, but a woman 

96 The same could be said for the obscure “Hebrew” thought in 1 Cor 10:4: Would pagan 

readers have had any context at all for interpreting Paul’s reference to the ajkolouvqousa pevtra 

from which the wandering Israelites drank in the wilderness? As Conzelmann notes, in this verse 

“Paul sets out from a Jewish haggadic tradition,” namely, that of the peripatetic rock described also 

in t. Sukkah 3:11 (I Corinthians, 166 n. 25, 167). 

97 See, e.g., Krister Stendahl’s dry summary of his seminal essay, “Paul and the Introspective 

Conscience of the West”: “We may have wasted too much time in trying to demonstrate a fact well 

known in human history—and especially in the history of religions: that sayings which originally 

meant one thing later on were interpreted to mean something else, something which was felt to be 

more relevant to human conditions of later times” (Paul among Jews and Gentiles [Philadelphia: 

Fortress, 1976], 94). 

98 Now see Hayes, “Mixed Marriages in Patristic Writings,” in Gentile Impurities (ch. 5), for a 

good survey of the topic.


must not be separated (cwrisqh'nai) from her husband, 99 since Jewish law did 

not allow women to initiate divorce. 100 At the same time Paul’s language clearly 

makes sense within a pagan context, since both verbs mean “to divorce” in common 

usage, 101 and both Greek and Roman law allowed wives or husbands to 

initiate divorce. Indeed, in the second prohibition against divorce in 1 Cor 

7:12–13 Paul uses ajfivenai to refer to the action of either the husband or the 

wife, which conforms to pagan, not Jewish, custom. Within Paul’s “divorce 

halakah” we encounter a fascinating blend of language and logic drawn from 

both Jewish and pagan cultures. Paul phrased his prohibition of divorce in a 

way that both Jewish and Gentile readers could understand, despite the different 

legal norms of the two groups. 102 In 1 Cor 7:12–16, I suggest, we encounter 

Paul—self-consciously or not—performing as mediator between two cultures 

and transformer of both. 

99 Fitzmyer, “Matthean Divorce Texts,” 80–82, 89–91; Tomson, Paul and the Jewish Law, 

117; E. P. Sanders and Margaret Davies, Studying the Synoptic Gospels (London: SCM, 1989), 

327. For an argument against Fitzmyer et al., see Collins, Divorce, 16–22. Collins’s demonstration 

that Paul’s language makes best sense when understood from a Greco-Roman perspective, in 

which women could initiate divorce, does not eliminate the possibility that Paul deliberately chose 

language that would make sense to both Jewish and pagan believers. As Collins himself concludes, 

“Paul’s words are general enough to cover any legal situation” (Divorce, 22). More importantly, 

Paul’s use of ajfivenai and cwrisqh'nai in vv. 10–11 is precise enough to cover the legal concerns of 

Jewish believers, while remaining intelligible to pagans. 

100 See, e.g., M. Keth. 7:10. Ancient evidence shows that some Jewish women divorced their 

husbands, but the most common legal practice allowed only males to divorce. See John J. Collins, 

“Marriage, Divorce, and Family in Second Temple Judaism,” in Families in Ancient Israel (ed. L. 

Perdue et al.; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1997), 119–21. 

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

102 The same might be argued for Paul’s use of hJgivastai ejn. While readers or hearers familiar 

with Pharisaic law might recognize the betrothal idiom Ab `dq and interpret ejn in a strictly instrumental 

way, others might have interpreted ejn as denoting proximity or relationship: the unbeliever 

is sanctified in the believing spouse, so that within the entire scope of interactions expected for a 

married couple, including sexual intercourse, there is no risk of defilement. So, e.g., Delling, “Nun 

aber sind sie heilig,” 92; Martin, Corinthian Body, 218. The possibility of reading ejn as instrumental 

and as spatial/relational in 1 Cor 7:14 could support a portrait of Paul as a careful and clever 

writer who constantly recognized and negotiated the disconnections, tensions, and connections 

between Jewish and Greco-Roman ways of thinking. This was not, of course, a skill invented only 

after the birth of Christianity—as Elias Bickerman, Martin Hengel, Saul Lieberman, and others 

have shown, Jewish peoples interacted with their Greek and Roman neighbors for centuries preceding 

the turn of the era. (For more recent discussions, see Hellenism in the Land of Israel [ed. 

John J. Collins and Gregory Sterling; Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2001]; 

Erich Gruen, Heritage and Hellenism: The Reinvention of Jewish Tradition [Berkeley: University 

of California Press, 1998]; Tessa Rajak, The Jewish Dialogue with Greece and Rome: Studies in Cultural 

and Social Interaction [Leiden: Brill, 2001].) Doubtless the Pharisee from Tarsus was well 

practiced and skilled in negotiating between the cultures by the time of his “conversion” to the 

Jesus movement.

744 


While Paul was without doubt the apostle to the Gentiles, he remained 

rooted in Pharisaic traditions. The transformation of classical culture through 

the introduction of elements from the east 103 can be clearly witnessed in our 

passage: here the Jewish–Greek boundary is at its most porous, as a former 

Pharisee writes in Greek to a primarily pagan audience in a prosperous city and 

introduces an utterly foreign logic of sociality in deceptively familiar terms. 

Pagan culture deeply penetrated the apostle’s psyche, as recent analyses of his 

texts against the backgrounds of pagan thought have shown, 104 but, as Paul’s letters 

prove, Jewish culture also penetrated the pagan world. The symbols and 

logic of both cultures were transformed, often violently, by the encounter, as 

the analogy of modern interpretation and appropriation suggests. The implications 

of pre-Pauline, pre-Christian pagan-Jewish cultural interpenetration fascinated 

the earliest chroniclers of Christian history. Eusebius saw such 

moments as evidence of God’s divine hand preparing the world for the gospel 

of Christ. Others had different opinions, but analysis of such speculations is 

another project altogether. 

103 As classically described, e.g., by Peter Brown, The World of Late Antiquity: AD 150–750 

(London: Thames & Hudson, 1971). 

104 See, e.g., the recent work of Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Paul and the Stoics (Louisville: 

Westminster John Knox, 2000), and the essays edited by idem, Paul in His Hellenistic Context 

(Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995). Other outstanding work has been done by Hans Dieter Betz, H. 

Maccoby, Abraham Malherbe, Dale Martin, Margaret Mitchell, and Jerome Murphy-O’Connor.

JBL 121/4 (2002) 745–783 

BOOK REVIEWS 

Book reviews are also published online at the Society of Biblical Literature’s WWW site: 

http://www.bookreviews.org. For a list of books received by the Journal, see 

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

Dictionary of Biblical Interpretation, ed. John H. Hayes. 2 vols. Nashville: Abingdon, 

1999. Pp. l + 653; xxxii + 675. $195.00. 

As everyone in the field of biblical studies has probably noted, ours is a time of dictionaries 

and encyclopedias (and there is even a short entry in this work on Bible dictionaries 

and encyclopedias across the centuries). This recent contribution to the genre 

provides a wealth of concisely expressed information and will surely be a handy addition 

to the reference section of any library serving the needs of students in biblical studies, 

whether at the undergraduate or graduate level, and the scholars who teach them. (It is 

unfortunate, however, that the title is the same as a slightly earlier work edited by R. J. 

Coggins and J. L. Houlden [London: SCM, 1990, 1994].) It is not possible in this review 

to do much more than give some basic description of the coverage and to offer a few 

comments by way of appraisal. 

There are three basic types of entries dealing with (1) the history of the interpretation 

of writings treated as Scripture by various faith communities, (2) biographies of figures 

important in the history of biblical studies, and (3) “methods and movements.” 

Each entry has a bibliography and cross-references to other relevant entries. Moreover, 

entries devoted to important figures also have lists of their works. 

A number of the entries on figures and on methods and movements provide handy 

information that is not so readily accessible elsewhere (but cf. Historical Handbook of 

Major Biblical Interpreters [ed. Donald K. McKim; Downers Grove, IL /Leicester, UK: 

InterVarsity Press, 1998]). For those such as this reviewer with a particular curiosity 

about the people who have contributed to the field, there are many entries on figures 

across the ages, from the ancient world (e.g., Hillel, Akiba, Philo, Justin Martyr, Origen, 

Eusebius, Augustine, Theodoret, Theodore of Mopsuestia) on through the medieval 

period (e.g., Ibn Ezra, Maimonides, Aquinas) and into later centuries down to the present, 

including some on still-living figures (e.g., Brevard Childs, James Barr, Moshe 

Greenberg, William Farmer, Martin Hengel). 

With all that is provided, it is almost churlish to complain about what is omitted. 

But it is not readily clear why there are certain omissions, both among topics and among 

figures treated. For example, among my own illustrious predecessors in Edinburgh we 

745


have William Manson, but not H. A. A. Kennedy (whose studies on the influence of the 

LXX upon NT language, on the relevance of Philo, and on the mystery cults as background 

for Pauline Christianity were pioneering and remain noteworthy). There are 

entries on figures in classical studies whose contribution was essentially to the study of 

the background of the NT, such as A. D. Nock and Eduard Norden, but no entry on 

Franz Dölger or Erik Peterson. We have entries on M.-J. Lagrange and J. Bonsirven, 

but no entry on Jean Daniélou, and there are entries on L. Goppelt, H. Lietzmann, and 

J. Jeremias, but none on Ethelbert Stauffer. Among major Evangelical figures, we have 

Merrill Tenney, but, very curiously, no entry on G. E. Ladd, arguably one of the most 

important figures in the post–World War II American Evangelical effort to enter and 

engage the scholarly mainstream in biblical studies. Among entries on modern Jewish 

figures, we have, for example, H. Montefiore and S. Sandmel, but Joseph Klausner does 

not appear. 

Missing figures from the ancient world include Valentinus, Heracleon (apparently 

the earliest commentary on the Gospel of John), and the second-century Christian 

Ptolemy (whose Letter to Flora is a remarkably noteworthy hermeneutical statement), 

although there is a modest-sized entry on “Gnostic” interpretation (which mainly consists 

of observations based on the Nag Hammadi texts). Likewise, I find no entries on 

Qumran or Pesher; and I cannot divine where else to look in the work for discussion of 

what is rather widely recognized as an important body of texts in the history of biblical 

reception/interpretation. 

As for “methods and movements,” there is a panoply of entries that comprises an 

impressive scope. But, again, there are curious absences. To illustrate, there are entries 

on biblical interpretation labeled as Afrocentric, Feminist, Hispanic, Asian, Gay/Lesbian, 

Liberation, Post-Colonial, Psychoanalytic (and another entry on “Psychology and 

Biblical Studies”), Womanist, Mujerista, Orthodox (Eastern Christian), and Evangelical 

(North American, white). Yet I can find no entry on the use of the Bible in the African- 

American tradition or in Pentecostalism. 

Other illustrative entries introduce “Electronic Hermeneutics” (the impact of digital 

technology), “Quranic and Islamic Interpretation,” “Post-Modern Biblical Interpretation” 

(advocative, but conveying little as to rationale or results), “Ethiopian Biblical 

Interpretation,” and on the many modern methods and approaches, such as Form Criticism, 

Redaction Criticism, Rhetorical Criticism, Literary Theory and Literary Criticism, 

Social-Scientific Criticism, Intertextuality, Canonical Criticism, two entries on “Inner- 

Biblical Interpretation,” and a three-part entry on “Mythology and Biblical Studies.” 

David Jeffrey’s entry on the Bible in “Western Literature” offers an overview of a vast 

field for which the dictionary that he edited is an essential reference work (A Dictionary 

of Biblical Tradition in English Literature [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1992]). 

Yet, to mention other things absent, although there are entries on a number of 

Jewish interpreters down through the centuries, as well as on Midrash and Hasidism, 

there is no entry on Jewish biblical interpretation. Nor does one find an entry on Gematria. 

Likewise, while there are entries on Luther, Melanchthon, Calvin, and other Reformation 

figures, there is no entry on Reformation exegesis. We have an entry on C. I. 

Scofield, which mentions his famous annotated edition of the Bible, but otherwise nothing 

on Dispensational interpretation (a massively influential type among millions from

Book Reviews 

the late nineteenth century to the present). Nor does one find an entry on 

Dialectical/Neo-orthodox, or Existentialist interpretation (though, to be sure, one finds 

entries on key relevant figures such as K. Barth and R. Bultmann). 

Very curiously, there is also no entry on Exegesis, Allegorical Interpretation, or 

Typology (the last happening to be the dominant interpretative mode in the first few 

centuries of Christianity!), although, by contrast, there is an entry on Cultural Studies. 

Now, in some cases there are entries that speak in some measure to what is missing. For 

example, the entry on “Alexandrian School” begins by noting that it is “particularly associated 

with the practice of allegorical interpretation.” At the very least, we should expect 

a bare entry on allegorical interpretation that, if nothing else, refers us to other relevant 

entries. The same can be said for a number of other matters. 

There is an entry on Hermeneutics; but it is almost totally devoted to developments 

of the last couple of centuries, after two sentences each on Philo, Augustine, and 

Luther! And it is no good replying that these three all have separate entries. So do all the 

modern figures from Schleiermacher onward, to whom the entry is almost wholly 

devoted. To be fair, we are indeed a cut-flower age intellectually, and the entry only 

reflects our somewhat adolescent outlook that our age is when things worth noting happened. 

The entry on Augustine does mention that De doctrina christiana was “much 

concerned with principles of scriptural interpretation,” but we get little as to what this, 

perhaps the most important classical Christian text on biblical interpretation, had to 

offer. 

We expect that in this particular dictionary the entries on individual biblical and 

deutero-canonical writings should focus on the history of their interpretation and influence/reception 

through the centuries, showing how faith communities have appropriated 

the text in question as Scripture. Some entries do this well, e.g., the entries on Song 

of Songs, Romans, Revelation, and Tobit. John Sawyer’s entry on Isaiah distills a fascinating 

story of reception-history laid out more fully in his recent study, The Fifth Gospel: 

Isaiah in the History of Christianity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). 

Other entries are disappointing, however. For example, given that 1 Enoch is treated as 

Scripture in Ethiopian Christianity, one would hope to learn how it is interpreted; but 

the entry merely reviews critical introductory studies. Indeed, a number of entries on 

individual canonical/deutero-canonical writings are virtually indistinguishable from 

what one can find in other Bible dictionaries or in the introductions to commentaries, 

the discussion limited to scholarly opinions on date, authorship, provenance, literary 

integrity, textual transmission, and so on. 

However, anyone who has been involved in producing such a major reference 

work will surely agree that the dominant notes to sound are gratitude at what is given, 

rather than carping at what was overlooked or forgotten, and pleasure in the entries that 

extend and complement what one can find in other reference works, rather than disappointment 

in those that fail to do so. Students and others (such as this reviewer) whose 

curiosity exceeds the limits of their education will find here a useful first port-of-call for 

basic introductions to, and further leads on, a wide variety of people and phenomena 

that make up the history and practice of biblical interpretation. The price, however, may 

make it mainly an acquisition for libraries. 

747 

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


History of Biblical Israel: Major Problems and Minor Issues, by Abraham Malamat. Culture 

and History of the Ancient Near East 7. Leiden: Brill, 2001. Pp. xv + 476. $99.00. 

This collection of twenty-six articles and papers, two of which appear for the first 

time, represents over fifty years of research by an internationally respected scholar in 

the field. The focus of the volume, aptly identified as the starting point and chief source 

for this treatment of Israel’s history, is the biblical text, often examined in connection 

with comparative epigraphic sources and, in some instances, in relationship to archaeological 

evidence or to social-scientific analysis. The author discusses the historical implications 

of a variety of aspects of the biblical portrayal of Israel, beginning with the 

ancestral traditions and extending to the fall of Jerusalem. 

The volume is divided into five parts. The first two, “The Dawn of Israel” and 

“Forming a Nation,” comprise nine essays, all within the scope of what Malamat calls 

the “proto-history” of Israel, terminology which he prefers either to “pre-history” or to 

“history” in describing the span of time conventionally associated with the biblical traditions 

of the ancestral narratives, the exodus, Sinai, the wilderness, conquest and settlement, 

and, in part, the “judges.” The volume’s opening essay, “The Proto-History of 

Israel: A Study in Method” (originally published in 1983), addresses the question of 

whether the biblical traditions of the premonarchic era are amenable to the historian’s 

purposes and offers Malamat’s own approach as a middle way between, on the one 

hand, a scholarly “neofundamentalism” which gives uncritical acceptance to the biblical 

portrayal as history and, on the other, a “hypercritical” skepticism, which he (in 1983) 

associates with the work of scholars such as J. A. Soggin, T.L. Thompson, and J. Van 

Seters. Malamat’s position is that the biblical sources can be exploited for the purposes 

of historical reconstruction provided the historian takes into account the “reflection” 

and “telescoping” that were integral to their production and which resulted in a tendency 

toward schematization. For the historian, a key to overcoming the limitations 

imposed by such nonhistorical contours of the portrayal of this period in the biblical 

documents is to correlate the latter with sources from elsewhere in the ancient Near 

East, a task which Malamat takes up in the next two essays, “Mari and Early Israel” and 

“Pre-monarchical Social Institutions in Israel in the Light of Mari” (originally published 

in 1985 and 1988, respectively). Malamat’s comparison of the documents preserved 

from ancient Israel and from Mari posits common origins, though not necessarily direct 

relations, between the two, supporting what Malamat calls a “typological” or “phenomenological” 

comparison (as opposed to a “genetic” one). The fourth essay, “Tribal 

Societies: Biblical Genealogies and African Lineage Systems,” brings the methods and 

results of social anthropologists to bear on the use of biblical kinship and settlement traditions 

as historical sources. In ch. 5, “The Exodus: Egyptian Analogies,” Malamat 

argues that a number of episodes mentioned in various Egyptian texts dating to the thirteenth 

and early twelfth centuries are analogous to the exodus tradition and that these 

support Malamat’s view of the biblical exodus tradition as a “telescoped” or “punctual” 

account of what was a more “durative” historical occurrence (pp. 56–67). Chapters 6–9 

consist of four essays treating the historical era represented by the books of Joshua and 

Judges, during which time the territorial holdings of the Israelite tribes became solidified 

for the succeeding centuries and Israel passed from “proto-history” to history (pp. 

5–6). In the first of these articles, “Conquest of Canaan: Israelite Conduct of War 

According to Biblical Traditions,” Malamat argues that these traditions, once stripped of 

their “theological varnish” and examined from the viewpoint of military science, reflect

Book Reviews 

tactics and maneuvers of warfare that would have belonged to the historical period 

depicted (the thirteenth to eleventh centuries B.C.E.). Similarly in the following essay, 

“The Period of the Judges,” Malamat looks behind the surface depiction of a united 

Israel (though repudiating the common tendency of scholars to associate each tradition 

narrowly with only one or two tribes) to discern specific events involving cooperation 

among several member tribes within a larger Israelite confederation, in some cases even 

positing historical interrelationships among discrete traditions (e.g., Israelite advances 

and setbacks over against Transjordanian rivals, as reflected in the traditions of Ehud, 

Gideon, Abimelech, and Jephthah; pp. 129–40). 

Part 3, “The Rise of the Davidic Dynasty” contains three essays dealing chiefly 

with the institutions of diplomatic marriage and covenant in the attainment and consolidation 

of power under David and Solomon, as well as a lecture and discussion that took 

place in the home of Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion in 1963 (ch. 13, “Organs of 

Statecraft in the Israelite Monarchy”). Part 4, “Twilight of Judah and the Destruction of 

the First Temple” consists of two articles described best by their titles—“The Historical 

Background of the Assassination of Amon, King of Judah” and “Josiah’s Bid for 

Armageddon: The Background of the Judaean-Egyptian Encounter in 609 B.C.”—along 

with two essays on the international political factors operative in the fall of Judah (chs. 

16 and 17). Part 5 contains essays on a variety of “Historical Episodes in the Former 

Prophets and in the Prophetical Books”: “Doctrines of Causality in Hittite and Biblical 

Historiography: A Parallel”; “Military Rationing in Papyrus Anastasi I and the Bible”; 

“Foot-Runners in Israel and Egypt in the Third Intermediate Period”; “Amos 1:5 in the 

Light of the Til Barsip Inscriptions”; “The Historical Background of Two Prophecies of 

the Nations”; and “Jeremiah and the Last Two Kings of Judah.” Three additional essays, 

which do not fall readily under any of these headings, are located in an excursus section, 

which is followed by a section of addenda providing updates for most of the essays in the 

form of bibliography and some discussion. Next follows an index of primary sources 

(including biblical, ancient Near Eastern, and Greco-Roman sources) and a subject 

index. 

Notwithstanding the inclusion of some essays of early date (two having been published 

originally in 1951), much of the discussion in this volume is of a very timely nature 

in addressing methodological issues still being worked out in the use of biblical documents 

as historical sources; cf., for instance, the discussion of Israel’s “proto-history” 

with R. Hendel’s recent use of the category “mnemohistory” in dealing with historical 

and nonhistorical elements of biblical tradition (“The Exodus in Biblical Memory,” JBL 

120 [2001]: 601–22]). This mention of timeliness also applies to the discussion of the 

Mari texts in relation to early Israel’s tribal social institutions (for a recent discussion of 

the latter, see F. M. Cross, From Epic to Canon: History and Literature in Ancient 

Israel [Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998], esp. 3–70). Malamat’s treatment 

of these and other issues makes a valid contribution to current discussion. Intriguing 

and often persuasive is Malamat’s frequent “teasing out” of possibilities from the 

biblical and extrabiblical evidence: e.g., implications of ties between the House of David 

and the Ammonite royal house during the early monarchy; “good (things)” as a reference 

to covenant in biblical and extrabiblical usage (pp. 272, 305 n. 12); a suggested 

reading of Arad Ostracon no. 88 as a “prophetic-political text, where God speaks 

through his prophets, apparently encouraging Josiah to go war [sic] against Egypt” (p. 

327); and a suggested relationship between the anti-Babylonian summit hosted by 

749


Zedekiah in Jerusalem (Jer 27) and “increased prophetic activities,” including the call of 

Ezekiel (p. 313). In places, Malamat provides brilliant synthesis (see especially ch. 16, 

“The Twilight of Judah: In the Egyptian-Babylonian Maelstrom”). 

On the latter point, it should be noted that the volume is not offered as a synthetic 

and complete history in the manner of Gösta Ahlström’s The History of Ancient Palestine 

(Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993). Nonetheless, the combination of an uneven coverage 

of Israelite history—the divided monarchy is represented only sparsely—and 

occasional redundancy (e.g., ch. 16, “The Twilight of Judah: In the Egyptian-Babylonian 

Malestrom,” and ch. 17, “The Kingdom of Judah between Egypt and Babylon: A Small 

State within a Great Power Confrontation”) found in the volume is somewhat disappointing. 

The degree to which Malamat takes for granted certain aspects of the biblical 

portrayal of Israel as historically reliable, especially as regards premonarchic times and 

the reigns of David and Solomon, will certainly be contested in the current climate of 

discussion. Furthermore, Malamat’s assumptions at certain points—such as his inclination 

to view the “military” details of the book of Joshua, even the marching around Jericho 

(pp. 84–85), as indicative of historical realities as opposed to theological or narrative 

elements—seem to overlook more obvious or likely explanations, and at times more 

restraint is warranted in drawing conclusions (e.g., where Egyptian military failure at 

Harran in 610 B.C.E. is inferred from a restored reading of “Eg[ypt]” in the Babylonian 

Chronicle [pp. 292–93] or, where Malamat, in explaining Jer 12:5, acknowledges the 

absolute dearth of evidence for competitive athletics in ancient Israel and still argues for 

the existence of “Foot-runners in Israel and Egypt,” based on Egyptian Taharqa stele, 

which (as Malamat indicates) refers to running as military training along a road not as 

sport on a “racetrack” [pp. 362–65]). Both the cohesiveness of the volume and the 

reader’s ease in making use of it could have been enhanced by the adoption of a single 

format for annotations and of consistent spellings for proper names and technical terms 

(see, e.g., Psamtik [pp. 300–321] vs. Psammetich [p. 325]; Ascelon [p. 281] vs. Ashkelon 

[p. 331]; Jehoahaz [pp. 302–3] vs. Jehoachaz [p. 375]; Accadian [p. 357 n. 18] vs. Akkadian 

[p. 398]), though the indexes are thorough and helpful in this regard. 

The shortcomings identified are more than outweighed by the numerous insights 

the author provides into the “major problems and minor issues” involved in the biblical 

traditions of Israel’s monarchic and premonarchic history. The collection and publication 

of these essays in a single volume serves not only as a monument to Professor Malamat’s 

impact on the field through five decades, but also as a significant contribution to 

the ongoing scholarly debate regarding the history of ancient Israel. 

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

Ringen um die Verfassung Judas: Eine Studie zu den theologisch-politischen Vorstellungen 

im Esra-Nehemia Buch, by Christiane Karrer. BZAW 308. Berlin/New York: de 

Gruyter, 2001. Pp. x + 488. €108.00. 

The Covenant Renewal in Ezra-Nehemiah (Neh 7:72B–10:40): An Exegetical, Literary 

and Theological Study, by Michael W. Duggan. SBLDS 164. Atlanta: Society of Biblical 

Literature, 2001. Pp. xii + 372. $49.95. 

The two monographs reviewed here are recent contributions to the growing field 

of Persian-period studies in general, focusing in particular on the community of Yehud

Book Reviews 

as described and envisioned by Ezra-Nehemiah in particular. Ever since interest in the 

fifth and fourth centuries began to rise over a decade ago, the kind of research that characterized 

many Persian-period studies tended to be deliberately conscious of ideological 

factors and often utilized social-scientific insights and methods. In general, there has 

been an overall shift away from concerns with individuals (Ezra, Nehemiah, Zerubbabel, 

etc.) and their achievements or even the historical origin of specific conflicts toward 

the rhetorical representation of social structures or constitutive elements in the religious 

and political infrastructure of Persian Yehud. Similarly, the two studies at hand—both of 

which are revised versions of dissertations written at the University of Kiel and the 

Catholic University of America respectively—also exemplify the general trend toward 

social structures and rhetorical representation, while making significant unique contributions 

to the study of the society and literature of Yehud in the Persian period. Karrer 

utilizes sociological and political theory in her exegesis to discuss the concept of Yehud’s 

sociopolitical structure or “constitution” (Verfassung) in Ezra-Nehemiah, while Duggan 

offers a close literary reading of the covenant renewal (Neh 7:72b–10:40) as a key text 

for the literary and theological program of Ezra-Nehemiah. 

Christiane Karrer advances the thesis that the political structure that characterized 

in either a real or desired form the society of postexilic Yehud had a significant impact 

on the development of the book of Ezra-Nehemiah, and that different segments of the 

book reflect different stages of composition as well as different interpretations of the 

idea of Yehud’s social and political constitution (p. 1). Two central ideas emerge from 

this thesis. First, the book of Ezra-Nehemiah can and should be read diachronically; the 

different segments of the text not only point to different authors or editors for the book’s 

literary sources but also propose different social and theological ideologies. As a point of 

comparison for the negotiation of different ideologies within a single text, Karrer refers 

to the origins of the monarchy as described in 1 Sam 7–12 (pp. 16–19). Second, Karrer 

utilizes the semantic ambivalence inherent in term “constitution” (Verfassung), which 

signifies both a prescriptive (ideal) state of existence of a community (constitution in the 

legal sense) and a concrete, descriptive one (the actual state or constitution that characterized 

a community; pp. 2–6). Rather than trying to resolve this ambivalence, she proposes 

an exploration of the semantic potential of this term by juxtaposing the tensions 

that emerge between the ideal and the concrete in Ezra-Nehemiah. Thus, the text both 

describes what constitutes the community of postexilic Yehud, while also advocating a 

specific vision of what should constitute the ideal community. Significantly, this vision is 

not uniform throughout Ezra-Nehemiah, which contains at least three different sociopolitical 

ideologies that are negotiated within the canonical text of the book. 

Following an extensive review of scholarship (pp. 21–63), Karrer’s analysis proceeds 

in two main stages. The first stage (ch. 2) describes the impossibility of constructing 

a consistent image of Yehud’s sociopolitical constitution through a linear reading of 

the text. Karrer begins her analysis with a lexical analysis of the key terms used to 

describe political or social entities in Ezra-Nehemiah. Her analysis of these terms correlates 

to a comprehensive schematization of Ezra-Nehemiah on the basis of grammatical 

agency (Aktantenanalyse) provided in the appendix of Karrer’s book (pp. 379–456), 

designed to facilitate a careful analysis of the Hebrew and Aramaic terminology. Karrer 

concludes that such an analysis reveals the existence of different conceptions regarding 

the people of Judah or Jerusalem as well as the understanding of other social and ethnic 

groups or political offices. A subsequent review of the text in its entirety (pp. 107–24) 

751


also suggests that a linear reading of the book does not lead to a consistent understanding 

of these social and political entities and that a more diachronically oriented approach 

to the topic may be required to identify the existence of more coherent ideological systems 

regarding the idea of constitution in Ezra-Nehemiah. 

This conclusion opens the way for the second stage of Karrer’s analysis, which is 

subdivided into three distinct sections (chs. 3, 4, and 5) and which demonstrates the 

existence of three distinct ideological visions represented respectively by the Nehemiah 

source, the Ezra source, and the editorial framework unifying these two components. 

Central to her reading is a clear definition of the textual basis for each of these literary 

components, which is followed in each case by an examination of their respective sociopolitical 

structures. Beginning with the Nehemiah source, which she understands to be 

the earliest of the three texts and to which she assigns Neh 1:1–75b, 12:27–43, 13:4–31, 

she notes that within this text certain coherent features do in fact emerge. Specifically, 

the designation of the people as Judahites (!ydwhy) includes both people within and outside 

the boundaries of Yehud (p. 152). Furthermore, she observes that there is no exclusive 

understanding of the gôlâ as the sole representatives of the community, since there 

is no reference to a return of exiles in the Nehemiah source (p. 153). Ethnicity thus 

emerges as a defining parameter for the people of Yehud (pp. 154–61) and interaction 

with foreigners is kept to a minimum (p. 189). Regarding the distribution of power, 

Karrer notes that the governor (hjp) is the only one whose rights are specifically 

defined, and the position is presented as the highest political office, occupied by 

Nehemiah himself (p, 165). The two main themes of the Nehemiah source are therefore 

the external separation of Judah from non-Judahites and the internal centralization of 

power in the office and person of Nehemiah (p. 195). 

Karrer’s discussion of the Ezra source includes Ezra 7:6a–c, 7:28b–d, 8:15–34, 

9:1–10:44, Neh 8:1–18, but is primarily focused on Ezra 9–10 and Neh 8 (p. 240). Contrary 

to the Nehemiah source, it understands the community exclusively as the returning 

gôlâ and refers to it typically as “Israel” (pp. 240–43), while its presentation of the 

distribution of power suggests a more decentralized system of administration, highlighting 

the position of the !yrc (officials, leaders, pp. 241–42). Karrer proposes that Ezra 

9–10 (the mixed marriage crisis) can be read as a paradigmatic protocol for the resolution 

of conflict facing the community in which problems are addressed by a skilled 

expert (Ezra the scribe), solutions are proposed by the people’s officials (!yrc), and the 

resolution is executed by the people’s assembly (lhq; pp. 243–51). According to this theory 

of Yehud’s sociopolitical constitution, political power moves out from the office of an 

authoritative individual to a representative body that acts on the recommendation of a 

legal/religious expert, skilled in the book of Torah, who assumes the foremost legislative 

authority in the ideological system of the Ezra source (p. 265). Even the identity of foreigners 

is primarily defined in religious terms (p. 271). Given the centrality of religious 

terminology in this textual segment, Karrer appropriately concludes her analysis of the 

Ezra source with a discussion of J. P. Weinberg’s theory of the citizen-temple community 

as well as J. Blenkinsopp’s revision of this theory (pp. 282–83). She argues that such 

a hypothesis could indeed match her assessment of Ezra-Nehemiah and that her reading 

of the Ezra source in particular may indeed suggest an attempted counter-argument 

to the sociopolitical ideology of the Nehemiah source by returning members of the gôlâ 

who attempted to establish a temple-based citizen community. In any case, the text of

Book Reviews 

Ezra-Nehemiah suggests that the realization of such a community did not proceed without 

conflicts (p. 283). 

The last chapter of Karrer’s analysis concerns the editorial framework as well as 

the overarching ideology of the text of Ezra-Nehemiah in its entirety (Gesamtkomposition) 

independent of the sociopolitical structures envisioned by the Nehemiah and Ezra 

sources (pp. 284–378). The textual basis for this analysis is in effect the entire book of 

Ezra-Nehemiah, including the lists found in Ezra 2, Neh 7:6–72b, 11:21–12:26, which 

match the ideology represented by the Hebrew narrative frame of Ezra 1–6 (Ezra 

1:1–4:6; 6:16–22). As one might expect, the sociopolitical structure that emerges here is 

one that mediates between the two positions represented by the two main sources. The 

integration of the Nehemiah and Ezra sources into the larger narrative structure effects 

an expanded image of the community as comprised of returning exiles (erweiterte Rückkehrergemeinschaft), 

including both secular and cultic sectors, a diarchy, so to speak, 

which is further reflected in the combined leadership of Jeshua and Zerubbabel in Ezra 

1–6 (p. 317). As the text unfolds, the significance of these two figures moves into the 

background and the leadership is gradually shifted toward the people in general (p. 

322). The temple (i.e., the sacrificial cult) emerges as the institutional medium between 

the community and the Achaemenid rulers, signifying Yehud’s autonomy with regard to 

its neighbors as Persian imperial representation (p. 333), establishing important symbolic 

links to the preexilic institutions of temple and monarchy, while presenting these 

two themes in an entirely new way (p. 351). In doing so, the overarching sociopolitical 

structure of Ezra-Nehemiah suggests a very specific view of history which takes into 

account the uniqueness implicit in the political situation of Yehud as a province in the 

larger Persian empire, while maintaining the element of continuity with Judah’s past 

(p. 374). 

Karrer’s most significant contribution to the interpretation of Ezra-Nehemiah lies 

in her appreciation of the book’s ideological complexity. Her rejection of a single coherent 

sociopolitical structure characterizing the book is well argued, and her reading of the 

text as a negotiation of two separate political visions through the mediation of an overarching 

editorial framework responds positively to the ideological tensions contained in 

Ezra-Nehemiah. Perhaps the greatest danger inherent in such an approach is a potential 

circular logic with regard to the division of sources, which could be defined on the basis 

of a particular ideological structure and in turn used to support the idea of a coherent 

ideology characteristic of a particular textual segment. However, Karrer’s discussion is 

nuanced and well placed within the context of contemporary interpretations, thus generally 

avoiding this particular problem. Only her definition of the Ezra source appears 

somewhat forced, but her conclusions regarding the Ezra material as a text that is critical 

of centralized political power, which can be read as a counterposition to the Nehemiah 

story, is cogently argued and matches the conclusions of, e.g., T. C. Eskenazi, 

whose name is perhaps surprisingly absent from this particular part of Karrer’s analysis. 

One aspect that should have received more attention is the influence of Persian imperial 

policies on social and religious developments in postexilic Yehud. Karrer acknowledges 

the imperial context of Achaemenid hegemony over Yehud, presupposing a certain 

amount of flexibility (Freiraum) for the development of local, political organization (p. 

14), and she discusses the contributions of other studies to this subject, (e.g., T. Willi, P. 

Frei, and Rütterswörden on the German scene and K. C. Hoglund and E. Stern in the 

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English-language literature; pp. 26–49). Nevertheless, insights from these discussions 

have relatively little representation in the exegetical portion of her book. With regard to 

methodology, an insightful aspect of Karrer’s study is the underlying understanding of 

the sociopolitical structure or Verfassung of Yehud as both descriptive and prescriptive. 

Her attempt to engage rather than overcome this inherent semantic ambiguity (which is 

perhaps somewhat more effective in German than it is in English) bears much potential 

and to some extent parallels similar approaches in the discipline of cultural studies, in 

particular the interpretation of states and nations as imagined communities, a discourse 

that is not addressed in this book. This idea could have received more explicit attention 

in the analytic sections of Karrer’s discussion. It is specifically discussed only in the 

introduction of the book, although it contributes to the methodological assumptions that 

govern the study as a whole. 

While Karrer’s study is decidedly diachronic in its reading of Ezra-Nehemiah, 

Duggan’s analysis of the covenant renewal ceremony in Neh 7:72b–10:40 is explicitly 

synchronic and literary in its orientation. He suggests that the text in question provides a 

hermeneutical key to the book of Ezra-Nehemiah as a whole. Methodologically, Duggan’s 

approach is still relatively rare in Ezra-Nehemiah studies, which has prompted significantly 

more social-scientific studies and which has not experienced the same 

proliferation of literary interpretations as other parts of the biblical canon. Duggan 

points out that while several studies incorporate elements of synchronic analysis (pp. 

38–48), diachronic approaches clearly dominate the field, and Eskenazi’s study (published 

now almost fifteen years ago) is still the most significant engagement of Ezra- 

Nehemiah as literature (pp. 48–56). The reluctance to engage Neh 7:72b–10:40 

synchronically is directly tied to the traditional inclusion of Neh 8 with a hypothetical 

Ezra source, since it deals with the character of Ezra and interrupts the story of Nehemiah’s 

reforms. Furthermore, the penitential (historical) Psalm of Neh 9 (called “the 

Levites’ prayer” in Duggan’s study) has often been seen as having a distinct compositional 

origin from other material in Ezra-Nehemiah, and shifts from first-person memoir 

to third-person narrative in the text have generally been seen as literary ruptures 

indicating seams at which the different components of the text have been patched 

together. Duggan does not deny the value of such diachronic speculations and provides 

an extensive discussion of existing theories (pp. 1–37). Nevertheless, he suggests that 

much can be gained from a synchronic reading of the text as well and points out that 

“[n]either the memoir nor the narrative account constitutes a complete story in itself. 

Only the combination of the two provides a narrative whole. The problem of marriage 

with foreigners that first arises in the autobiographical section (9:1–4) is resolved in the 

narrative section (10:9–44)” (p. 14). 

Before beginning his analysis of the covenant renewal account, Duggan presents 

an outline of the book of Ezra-Nehemiah as a whole in order to contextualize his subsequent 

analysis. He notes that the joint appearance of Ezra and Nehemiah suggested by 

Neh 8:9, which has always presented a problem for historical analyses of the text and 

which has prompted the association of Neh 8 with the Ezra source, fulfills an important 

literary function in a synchronic reading of the text. It serves to highlight the central 

importance of the covenant renewal account for the book as a whole, and serves as the 

defining moment for the postexilic community. “The mission of Ezra and Nehemiah

Book Reviews 

converge precisely at this point when they are mentioned together for the first time” 

(p. 67). Duggan then discusses the delimitation as well as the overall structure of the 

covenant renewal account, which he suggests proceeds in three distinct stages, of which 

the last is again subdivided into two subunits (p. 75): (A) Ezra reads the Torah (7:72b– 

8:12); (B) the leaders study the Torah (8:13–18); (C.1) the people read the Torah (9:1– 

37); (C.2) the people express commitment to the Torah (10:1–40). This structure, he 

argues, indicates the linear progression from Ezra to the community’s leaders and finally 

to the people of the community, which Duggan goes on to demonstrate in greater detail 

for each of the text’s subunits. 

Duggan’s analysis is structured as a careful reading of the text divided on the basis 

of its individual subunits: the public reading of the law by Ezra (Neh 7:72b–8:12) and 

the celebration of the Festival of Booths (8:13–18), the penitential rite initiated by the 

Levites (9:1–5), the Levites’ Prayer (9:6–37), and the covenant commitment (10:1–40). 

Each section is introduced by a translation with textual critical notes, followed by a literary 

analysis focused on the text’s internal structure, which notes chiastic patterns, parallel 

formulations and dynamic progressions, and a lexical examination, which considers 

significant key terms and expressions, often with reference to intertextual connections 

to other parts of the biblical canon. Since the covenant renewal account involves a public 

reading of the law, Duggan is particularly interested in the links between this text and 

the legal material of the Pentateuch. Each section is concluded by a thematic summary. 

The only exception to this procedural pattern is found in Duggan’s reading of the 

Levites’ Psalm, the longest and most pivotal subsection of the covenant renewal 

account. Here the lexical examination is replaced by a careful line by line analysis of 

every significant expression of the prayer (pp. 200–225) and a comparative form-critical 

analysis of the prayer in light of other historical as well as penitential psalms in the 

Hebrew Bible. By uniting these two genres, Duggan suggests, Neh 9 effects a particular 

view of history, largely infused by Deuteronomic theology, which contextualizes the 

need for penance in a larger historical scheme. This is achieved most significantly by 

reaching back “beyond the origins of trouble in the land to the wilderness era, the exodus, 

the covenant with Abraham and ultimately the beginning of creation” (p. 229). The 

prayer thus serves to expand the historical understanding of the people and to bring 

about a new, positive vision of the future. “[T]he exile is no longer the central event for 

defining the people in terms of their history, past and present (Neh 9:30–31, 32–37; cf. 

Ezra 9:7–8, 14–15); the covenant with Abraham (9:8a; cf. 32b)—including its promise of 

the land (9:8b–d, cf. 9:15c–d, 22–25, 36b)—is now the focal point of history” (p. 229). 

The natural conclusion of this development is the ratification of the new covenant by the 

people, as described in Neh 10:1–40, which marks a conscious turning away from the 

rebellious patterns of the people’s ancestors (p. 289). 

Duggan’s analysis suggests a dynamic unfolding of theological themes throughout 

the covenant renewal account. He draws special attention to three conclusions that 

emerge from his analysis. The first relates to the people’s relationship to the Torah, 

which is marked by a developing acquaintance and increasing appropriation. The people 

hear the Torah in an oral reading (8:12), the leaders study the Torah (8:13–18), the 

people read the Torah in their attempt at communal self-definition (9:1–5), and the people 

commit to the Torah’s principles and stipulations (10:1–40) (pp. 295–96). Second, 

755


Duggan argues that the covenant renewal account signifies the growth of democracy, 

unity, and autonomy for the community, especially as the community separates itself 

from all foreigners (9:2) (p. 296). Finally, the covenant renewal account marks a change 

in leadership, which is decentralized from Ezra to the community leaders, resulting in a 

“commingling of secular and clerical categories among the eighty-four signatories” (p. 

297). Related to the last two points is an earlier observation, which is not specifically singled 

out in the conclusion, namely, the decrease of Persian authority over the affairs of 

the community. Duggan notes that following the covenant renewal account “the Persian 

kings do not issue edicts that determine the course of history in Judah (cf. Neh 13:6–7). 

Instead, the stipulations that the community proclaims provide the basis for Nehemiah’s 

subsequent work of reform (10:31–40; cf. 13:4–31)” (p. 289). This idea is intriguing, 

although the fact that this text appears toward the end of Ezra-Nehemiah does not leave 

a very large textual basis on which to base such a conclusion. The covenant renewal 

account could be seen not only as a pivotal event, but also as the culmination of the 

book’s plot development, in which case the idea of a decrease in Persian hegemony after 

the covenant renewal account is not entirely convincing. 

Given the relative lack of literary approaches to Ezra-Nehemiah, Duggan’s study is 

a welcome contribution to the study of this text. However, his claim that the covenant 

renewal account is the crux of interpretation for the whole work (p. 1, emphasis added) 

may be exaggerated. Depending on what questions one brings to the text, one’s expectations 

as well as one’s methodology will necessarily differ. Certainly for studies with a 

more historical or sociological orientation, such a reading may not necessarily be appropriate, 

and some studies may benefit from a more diachronic approach to the text (as, 

e.g., Karrer’s book demonstrates). For example, it would be rather misleading if one 

were to reconstruct historical developments (e.g., a possible decline in Persian authority 

in Yehud at a given point in history) on the basis of this analysis. However, these are not 

the questions Duggan brings to the text, and given the parameters he provides for his 

study, his exegesis emerges as a cogent and well-crafted reading. If anything, his reading 

could be seen as somewhat too neat and coherent. He himself suggests in his critical 

appreciation of Eskenazi’s contribution to the study of Ezra-Nehemiah: “. . . the very 

tidiness of Eskenazi’s work alerts the critic to its limitations, namely, of imposing a predetermined 

construct upon the text” (p. 54). While the charge of imposing a predetermined 

structure cannot be applied to Duggan’s reading, which does exhibit much 

literary flexibility and attentiveness to the text, there are places where one might expect 

a few more loose ends or a greater allowance for ideological complexity. In particular, 

Duggan’s view of Judahite ethnicity, which plays a relatively significant part in the unification 

of the community during the covenant renewal account, is more stable than many 

recent studies of ethnicity would allow, ones that suggest that identity is always a highly 

contested discourse. Nevertheless, the book is an extremely valuable study of the 

covenant renewal account in Nehemiah, which demonstrates successfully that a synchronic 

reading of Ezra-Nehemiah is possible, albeit not exclusively binding, and that 

the shifts and ruptures of the text need not present obstacles, but can indeed be used 

constructively in the interpretation of the book. As such, Duggan’s study is one of the 

most significant literary contributions to the study of Ezra-Nehemiah since Eskenazi’s 

In an Age of Prose (Scholars Press, 1988). 

Armin Siedlecki, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322

Book Reviews 

Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus: A Re-examination of the Evidence, by Jonathan L. 

Reed. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2000. Pp. xiii + 253. $30.00. 

Crossing Galilee: Architectures of Contact in the Occupied Land of Jesus, by Marianne 

Sawicki. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2000. Pp. vii + 260. $23.00. 

Jesus and the Village Scribes: Galilean Conflicts and the Setting of Q, by William E. 

Arnal. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001. Pp. xiv + 290. $26.00. 

This review examines three books in the field of Christian origins that employ 

recent archaeological discoveries and modern sociological theories in their respective 

historical reconstructions of the setting of Jesus. Integral to each book is the common 

interest in the ways in which the Herodian building projects, especially the establishment 

of the cities of Sepphoris and Tiberias in Galilee, could have impacted Jesus and 

his movement in the region. Based on the work of Reed, Sawicki, and Arnal, scholars 

interested in questions related to historical Jesus studies are compelled to be as aware of 

the material culture of Roman Galilee as the textual remains of the Gospels, Josephus, 

and the Mishnah. Each volume makes a persuasive argument for the necessity of integrating 

archaeological and literary studies and illustrates the role that anthropological 

and sociological theories play in this process. The authors provide a multitude of compelling, 

sometimes contentious analyses of the setting of Jesus that demonstrate the 

indispensable role that interdisciplinary studies will play in any serious attempt to reconstruct 

the earliest phase of Christian origins. 

Owing in part to his extensive field experience at Capernaum and Sepphoris, 

Jonathan L. Reed’s Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus demonstrates the contribution 

archaeology has made to our reconstructions of the setting of Jesus. By beginning with 

questions generated from Galilean archaeology, rather than starting with questions that 

arise from the textual material, Reed often provides innovative and insightful reconstructions 

of the setting of Jesus. Except for the introductory and concluding chapters, 

each chapter integrates textual studies with the material culture remains excavated in 

Galilee in order to answer specific questions about the setting of Jesus. Reed deliberately 

and “unabashedly” favors the archaeological data and describes the basic pattern of 

each chapter as first examining “an archaeological profile” before sketching “the implications 

for the Gospel and historical Jesus research” (p. 20). Reed’s conscious attempt to 

begin with questions that derive from archaeology makes this book an important contribution 

to historical Jesus studies. 

Chapter 1 serves as the introduction and provides an excursus on how archaeological 

material from early Roman Galilee has the potential further to impact our reconstructions 

of the historical Jesus. After examining the earlier “quests,” Reed situates his 

project clearly within the bounds of the “third wave” of Jesus research, in which the 

sociopolitical environment of Galilee is central to the interpretation of Jesus. Owing to 

the inability of ancient texts to provide a reliable picture of the early Roman Galilean 

context, archaeological evidence must be used to fill in our reconstruction of everyday 

life in antiquity. 

Chapters 2 and 3 comprise the largest section of the book and establish Reed’s 

position regarding several contentious issues about the demography of Galilee. In ch. 2, 

Reed begins his more detailed analysis of the setting of Jesus with questions about the 

ethnic and religious identity of the Galileans. By observing settlement patterns and spe- 

757


cific elements from the material culture that suggest links to Judea (especially 

Jerusalem), he argues that Judean colonizers who moved to Galilee during the early 

Roman period were the primary occupants of Galilee. Relying heavily on the archaeological 

survey of Lower Galilee conducted by Zvi Gal (The Lower Galilee during the 

Iron Age, 1992), he shows that Galilee was virtually abandoned during the seventh and 

sixth centuries B.C.E. The Assyrian conquest, followed by mass deportations, appears to 

be confirmed by the rare material remains for at least two centuries after 732 B.C.E. This 

archaeological evidence suggests that there was no continuous “Israelite” culture in the 

region from which Jesus and his first followers were descended (contra A. Alt and, more 

recently, R. Horsley and M. Sawicki). Reed also dismisses the theory of E. Schürer, who 

posited that the Galileans were Gentiles (most likely Itureans) converted to Judaism 

under the Hasmoneans. By observing the settlement types and pottery that are extant 

from the Persian through Late Hellenistic periods, Reed argues that there is no evidence 

for an Iturean population moving into the area of Galilee. Rather, based on four 

“indicators of Jewish religious identity” that have been found in both Galilean and 

Judean domestic space([1] chalk (stone) vessels; [2] stepped, plastered pools [identified 

as miqwaµ

Book Reviews 

estimates, but also to establish the notion “that high population numbers are not a 

cipher for Hellenism” (p. 66). 

After a thorough explanation of the methodology used to determine population 

numbers in antiquity (pp. 69–77), Reed deduces the population figures for Sepphoris 

(8,000–12,000), Tiberias (6,000–12,000), Capernaum (maximum 1,700), Nazareth 

(maximum 400), and several other Galilean sites. The estimates are very reasonable and 

should become the scholarly standard. Since both Sepphoris and Tiberias underwent 

the majority of their growth in the Herodian period (at the time Jesus was in the region), 

the remainder of the chapter deals with what the implications of the urban development 

would have been for the traditional peasant population living in the rural villages, and 

what the implications might be for historical Jesus studies. The development of the 

Herodian centers has become the dominant point of discussion for scholars interested 

in the setting of Jesus (this is also recognized in the work of Sawicki and Arnal below). 

Reed’s evidence for the urban centers causing a worse condition for the “peasants’ relative 

state of deprivation” (p. 97) is meticulous, and sets the bar high for anyone who 

wants to argue that the rise of large urban centers was of benefit to the rural peasants. 

He summarizes this condition as follows, “This placed an economic strain on Galilean 

peasants, added stress to families and challenged current values, and created new ruralurban 

dynamics” (p. 96). Based on this conclusion, Reed examines numerous sayings of 

Jesus that appear to appeal directly to the peasants’ economic state and ideological 

worldview. 

Chapter 4 examines a wide array of arguments concerned with the issue of how the 

rise of Sepphoris could have impacted the Galilee, with particular attention to the relationship 

between the city and the teachings of Jesus. Since the full archaeological 

reports from the excavations at Sepphoris are yet to be published, Reed’s summary of 

the ancient city in this chapter provides a plethora of useful information. He notes that 

scholars have often associated the city with “Hellenism” and thus considered it to be at 

odds with the “Judaism” of Jesus. For the remainder of the chapter, Reed argues against 

this rigid dichotomy and aims to advance the discussion beyond the basic questions of 

Jesus’ itinerary by stressing exploration related to topographical, political, economic, 

and ethnic factors related to the growth of the city and its impact on the Galileans. In 

conclusion, he returns to the question of Jesus’ relation to the city and proposes two theories: 

(1) “it is likely that Jesus on occasion ventured into Sepphoris during his youth,” 

and (2) “if anything, it would have been Antipas’s power that kept him from Sepphoris 

during his ministry” (p. 138). These intriguing conclusions leave the door open for scholars 

to explore this topic further. 

Chapter 5 provides a detailed analysis of the Roman-period city of Capernaum. 

Since Capernaum is so frequently mentioned in the Gospels, yet virtually unknown outside 

of the NT, it is on the opposite end of the spectrum from Sepphoris. Rather than 

ask why Jesus is not linked to the city, Reed now must be concerned with why Jesus 

selected this site as his operational center. Capernaum is characterized by Reed as “a 

slight step up from Nazareth,” in that it would have contained a wider spectrum of economic 

possibilities (from low-level bureaucrats to beggars) than a small peasant village. 

With access to the lake and an interregional road connecting it to Tiberias, Caesarea 

Philippi, and Damascus, the site would have been well situated for some trade and traffic 

connections. Nevertheless, Reed stresses that Capernaum was not well suited for 

759


major international contacts, since most of the traffic would have used the King’s Highway 

that passed on the East side of Lake Kinneret. Similarly, Capernaum is found to be 

a rather “unimportant and peripheral” political participant in Galilee. Thus, as to why 

Jesus may have used this site as his “hub,” Reed concludes that Capernaum offered 

more opportunities than a small peasant village (like Nazareth), without the social and 

political pressures that were found in the large urban centers (like Sepphoris and 

Tiberias). 

The final two studies included in the book are more directly related to understanding 

the context and message of the “Sayings Gospel Q” within early Roman Galilee. 

Based on his study of the place-names, urban and spatial imagery, ideological stance 

toward Tyre and Jerusalem, and various theological themes found in Q, in ch. 6 Reed 

concludes that the most likely setting for Q was the villages of early Roman Galilee. 

Chapter 7 is a detailed analysis on the Sign of Jonah saying from Q (Matt 12:40–42 and 

Luke 11:29–32) within a Galilean setting. In this chapter, Reed provides a thought-provoking 

study of why a comparison between Jonah and Jesus would have been particularly 

fitting in Galilee, the homeland of both “prophets.” Reed concludes, “there are 

tantalizing hints that in Galilee the comparison with Jonah included both a component 

of openness to Gentiles and a critical edge toward Jerusalem, both important themes in 

Q’s theology” (p. 211). While these two chapters use a different methodology (focusing 

primarily on literary material and using archaeology secondarily), they provide further 

examples of the potential that this interdisciplinary approach can have for historical 

Jesus studies. 

One of the advantages of reading Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus in conjunction 

with the work of Sawicki and Arnal is the possibility for comparison of both their 

methodologies and results. Reed’s ability to construct an archaeological profile of several 

of the key sites from early Roman Galilee has supplied scholars with a wealth of 

material to use in their reconstructions of the setting of Jesus. Yet, while Reed acknowledges 

the need for and consistently utilizes sociological and anthropological theories in 

interpreting his archaeological data (pp. 20–21), some readers will be disappointed to 

find a relatively modest discussion of the models he employs. In distinction from Reed’s 

routinely implicit use of models, Marianne Sawicki’s work is primarily focused on the 

explication and development of models that will allow for the interpretation of the 

archaeological and literary data. In fact, in many respects the present contribution of 

Sawicki is a challenge to NT scholars to continue to develop theoretical models that can 

account for the rise of Christianity. Crossing Galilee: Architectures of Contact in the 

Occupied Land of Jesus is a thorough attempt to clarify the theoretical model that Sawicki 

has been developing for at least a decade (five of the nine chapters have appeared 

earlier in various forms). Sawicki provides a thought-provoking and often controversial 

reconstruction of life in the Galilee during the early Roman period. 

In ch. 1, Sawicki calls for those who are interested in the “meanings of Jesus,” to 

use an “indigenous Israelite logic of circulation and containment.” The latter phrase, 

while never succinctly defined, is the uniting element of the following eight chapters. 

Rather than develop and use theories that have been refined by studying cultures from 

other times and places, Sawicki argues that those interested in the historical Jesus must 

apply a theory that derives primarily from the “Galilean built environment.” The cultural 

theory that will best describe the actual setting of first-century Galilee is one that

Book Reviews 

“may be read off of urban, village, and lakeside ruins, in doorsteps, highways, fortifications, 

and floor plans.” While encouraging the use of cross-cultural comparison in our 

reconstructions of first-century Galilee, Sawicki is quick to warn against using sociological 

theories that are too similar to our own modern backgrounds. In this regard she is 

critical of attempts by NT scholars to impose models such as the Mediterranean “honorshame 

template” on life in the villages visited by Jesus. 

Chapter 2, “Containment Designs in the Kinneret Region,” begins the explanation 

of the author’s indigenous circulation model. Sawicki suggests that by studying the 

archaeological remains one can begin to reconstruct the “perceived reality” of the firstcentury 

Galileans. By observing the material culture of the “built environment,” such as 

the way a door to a house worked in ancient Galilee, the way water was contained and 

circulated, and the location of the harbors on Lake Kinneret, Sawicki argues that there is 

a certain congruence that is observable. Close scrutiny of the architecture and city/village 

planning reveals “an indigenous logic of containment and selective opening.” In ch. 

3, Sawicki expands the field of investigation to include ideas of kinship found in the 

Mishnah and circulation patterns found in the Jerusalem temple. She concludes that 

there is a reconstructable pattern of circulation, founded in ancient Israel on the concepts 

of stableness and fluidity, that was significantly disrupted during the Herodian-led 

Roman colonization of Palestine. Architectural and literary remains suggest an indigenous 

concern to ground or stabilize containers so that they would not go wrong. Patterns 

of movement and containment in the house, temple, and village were directed by rules 

and pathways that grounded everything, including open pots, married and unmarried 

women, lineages, priests, and water. 

In ch. 4, Sawicki reviews in detail the positive and negative consequences of constructing 

and using models. The chapter contains a helpful summary of the main goal of 

the book: “a spatial interpretation of Galilee, couched in terms of the indigenous logic of 

circulation, supplies something that is lacking in all three of the predominant ‘modeling’ 

strategies: . . . economic-conflict models, gender-ideological conflict models, and honorshame 

models. None of those earlier modeling programs has been able to show how 

human beings, including Jesus of Nazareth, were able to exert individual and collective 

agency by means of their common built environment, through competent and creative 

use of their common spaces” (pp. 61–62). 

In chs. 5 and 6, Sawicki returns to her description of the indigenous circulation 

patterns and begins to show how they were disrupted by the colonial efforts of the firstcentury 

Romans and then rebuilt by the rabbis of the later centuries. The many Herodian 

building projects, the development of the Roman road system, the construction of 

baths and markets in the cities, and the rebuilding of the Jerusalem temple are examples 

of the ways the Romans attempted to reorganize the indigenous patterns as they “physically 

and psychologically colonized the land.” In response, the indigenous Jewish leaders 

developed new architectural formats that served as a means of resistance to the colonizers. 

The bet midrash, the miqveh, and the synagogue zodiac are understood by Sawicki 

to have been innovations that offered “symbolic resistance to the incursions of empire.” 

The next three chapters offer the reader the most speculative, controversial, yet 

often thought-provoking aspects of the book. Sawicki proposes several theories regarding 

the way that women in particular were influential in the rise and spread of early 

Christianity. Often working with very scarce literary evidence, Sawicki proposes various 

761


theories regarding the family background of Jesus, the relationship between Mary and 

Joanna, the key role of Joanna (“Herodian dignitary”) and Mary Magdalene (a traveling, 

anti-Herodian businesswoman) in the Jesus movement. Even more speculative, Sawicki 

suggests the possibility that Jesus was employed in the Herodian building projects of 

Tiberias, that he “may have first functioned as an exorcist under the sponsorship of the 

Herodians,” and, based on the Gospel of Luke, that he “was taken for a Herodian protégé, 

or at least a Herodian subject, by the civil authority in Jerusalem.” The most 

unconvincing suggestion proposes a context for the theory that a Roman soldier raped 

Mary prior to her marriage to Joseph. Interjected into these reconstructions of the life of 

Jesus and his first followers in Galilee and Jerusalem, Sawicki provides several interesting 

ideas about the way in which the Jesus movement, in contrast to the rabbis spoken of 

in the Mishnah, responded to the colonizing pressures of the Romans. 

Some readers may find the final chapter, “Bibliographical Commentary,” to be of 

great benefit. While the reader may often be frustrated with the lack of direct references 

to recent scholarship (author’s names are provided, but no titles or dates appear in 

the body of the work, except in ch. 4), the bibliography is a useful resource for identifying 

not only the sources, but what Sawicki understands to be the value or problem with 

the secondary material. In this regard, the final chapter is not without its own controversies 

due to often harsh critiques of scholars who have used other anthropological and 

sociological models in their reconstructions of earliest Christianity. 

Due to Sawicki’s keen interest in the theoretical issues surrounding the reconstruction 

of the setting of Jesus, this study is a noteworthy addition to the literature on 

early Roman Galilee. There are several shortfalls in the study, mainly related to the difficulties 

involved in developing a “new” model that both derives from and seeks to 

explain the Galilean setting when there is still relatively little published evidence about 

daily life in the region. Sawicki’s work would likely be of more value if she had available 

all the data that is presented in Reed’s Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus. For instance, 

rather than rely on evidence that is not from the early first century in Galilee as data for 

her model (for example: the Jerusalem temple, the Mishnah, and a sixth-century C.E. 

village house at Qatzrin), more detailed evidence from first-century Capernaum would 

strengthen the argument. Sawicki’s discussion of travel patterns in the region and the 

often referenced “indigenous,” “Israelite” inhabitants of Galilee would also benefit from 

more careful analysis. For instance, how is the term “Israelite” meaningful in the early 

Roman Galilean context in light of Reed’s convincing critique of an indigenous Israelite 

population in the region? Nevertheless, by providing a study that is so profoundly 

explicit about the need for and use of models in our reconstructions of the setting of 

Jesus, Sawicki presents a significant challenge to anyone interested in the so-called 

“third quest” for the historical Jesus. 

The final work on early Roman Galilee is William E. Arnal’s Jesus and the Village 

Scribes: Galilean Conflicts and the Setting of Q. The study is an updated version of 

Arnal’s 1997 University of Toronto dissertation, completed under the supervision of 

John Kloppenborg. Like Reed and Sawicki, Arnal is heavily indebted to recent archaeological 

discoveries in the Galilee. The key component of his reconstruction of early 

Roman Galilee is the socioeconomic impact of the Herodian building projects. While 

the main thesis of the book is more confined than those of Reed and Sawicki, he provides 

a useful example of how careful attention to the social, political, and economic

Book Reviews 

conditions of Galilee can improve our reconstructions of Jesus’ early followers. For 

Arnal, the main question concerns the makeup of the group responsible for Q. The book 

is essentially divided into two parts. Chapters 1 through 3 provide a detailed analysis 

(and discrediting) of the hypothesis that Q (or any early Christian literature) attests to 

the presence of itinerant preachers in the nascent Jesus movement. Chapters 4 and 5 

present an insightful argument for Arnal’s alternative hypothesis: that Q is the product 

of a group of Galilean village scribes, a theory first proposed by Kloppenborg a decade 

ago. On the whole, the book is well conceived as a model of interdisciplinary work. Arnal 

combines archaeology, literary criticism, and sociological theory in order to produce a 

timely contribution to the field of Christian origins. 

In the introduction, Arnal not only establishes the basic tenets of the study; he 

offers a justification for NT scholars to give more weight to Q scholarship. That the existence 

of Q is a hypothesis should not detract from its value to the study of Christian origins. 

All NT scholarship is based on hypotheses; they are the guiding principles of all 

scientific research. Thus, Arnal observes, “The problem with Q is not that it does not 

exist but that it tends to call into question some of the cherished historical conclusions of 

the last four or five decades of New Testament scholarship” (p. 4). Similarly, Arnal 

explains and defends his use of a stratified model of Q that is based on the work of Kloppenborg 

(Q 1 : formative stratum, Q 2 : redactional stratum, and Q 3 : late additions and 

glosses). He notes that the criticism of the stratification thesis is not based on a difficulty 

with its methodology or results, “but rather its implications for the historical Jesus and 

the earliest development of Christianity” (p. 7). Since most of the sayings with which 

Arnal is concerned (those containing the “rhetoric of uprootedness”) are found in the 

formative stratum of Q, the theory of Q-stratigraphy is a central tenet of his thesis. 

The body of the study begins with several investigations into the origins and proliferation 

of the itinerancy hypothesis. Tracing the hypothesis to A. von Harnack’s 1884 

commentary on the Didache, Arnal connects the idea that itinerant prophets were central 

figures in the earliest period of Christianity to the late-nineteenth-century “concerns 

of the Age of Progress.” Using “an incipiently structural-functionalist model,” 

Harnack understood the references to apostles, prophets, and teachers (Did. 11–15) to 

delineate specific “offices” in earliest Christianity. The designations “apostles” and 

“prophets” were understood as itinerant “offices,” while the “teachers” were characterized 

as settled, local officials of the church. According to Harnack, the Didache bears 

witness to the transition that was occurring from mainly itinerant “offices” (“charismatics”) 

to “local offices,” represented by the references to “bishops and deacons” (“monarchical 

episcopate”). In ch. 3, Arnal provides a critique of this interpretation by analyzing 

the text of the Didache in detail (pp. 73–91); in ch. 1, his interest is in the affinities 

between Harnack’s late-nineteenth-century setting and the itinerancy hypothesis in 

general. Arnal illustrates how Harnack may have “unconsciously” constructed his 

scheme of Christian origins to fit with the notions of “process” and “culture,” as well as 

the “sense of progress that characterized the age” (p. 18). He suggests, “In placing a 

great wandering at the foot of ecclesiastical history, Harnack is merely replicating what 

his own culture thinks about history: that it is the playing out of the process by which a 

fiery and vibrant genius comes to temporal incarnation” (p. 20). 

Similarly, in ch. 2, Arnal describes the widespread acceptance and various manifestations 

of the theory by scholars in the past four decades. He also seeks to explain the 

763


trend by examining the Sitz im Leben of the scholars who have defended it. Following 

Harnack, in the 1970s Gerd Theissen became the most influential proponent of the 

itinerancy hypothesis when he linked the concept of itinerant charismatics to the formative 

level of the Jesus movement and the Synoptic tradition (see, e.g., The First 

Followers of Jesus: A Sociological Analysis of the Earliest Christians, 1978). “Jesus 

himself, Theissen claims, did not intend to found communities but to call into being a 

movement of wandering charismatics” (p. 24). Arnal describes how Theissen, as a 

“structural-functionalist,” developed a theory of Christian origins in which the Jesus 

movement, with its itinerant preachers, “functioned” as a renewal movement that 

responded to the social crises created by the political, cultural, socioeconomic, and 

“socio-ecological” pressures from the urban-based aristocracy. Because of their radical 

ethics and explicit apocalypticism, the teachings of the itinerant followers of Jesus 

“served the function of containing the aggression fostered by the various forces of social 

disruption” (p. 29). Since his publications in the 1970s, Arnal observes, “Theissen’s work 

has been formative for nearly all subsequent research and has set the agenda for social 

inquiry into earliest Christianity even among those who disagree with his conclusions” 

(p. 29). He concludes this section with a lengthy review of a recent variation on the itinerancy 

theory, the so-called “Cynic hypothesis.” Arnal notes that a comparison of the Q 

sayings and the sayings of the Cynics is not valuable when simply used to provide a social 

description of Jesus or the earliest Jesus movement. While Arnal observes several “intellectually 

progressive” results from the Cynic comparison, he argues that it should not be 

used to defend the idea that the Jesus movement was itinerant. 

In the conclusion to the chapter, Arnal turns to the question of why the itinerancy 

hypothesis has been given such a predominant place in recent reconstructions of Christian 

origins. Like the possible affinities between Harnack’s “Age of Progress” and his 

notion of early Christianity, Arnal argues “that the main intellectual impulse behind the 

resurgence of the itinerancy hypothesis is its contemporary resonance (and, indeed, relevance)” 

(p. 59). This “resonance” is explained in a variety of ways, for example: as a 

desire to see the rise of Christianity as exceptional, charismatic, and/or unique; as part of 

a “modern focus on defiance of convention as a truly revolutionary stance” (p. 60); 

“because it manifests and posits the characteristics of postmodernity” (p. 62); and as 

“self referential … of the loss of prestige suffered by most academics in recent times” (p. 

64). While this critique of the scholars who have recently used the itinerancy hypothesis 

may not be groundless (anthropologists have used similar critiques to describe their cultural 

biases for decades), it is problematic when applied on a very general level to 

explain a wide variety of scholars and their work. Arnal’s analysis at the end of ch. 2 

boarders on being so broadly conceived that it is inadequate as an explanation. For 

example, to conjecture that those scholars who use the itinerancy thesis do so because of 

the general loss of prestige academics experienced at the end of the twentieth century is 

unhelpful unless accompanied by concrete examples. Additionally, some readers may be 

disappointed to find that Arnal does not provide a thorough critique of his own selfreferential 

proclivities and does not explore the “retrojections of contemporary cultural 

concerns” that are present in his study. 

In ch. 3, Arnal turns to a detailed analysis of the ancient texts that have been used 

as evidence for the existence of early Christian itinerants: the Didache and Q. Readers 

interested in the redaction and social-historical context of the Didache and the growth

Book Reviews 

of church “offices” in the first century will be interested in Arnal’s study. His primary 

arguments are: (1) Theissen’s “tripartite order of charismatics” (apostles, prophets, and 

teachers) is not attested in the text as referring to distinct offices, (2) itinerancy and 

travel are not clearly defining features of their activity, and (3) even if one argues that 

itinerancy is indicated in the text, it is only possible after “an organized, communitybased, 

and translocal set of churches” had been established. After a careful analysis of its 

redactional elements, Arnal relates the offices mentioned in the Didache to the development 

of early Christian leadership roles found in the Pauline letters and the pseudo- 

Pauline Pastorals. He argues that Theissen’s reconstruction (beginning with itinerants 

and moving toward settled church offices) should be turned on its head. Thus, any hint 

of itinerant charismatics in the text should not be ascribed to the early period, but to the 

latest period of development. In the next section, Arnal observes that any references to 

travel and uprootedness in Q must be grounded in the social description of Q’s context 

in early Roman Galilee. Q’s Mission Speech (as the main source for the idea that the text 

provides evidence for itinerant, wandering charismatics) is found to lack proof that itinerancy 

was practiced by the people behind Q. Rather, the references to travel need to 

be understood both in the larger context of all the sayings of Q, where the “realities of 

settled village life” are of primary concern, and in the social, political, and economic setting 

of Galilee, where the Mission Speech makes better sense as part of a “local agenda 

involving short trips,” rather than as describing a wandering charismatic lifestyle. 

The remainder of the book is a detailed analysis of the people responsible for Q. If 

not itinerant charismatics, then who? Chapter 4 examines the effects of the Roman- 

Herodian policies on the Galilean villages and argues that the most likely group responsible 

for Q was the “small class of literate administrators” (village scribes) who would 

have been required in the many autonomous towns of early Roman Galilee. The conclusion 

of his socioeconomic survey suggests that with the building of Tiberias there was “a 

more effective incorporation of the region to the immediate west of the lake into the 

economic orbit of the Roman Empire. The result for the smallholders in that hitherto 

relatively autonomous area was a more effective collection of taxes, a progressive monetization 

of the economy, increased trade, increased cash cropping, and increased consolidation 

of holdings and consequent tenancy” (p. 158). With these observations about the 

social impact of the Herodian policies, Arnal argues that the village scribes were the 

“most affected by,” “most resentful of,” and “most inclined to react to” the new socioeconomic 

conditions imposed by the Roman administration. He concludes, “While perhaps 

alienated from the populace by virtue of their involuntary complicity in the new 

order, what sources exist suggest that there was enough general resentment of the 

social, economic, and cultural changes enforced by the new regime for these scribes to 

imagine that their indignation was generally shared by their fellow villagers and thus 

that their response to the situation would be shared as well” (pp. 154–55). 

Chapter 5 links Arnal’s reconstruction of the social setting of Galilee and the village 

scribes with the “rhetoric of uprootedness” found in the sayings of Q (in particular, 

the earliest phase: Q 1 ). Arnal maintains that the Q group was located in the region of 

Capernaum (in agreement with Reed), and, regarding the date of the sayings, contends 

that Q 1 derives from “an extremely early and rather isolated phase of the Jesus movement 

as a whole” (p. 168). Considering that Q was a written text, that the authors were 

familiar with literary traditions and rhetorical techniques, and that the language, style, 

765


and imagery of Q suggest familiarity with administrative (delegating) and teaching situations, 

Arnal supports his contention that the people behind Q should be located within 

the context of a village-based scribal tradition. He then observes the details of several Q 

sayings, especially the Beatitudes, in order to illustrate how Q’s “inversionary rhetoric” 

could have communicated a repudiation of the Galilean social hierarchy. In light of the 

shifts in socioeconomic conditions that accompanied the Herodian incursions into 

Galilee, the group behind Q is characterized as promoting “an ethos of communalism” 

that encouraged the wealthy “to cease their predatory behavior” (p. 195). 

Arnal’s book is innovative and challenging. His careful attention to the archaeological 

data is a valuable addition to Reed’s study (reviewed above). Like Sawicki, Arnal 

consistently references the benefits and shortfalls of various sociological theories; his 

use of models is critical and well informed. No doubt some readers will be unable to follow 

his carefully constructed proposal of a Q 1 community, yet even the reader who is not 

convinced of the existence of Q or its redactional stratigraphy will learn much from 

Arnal’s dedication to logic and his critique of scholarly conventions. 

Reed, Sawicki, and Arnal have pushed the analysis of the historical Jesus into the 

twenty-first century with credible, interdisciplinary studies that reflect a growing awareness 

of the benefits of archaeology for biblical scholars. Since most Galilean sites are 

either unexcavated or only partially excavated, the future remains very bright for more 

studies of this nature to press our old reconstructions of Christian origins in new directions. 

Any reader interested in the current state of historical Jesus research will do well 

to begin the quest with these studies. 

Milton Moreland, Huntingdon College, Montgomery, AL 36106 

Matthew 8–20, by Ulrich Luz. Trans. James E. Crouch. Hermeneia. Minneapolis: 

Fortress, 2001. Pp. xxxvii + 606. $69.00. 

At long last we have more of Ulrich Luz’s brilliant Matthew commentary available 

in English translation. The history is a little complicated. Chapters 1–7 of the commentary 

in English translation had already been published by Augsburg in 1989 (German, 

1985), long before Luz’s commentary was co-opted for the Hermeneia series. In an editor’s 

note at the beginning of the present volume, Helmut Koester promises a new volume 

1 (chs. 1–7) for Hermeneia, to be produced after the publication of volume 3 in the 

Hermeneia series (covering chs. 21–28). The new volume 1 will be a “a revised edition . 

. . reflecting the author’s changes and including full bibliographic information as well as 

indices for the entire work” (p. xxxvii). 

The present volume contains all of volume 2 of the German EKK (Evangelisch- 

Katholischer Kommentar zum Neuen Testament) together with about one-third of volume 

3 (which covers chs. 18–25). Although volume 2 of the German edition was 

published in 1990 and is hence twelve years old, there is unfortunately no updating in the 

present volume and hence its bibliography is outmoded by more than a decade. It seems 

a pity that it was not brought up to date when the obvious occasion of putting it into the 

Hermeneia format presented itself, but this may well be due to the fact that when the 

present volume was being produced Luz was still busy working on the fourth volume. 

Since volume 3 of the German was published in 1997, the bibliography for chs. 18–20 in

Book Reviews 

the present volume is not quite so badly out of date. Volume 4 of the German has recently 

been published and contains the commentary on chs. 26–28, adding now yet another 

dimension, namely, extensive treatment of the influence of Matthew’s passion and resurrection 

narratives in the history of art (including many pictures) and even music. 

Unquestionably the most unusual and remarkable trait of this commentary is the 

extensive space given to Wirkungsgeschichte, “history of influence,” that is, examination 

of the way in which each pericope has been interpreted throughout the history of the 

church and the cumulative effect of earlier interpretations upon later ones. This provides 

exceptionally rich insight into what might be called the interpretive potential of 

each passage. Indeed, it was this aspect of the commentary, as Luz worked through the 

text, that impacted him in the most significant way. What became increasingly apparent 

to him in the study of Wirkungsgeschichte was the openness or multivalency of texts and 

the extent of the role that the interpreter’s own setting and presuppositions play in the 

interpretation of texts. The revolutionary implications for traditional, historical-critical 

exegesis in its quest of a single, objective meaning—the intention of the author—have 

been spelled out by Luz in his Matthew as History: Interpretation, Influence and Effects 

(Minneapolis: Fortress, 1994), which can serve as a companion volume to the commentary. 

The history of interpretation demonstrates that texts can have different meanings 

in different contexts. The range of constructive uses of a pericope is in effect virtually 

unlimited. 

This does not mean for Luz, however, that any or every interpretation of a text is 

acceptable. He advocates the use of two criteria that can be used in separating valid 

interpretations from false ones: correspondence with the essential elements of the history 

of Jesus and congruence with an expression of love. Because of our inability to 

arrive at a final, definitive interpretation of any passage, Luz rightly insists upon the 

importance of humility and dialogue. 

The amount of attention to Wirkungsgeschichte and its significance for interpretation 

makes this commentary unique. Working my way through it, I was repeatedly 

struck by its distinctiveness. Unlike the typical commentator, Luz does not feel obligated 

to comment on every detail of the text in more or less equal depth. Thus at specific 

points one can be surprised, and perhaps even disappointed, by the thinness of treatment. 

One is more than compensated, however, by the fact that Luz effectively cuts 

through to the heart of a passage in such a thought-provoking and productive way. He 

furthermore often provides what amount to mini-essays on the crucial questions raised 

by the text. 

Without exaggeration I can say that Luz’s commentary must certainly be one of the 

most interesting commentaries ever written. Others seem dry by comparison. It is not a 

scholar’s commentary written for other scholars, although unquestionably there is 

plenty of scholarly detail: three sizes of type are employed; excursuses, detailed discussions, 

and footnotes abound. But this commentary will primarily be a boon to all who 

teach or preach, and who are concerned with the application of the text to the present. 

As much as I admire and value this wonderful commentary, I must mention two 

misgivings. First, despite his lengthy discussion of the subject of miracles in the Gospel 

(pp. 52–58), to my mind Luz is unconvincing when he concludes that the miracle stories 

that imply a breaking of natural law cannot be understood as referring to what actually 

happened. They are instead to be understood, he argues, as “designed to make some- 

767


thing happen” in us (p. 58). Undeniably there is much truth in this latter observation, 

but what finally are we to make of the narratives themselves? Luz seems controlled by 

the enlightenment notion of a closed system of cause and effect that cannot allow for 

transcendent or supernatural events. Thus he concludes that whereas “all of the synoptic 

healing miracles and exorcisms are conceivable (which does not mean that historically 

they happened) . . . it is a different matter with nature miracles and raisings of the 

dead that at the present time probably have to be described as not (not yet?) conceivable” 

(p. 58 n. 34; parentheses are Luz’s). 

We are thus bound by the principle of analogy, according to Luz, with the result 

that nothing that is unparalleled in our experience can be accepted as historical. This 

view is reminiscent of the old modernist perspective that is no longer quite as persuasive 

in our post-Newtonian era as it used to be. Unfortunately, such a perspective hardly 

helps the reader to know what to make of the remarkable story of Jesus as recorded by 

Matthew, which at so many key points is without analogy. On this point Luz ends up 

sounding rather like R. Bultmann, with the Gospel in the last analysis amounting to a 

mythological or symbolic story that somehow has relevance to our experience in the present: 

in Luz’s language, “events that want to happen again in our understanding” (p. 58). 

My other misgiving is that the history of interpretation and the influence of the text 

take on an inordinate importance in the commentary. Luz’s understandable fascination 

with Wirkungsgeschichte is what drives the commentary and ultimately dominates the 

discussion more than the actual exegesis of the text of Matthew. The reason for this is 

not hard to see, given Luz’s remark that “the principle of the history of effects seems to 

render impossible an authoritative function of its original meaning” (Matthew as History 

[p. 76], cited above). 

Luz’s philosophy is spelled out in his discussion of 16:13–20, where he writes the 

following: “In this commentary, as a Protestant struggling with the predominance of 

‘sola scriptura,’ I advocate a hermeneutics of the ‘trajectory’ of biblical texts and repeatedly 

have made myself the advocate of new discoveries of the potential of biblical texts 

in new situations. The meaning of a biblical text for me consists not merely in the reproduction 

of its original sense but in the production of new meanings in new situations 

guided by the trajectory of the texts and supported by the totality of the Christian faith” 

(p. 372; italics are Luz’s). 

What concerns me is that Luz puts the “new meanings” of a text on the same level 

as the “original sense.” The result is that what the author may have intended or, more 

exactly, what the implied author attempts to say in the text, is regarded as having no special 

importance but as merely one option among others for the interpretation of a text. 

Like a work of art, the text has a life and meaning of its own apart from its creator. In 

keeping with this poststructuralist perspective, Luz does not distinguish between meaning 

and significance, i.e., between what the text meant and what the text means, or 

between interpretation and application. They are one and the same to him. Texts, to be 

sure, can often be read in more than one way, as Luz shows us. But to my mind it is still 

worth attempting to establish the original sense of a passage—with all the admitted 

problems in so doing—and then to discuss the degree to which applications of a text in 

different, later situations may or may not be valid, and the extent to which the text may 

remain polyvalent to our present understanding. 

It is of course naive to suggest that any interpreter can be neutral in approaching a

Book Reviews 

text, or to deny that the meaning of a text is to some extent constituted in the very act of 

reading itself. But even with the admission of these important caveats, it seems unfortunate 

to suggest that we have no access to the original sense of a passage or, that even if 

we do, what the implied author wants to say has no privilege in the interpretation of a 

text. Should not the attempted exegesis of the text in its original historical meaning have 

primacy in a commentary rather than how the text has been understood over the past 

two millennia of church history, as enriching as such insights can be? For those who 

want a commentary that attempts to exegete the text itself rather than exploring the history 

of interpretation of the text, Luz may therefore at times disappoint. Paradoxically, 

therefore, it may be that the very strength of the commentary is at the same time its 

Achilles’ heel. 

Because of its heavy emphasis on Wirkungsgeschichte, Luz’s commentary is revolutionary. 

It is not saying too much to conclude that it virtually redefines the genre of 

commentary altogether. It is at the same time, however, deeply perceptive, highly informative, 

even entertaining. It is full of wisdom and mature insight, as well as respect for 

the Christian faith as manifested through the centuries. It is, in short, a masterpiece, and 

it will rightly take its place as indispensable in the study of the Gospel of Matthew. 

Donald A. Hagner, Fuller Theological Seminary, Pasadena, CA 91182 

Corinth, The First City of Greece: An Urban History of Late Antique Cult and Religion, 

by Richard M. Rothaus. Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 139. Leiden: Brill, 2000. 

Pp. x + 173. $75.00 (cloth). 

Readers may well wonder whether a book whose subject matter lies outside the 

ordinary purview of NT studies deserves notice. Rothaus looks at Corinth in the fourth 

through sixth centuries, only occasionally touching on earlier centuries. Yet the book 

merits attention, and not simply because its geographical focus is near and dear to the 

hearts of those interested in the first urban Christians. What the author undertakes has 

obvious ramifications for NT scholars: he writes a history of religion in Corinth and its 

environs (Kenchreai, Isthmia, Lechaion), focusing on the interaction between polytheism 

and Christianity; he bases this history on the rich archaeological record of the 

Corinthia and attempts to integrate it with the literary record; and, as he leads readers 

through the many categories of archaeological data, he evaluates excavation reports and 

challenges many of the reigning interpretations of the data. Thus, the book, which is not 

without serious flaws, is significant to NT scholars for several reasons. First, Rothaus 

offers synthetic and integrative treatment of a topic that lacks such studies. Second, he 

models the kind of history writing NT scholars would do well to emulate as they situate 

early Christian communities socially. In addition, the book is a serviceable map both to 

Corinth’s archaeological record and to the excavations that unearthed and assembled it, 

making it as relevant to scholars of early Roman Corinth as to scholars of late antiquity. 

The book has nine chapters, the first two of which serve as an introduction to the 

body of the study in chs. 3–8. Chapter 1, “Reconsidering Late Antique Religion,” offers 

a seven-page statement of how Rothaus approaches his subject. The book’s focus is cultic 

practice, because the material record speaks more directly about religious activity 

than about religious beliefs. From this perspective, Rothaus finds the labels Christian 

769


and pagan understood as mutually exclusive categories inappropriate. For at Corinth 

there appears to be a range of cultic activities, some of which both Christians and polytheists 

could perform. The second introductory chapter, “The Late Antique City,” introduces 

us to Corinth in the late Roman period. There, in twenty-one pages, Rothaus 

characterizes the social and political realities of late antique Roman Greece generally. 

Then he turns to the archaeological record to document the Corinthian situation. From 

the fourth to the sixth centuries, the city suffered significant damage on occasion, 

brought about by seismic or (perhaps) barbarian activity, and its civic center underwent 

major alteration. Yet Rothaus also finds evidence of its resilience, general prosperity, 

and remarkable continuity with earlier centuries. For instance, he finds little evidence 

for the building of rural villas and thus no sign of the decentralization that overtook the 

western empire at this time. 

The next six chapters, the heart of the book, use Corinth’s considerable (though 

fragmentary) material record to characterize the changing religious topography of 

Corinth and other nearby sites in the late Roman period. The major religious change of 

the time was the christianization of the empire and the concomitant decline of polytheism, 

and Rothaus is keen to characterize that shift on Corinthian soil. Contrary to what 

the growing hegemony of Christianity might suggest, Rothaus sees polytheism maintaining 

its vitality in Corinth, although it does change. Thus, Rothaus seeks to show 

throughout the body of the book that it is most accurate to speak of Christianity and 

polytheism coexisting, not of the former superseding or wiping out the latter, in late 

Roman Corinth. 

Two chapters, the third and the eighth, articulate this position the most clearly and 

fully. In ch 3, “Broken Temples,” Rothaus observes that Corinth’s many temples had 

been demolished or destroyed by the late fourth or early fifth century. The demise of 

the temples did not signal the Christian conquest of pagan Corinth, however. Rothaus 

offers evidence of traditional cultic practices surviving at several sites, albeit on a diminished 

scale, documenting this continuity most fully at the Asklepios temple. At the same 

time, Christian burials were taking place at the perimeter of these former temple sites, 

which suggests to Rothaus some level of interaction between Christian and polytheistic 

Corinthians. 

More complex was the situation at a bath structure just west of the Asklepios temple, 

which Rothaus explores in ch. 8, “Nymphs and Angels.” The bath, which had collapsed 

by 400 C.E. but still had a water supply, attracted a variety of cultic activities in 

the fifth and sixth centuries. What excavators called the Fountain of Lamps contained, 

among other things, curse tablets invoking the Nymphs and lamps with Christian graffiti 

invoking angels. In this case, Rothaus concludes, either Christians and devotees of the 

Nymphs (and perhaps Pan) were rubbing elbows as they performed their respective rituals 

or the same individuals were engaged in both Christian and polytheistic cultic practices. 

Signs of tolerance notwithstanding, Christianity did gain the upper hand in late 

Roman Corinth, and Rothaus devotes several chapters to describing what form that 

ascendancy took. In ch. 7, “Images and Power,” he considers the mutilation and burial 

of statues as evidence of Christians taking action against polytheism. Chapter 6, “Christianizing 

the City,” treats evidence for extensive Christian basilica construction in the 

fifth and sixth centuries, not in Corinth’s civic center but at main approaches to the city,

Book Reviews 

places Rothaus regards as strategically and symbolically important. These chapters 

stress the ambiguity of the material record, for Rothaus is not convinced that monumental 

church building marked the mass conversion of Corinthians to the new faith. Rather, 

he sees basilica construction as evidence of imperial determination to christianize the 

empire. 

Chapter 9, the book’s conclusion, reiterates this last point and sets it alongside the 

evidence presented in other chapters for the long cohabitation of Christians and polytheists 

in Corinth. Rothaus stresses that christianization, which did eventually help to 

displace polytheism, came from the top down. No local groundswell for Christianity 

pushed the process along, for the Corinthians seemed to carry out Christian and polytheistic 

practices side by side, and likely did not distinguish between them. 

A critique of the book begins by noting that this summary of Rothaus’s main argument 

lends a coherence and clarity to the book that it often lacks. The source of these 

deficiencies is twofold, the first being the book’s poor organization. Chapter 1, for 

instance, which considers the relationship between polytheistic and Christian cultic 

practices, gives some idea of the book’s approach, but is much too brief to serve as a theoretical 

preface to the entire study. These seven pages logically belong at the beginning 

of ch. 8, a very short chapter, as a methodological introduction to Rothaus’s treatment of 

the finds at the Fountain of Lamps, where the issue of the overlap between Christian 

and polytheistic cultic activity is central. 

Clarity and coherence also suffer from an ill-considered employment of theory 

that ranges from superfluous to inadequate. The book’s opening pages introduce mathematical 

set theory to define the relationship between polytheistic and Christian cultic 

practices, but such a framework is hardly needed to describe the relationship between 

them. In fact, it clouds the issue instead of clarifying it. On the other hand, at several 

points Rothaus needs to ground his discussion in a theoretical framework but fails to do 

so, at least adequately. His speculation in ch. 7 about what prompted Christians to mutilate 

statues rests on the claim that ancients attributed power to them, an assertion he 

repeats several times without defining the term “power” or exploring why art of this sort 

would have attracted it. Likewise, when he discusses Christian basilica construction and 

their location in ch. 6, he talks about the control of liminal areas and sacralizing the landscape 

with little explanation of what he means and why such notions are relevant. Better 

organization and thorough treatment of method at the start could have brought the book 

greater unity and saved it from being theoretically scattered. (On a related note, closer 

editing would have caught the book’s numerous typographical errors, missing bibliographical 

entries, and a serious lacuna between pages 18 and 19.) 

The book also seems dated, even to a reviewer who does not specialize in late 

antiquity. Rothaus distinguishes his understanding of Christian–polytheistic relations 

from interpretive positions that no longer rule the field; he sets up his picture of an 

evolving but nevertheless vital polytheism displaced only gradually by Christianity 

against the view that Christianity overwhelmed a moribund paganism or that imperial 

disfavor meant its quick demise. Two decades of scholarship have taken issue with these 

views, however, and it is telling that Rothaus makes no reference to important recent 

studies, such as Pierre Chuvin’s A Chronicle of the Last Pagans (Cambridge, Mass.: 

Harvard University Press, 1990), Peter Brown’s Authority and the Sacred: Aspects of the 

Christianisation of the Roman World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 

771


and Ramsay Macmullen’s Christianity and Paganism in the Fourth to Eighth Centuries 

(New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997). The book is based on a 1993 dissertation, but 

that hardly excuses it from such major bibliographical gaps and inattention to the state 

of late antique scholarship. 

If Rothaus’s study deserves to be read, it is not because it is a magisterial and compelling 

study of late antiquity. It does offer valuable insights into the local religious situation 

in late Roman Corinth, but what NT scholars will find useful is its informed, 

critical, and self-deprecating viewpoint—that of an archaeologically savvy historian who 

knows his way around Corinth’s material record and offers frank assessments of the published 

reports and the excavations that produced them, who at the same time is honest 

about the merits of his own speculative reconstructions of religious life in the ancient 

Mediterranean world. 

Although the book is methodologically flawed, there exists no historical study of 

religion at Corinth so well informed by the archaeological record. The treatment of religion 

in Donald Engels’s study of Roman Corinth, for instance, is perhaps the weakest 

chapter (5) in a book that was not well received by historians or Corinthian archaeologists 

(Roman Corinth: An Alternative for the Classical City [Chicago: University of 

Chicago Press, 1990]). (Rothaus finds Engels full of factual errors and off base in his use 

of archaeological data.) Oddly, what promised to be the definitive study of Corinthian 

religion in the Roman era, an article by archaeologist James Wiseman for Aufstieg und 

Niedergang der römischen Welt II.18.2 (delayed to 18.4, then 18.6), will never appear. 

We must depend on Rothaus to correlate data from various sites and to compare 

the material and literary records, so as to reach a synthetic and integrated view of 

Corinthian religion. This is no easy undertaking, and what Rothaus comes up with, while 

illuminating and usually worth considering, is not always convincing. Yet when he is convincing, 

such as his treatment of religion at Kenchreai (ch. 4), NT scholars should take 

note. Pausanias mentioned sanctuaries of Aphrodite and Isis there, and the chief excavator 

of the site, Robert Scranton, identified these with buildings in two excavation areas. 

Rothaus rejects these identifications, contending that Pausanias’s brief account “cannot 

be used to identify the structures excavated at Kenchreai” (p. 66), and he makes a strong 

case for the so-called sanctuaries actually being a urban villa and nymphaeum, respectively. 

In so doing, he offers an instructive lesson in the hazards of fitting the material 

record to ancient literature. Moreover, if Rothaus’s alternative interpretation is correct, 

existing portraits of Egyptian religion in the Corinthia, such as Dennis Smith’s article in 

HTR 70 (1977): 201–31 on Egyptian cults at Corinth, need revision. 

As these last comments indicate, what makes Corinth: The First City of Greece 

invaluable to NT scholars is not only the close attention it gives to coordinating the 

ancient literary and archaeological records and its serviceability as a guide to the latter. 

The book also voices much needed judgments about existing archaeological interpretations 

and about the quality and reliability of final reports and the excavations that produced 

them. The Corinth Excavations recently celebrated a century of excavation at 

ancient Corinth and has produced eighteen sizable volumes of final reports (many with 

several parts) since 1929. Excavations at Kenchreai and Isthmia have a shorter history 

but have also published many substantial volumes. All told, preliminary and final reports 

along with numerous specialized studies constitute a vast material record in print, to say 

nothing of the materials yet to be published. Naturally, these publications vary in qual-

Book Reviews 

ity, as did the excavation work behind them. Furthermore, decades of research subsequent 

to the earliest volumes have sometimes rendered their interpretive sections partly 

or largely out of date. Unfortunately but understandably, contemporary Corinthian 

archaeologists are reticent to draw attention to flaws in final reports—sometimes the 

major scholarly achievement of their mentors or colleagues—so Rothaus’s knowledgeable 

and candid assessments are indispensable. For example, it is important for NT 

scholars to know that Corinth’s Asklepios temple was well dug and well published, 

whereas the forum’s Temple E was not (which may account for the ongoing dispute 

among archaeologists as to whether it was a temple to the imperial cult or a capitolium). 

What Rothaus offers, then, is not simply a roadmap to the Corinthian archaeological 

record but also a Michelin guide that evaluates it. 

Rothaus’s competence in many categories of archaeological data—topography, 

architecture, pottery, lamps, sculpture—makes the book a fine primer for NT scholars, 

who generally know little about the subject. His book will be of obvious interest to students 

of Paul and the Corinthian correspondence. While many scholars have tapped 

Corinth’s epigraphical record, as limited as it is (e.g., Andrew D. Clarke, Secular and 

Christian Leadership in Corinth: A Socio-Historical and Exegetical Study of 1 Corinthians 

1-6 [AGJU 18; Leiden: Brill, 1993]), such is not the case with other types of data. We 

have begun to see studies using a fuller range of data, such as Peter Gooch’s study of cultic 

dining in Corinth (Dangerous Food: 1 Corinthians 8-10 in Its Context [Studies in 

Christianity and Judaism 5; Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1993]). Yet 

most NT scholarship, even recent social-historical and sociological studies of Paul and 

the Christian community at Corinth, continues to pay insufficient attention to archaeology, 

even though it is a rich source of information about the social realities of the city in 

the early Roman era (e.g., Robert M. Grant, Paul in the Roman World: The Conflict at 

Corinth [Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2001]; Bruce W. Winter, After Paul Left 

Corinth: The Influence of Secular Ethics and Social Change [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 

2001]). It is especially disappointing to see a new and exhaustive commentary (1,146 

pages!) on 1 Corinthians (Anthony Thiselton, The First Epistle to the Corinthians: A 

Commentary on the Greek Text [NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000]) give lip service 

to Corinth’s archaeological record after the appearance sixteen years ago of Victor 

Paul Furnish’s commentary on 2 Corinthians, which made Corinth’s material record 

widely known and showed its importance (II Corinthians [AB 32A; Garden City, NY: 

Doubleday, 1984]). Perhaps Rothaus can help remedy this lamentable situation. 

Why such inconsistency in NT scholarship’s use of Corinthian archaeology? Comments 

in Rothaus’s book make it clear that this spotty attention to the material record 

may not result solely from NT scholarship’s failing. At several points Rothaus reports the 

difficulty he had gaining access to excavation notebooks and excavated material—even 

getting responses to straightforward questions and simple requests. As the book opens, 

he condemns the proprietary disposition of many Corinthian archaeologists, which has 

resulted in the closeting of data and stifling of open inquiry. If a relative insider encountered 

such resistance, it would not be surprising to learn of NT scholars with archaeological 

interests snubbed by excavators who have no scruples about restricting access 

to—hence controlling interpretation of—“their” data. Here again Rothaus proves a 

knowing guide to those uninformed about the world of Corinthian archaeology. 

773 

Richard E. DeMaris, Valparaiso University, Valparaiso, IN 46383


The Religion of Paul the Apostle, by John Ashton. New Haven/London: Yale University 

Press, 2000. Pp. x + 261. $28.50 

The Oxford scholar John Ashton is well known for his work on the Fourth Gospel. 

With this book, Ashton turns his attention to Paul. Ashton attempts to understand the 

apostle’s religious life by comparing Paul’s experiences with shamanism. In so doing, 

Ashton hopes to shed light not only on Paul’s religion but also on the genesis and early 

growth of the Christian religion as a whole. 

Following an initial chapter that defends his comparative approach, Ashton’s chapters 

examine “Paul the Enigma,” “Paul the Convert,” “Paul the Mystic,” “Paul the Apostle,” 

“Paul the Prophet,” and “Paul the Possessed.” Ashton also includes excursuses on 

Jesus as a shaman, merkabah mysticism, Albert Schweitzer’s Mysticism of Paul the 

Apostle, and the historicity of Acts. Together the chapters and excursuses make the 

argument that (1) we need an approach to Paul that does justice to the distinctively mystical 

and religious character of his career; (2) a comparison with shamanism provides 

such a method; and (3) the application of this method reveals that Paul’s effectiveness 

and Christianity’s early growth were largely due to demonstrations of spiritual power. 

Ashton is uneasy with a tendency among NT scholars to overlook the specifically 

religious dimension of Paul’s writings and career. Ashton positions himself in line with 

Adolf Deissmann’s claim that scholars of his day had transferred Paul from his primary 

sphere of vital religion to the secondary sphere of theology. Ashton builds upon Hermann 

Gunkel’s theory that Paul’s own life must provide the key to his teaching on the 

spiritual life. The author laments that even when scholars attempt to describe Paul’s 

religion, such as Albert Schweitzer’s Mysticism of Paul the Apostle and E. P. Sanders’s 

Paul and Palestinian Judaism, they still tend to focus on his theology and on Paul as a 

theologian. In the case of Schweitzer and Sanders, Ashton relies somewhat heavily upon 

their interpretations of Paul’s thought, but he faults these scholars for concentrating 

their arguments too exclusively on what Paul believed instead of what he experienced. 

In agreement with Schweitzer’s Mysticism of Paul the Apostle, to which Ashton’s title 

alludes, Ashton wants to steer away from the theological categories of the Reformation. 

But Ashton complains that “Schweitzer’s mysticism is curiously cerebral” and decries 

how Schweitzer starts with Paul’s conceptual framework instead of his life. Ashton concurs 

with Schweitzer and Sanders that being “in Christ” is a more important expression 

in Paul’s thought than justification by faith. However, whereas Schweitzer characterized 

the center of Paulinism as “the mystical doctrine of redemption through the being-in- 

Christ,” Ashton says the center is “the mystical sense of glorification through transformation 

in Christ.” The change from doctrine to sense is essential for Ashton. Ashton also 

criticizes Sanders’s comparison of Paul’s pattern of religion with that of Palestinian 

Judaism, suggesting that Sanders “takes the confusion even further” than Schweitzer. 

Ashton complains that Paul’s pattern of religion turns out to be, in Sanders’s work, 

Paul’s theology of salvation instead of his religious experiences. Sanders contends that 

we must be content with concentrating on how religion appears in Jewish and Pauline 

thought, but this does not satisfy Ashton. We may note that Ashton’s approach to the 

religious dimension is a noteworthy contrast to Troels Engberg-Pederson’s recent book, 

Paul and the Stoics (Louisville: John Knox, 2000). Engberg-Pederson acknowledges 

both the religious and theological aspects of the texts but consciously chooses the theological 

route because he declares it to be the only one available. By contrast, Ashton

Book Reviews 

argues that the religious and experiential domain is the one that merits attention and 

takes us to the essence of the apostle’s work. 

Asserting that he has found a method to examine the experiences that lie beneath 

Paul’s thought, Ashton takes up the comparison with shamanism. The author anticipates 

the concern that many scholars might not take seriously a book that compares Paul’s 

religion with shamanism. He readily acknowledges that Paul was not himself a shaman; 

unlike a shaman, Paul was a missionary whose authority went beyond a local community. 

The book includes no case for a causal connection between the apostle and shamanism, 

although the author explores the possibility. Instead, the comparison with shamanism is 

a heuristic device for entering imaginatively into Paul’s life and world. Using descriptions 

of shamans’ careers supplied by Mircea Eliade and Ioan Lewis, Ashton places his 

finger on numerous similarities between what we know about such figures across a variety 

of cultures and what we learn of Paul’s experiences through his letters and Acts. 

Shamans, like Paul, usually receive a call through a traumatic experience. The author 

also notes the frequency of otherworldly journeys, much like Paul’s in 2 Cor 12:2–4 and 

1 Cor 5:3–4 (which Ashton calls experiences of merkabah mysticism). Also, for shamans 

and Paul, a career of power and authority over spirits follows the call. Ashton detects a 

picture shared by Acts and Paul’s letters of the apostle as a miracle worker and master of 

spiritual powers. 

For Ashton’s argument, the key similarities between Paul’s religious experience 

and shamanism are the traumatic call and the spiritual power that follows the distress of 

the call. Ashton gives what happened to Paul on the Damascus road a pride of place and 

makes it the starting point for all of Paul’s experience and teaching. Ashton calls Paul’s 

Damascus experience “a shamanistic type of initiation” and “a kind of dying and rising” 

that was determinative for the rest of Paul’s experience and thought. Despite Paul’s 

infrequent allusions to this occurrence, Ashton declares that Paul’s experience of his call 

or conversion was the principal subject of his letters’ reflections. 

A word about Ashton’s use of Acts will lead us to the third part of his argument. 

Ashton calls “purists” those who will not use Paul’s descriptions of his call in Acts. He 

argues that in Acts we find the precious testimony of what Paul’s call meant to his fellow 

believers, some of whom may have been Paul’s personal friends. Ashton argues that 

such an interpretation of Paul’s call is valid alongside Paul’s own letters. It is not that 

Ashton takes Acts at face value. He gives more historical weight to those elements that 

do not fit Acts’ chief theological agendas. A case in point is Paul’s practice of proving that 

Jesus is the Messiah by means of Scripture, which Ashton considers part of Luke’s theological 

project. Whereas Acts 18:4 says that Paul continually persuaded Jews and Greeks 

in the synagogue at Corinth, Ashton finds it historically unlikely that a stranger from 

abroad would turn anyone into a convert through theological arguments. Moreover, 

Paul himself says in 1 Cor 2:4 and 2 Cor 12:12 that instead of persuasive words, he used 

a display of spiritual power, which fits Luke’s description of Paul’s ministry in Ephesus 

and elsewhere. In contrast to historians who limit themselves to Paul’s letters and the 

nonmagical parts of Acts, Ashton finds the miraculous feats of particular importance for 

finding the key to Paul’s evangelistic success. Ashton argues that Paul’s exorcisms and 

magical cures drew attention to his message. Supporting the general picture supplied by 

Ramsay Macmullen and Peter Brown, Ashton argues that exorcisms and prodigious 

feats brought about Christianity’s expansion. The author suggests that we must suspend 

775


not only disbelief but also distaste if we want to understand Paul’s effectiveness as an 

apostle and the growth of the early church. 

While Ashton is likely correct that Paul’s experience on the Damascus road colored 

the whole of his subsequent life, he pushes the limits too far regarding how much 

we can know about Paul’s experience before his call and how Paul understood this pivotal 

occurrence. Building upon Ioan Lewis’s supposition that the shaman’s vocation follows 

a royal road from affliction to cure, Ashton suggests that Paul went through a 

troubled period immediately preceding his conversion and thinks that we can know a 

good deal about it. The upshot of this approach is too much hypothetical psychologizing 

without a secure basis in historical data. I could not help wondering if the author had, in 

at least some measure, contrived Paul’s experiences before his call so as to fit Lewis’s 

account of the typical shaman’s career. It is for good reason that scholars like Schweitzer 

and Sanders have focused their attention on Paul’s thought in order to describe his religion. 

We simply have far more data available for that. 

It is difficult to decide if Ashton wages a polemic against theological readings of 

Paul’s letters or if he primarily seeks to offer a corrective to what he perceives to be a 

one-sided emphasis on Paul’s theology. The author argues that to understand Paul, we 

need to give clear primacy to his religious experience over his theology. Ashton believes 

that Paul’s life is the best means for understanding his thought, and he frequently states 

that he only desires to offer an alternative means for understanding the apostle. However, 

at other times he also places the study of religious experience and theology at 

almost opposite poles. One might ask whether the latter is necessary. Paul was, of 

course, not a systematic theologian. For Paul, God had intervened in the world and continued 

to do so. Such events provoked experiences, feelings, and theological reflection. 

Must we place these in opposition to one another? When the book comes across as a 

polemic against theology, one wonders how much this is due to Ashton’s own theological 

position: “Paul clearly thinks of Christ as a kind of spiritual presence. Most of this is, 

strictly speaking, nonsense” (p. 138). When the book appears to offer a supplementary 

means for understanding the apostle, Ashton’s work is frequently enlightening and 

sometimes profound. 

Despite the caveats, the book has its genius. The portrait of Paul’s religious life and 

the comparison with shamanism enable us to enter imaginatively into Paul’s life and 

world. Ashton provides a window to help us witness the historical Paul as a real firstcentury 

missionary who was possessed by Jesus Christ. Even if Ashton occasionally exaggerates 

the comparison with shamanism, he succeeds in making the case that the 

comparison is fruitful. Ashton’s study leads the reader down a path to understanding 

Paul’s relation to the realm of spirits in a world where belief in such beings pervaded 

people’s lives. In Ashton’s case, the descriptions bring a freshness to Paul’s way of experiencing 

his religious life. For example, the Spirit is like electric power imparted through 

the gospel, and the Spirit is the key to Paul’s mastery of other spirits in his evangelistic 

work. Moreover, the phenomenon of spirit possession sheds light on Paul’s language of 

occupation (Rom 6–8) and what he meant by being “in Christ.” Finally, Ashton presents 

a forceful case when he argues that Paul’s mastery in the realm of spirits was the key to 

his effectiveness as a missionary. Even if readers do not completely accept this claim, 

Ashton’s argument will persuade readers that this aspect of Paul’s ministry was at least a 

fundamental ingredient of Paul’s success.

Book Reviews 

The Religion of Paul the Apostle is a significant book because it makes strides 

toward doing justice to the specifically religious character of the Pauline writings. This 

type of endeavor deserves more attention. We may recognize that the apostle Paul was 

possessed by Jesus Christ, but how can we best describe this? The words of Meister 

Eckhart, whom Ashton quotes, get at the difficulty: “If I have spoken of it, I have not 

spoken of it, for it is ineffable.” The enduring appreciation of Schweitzer’s Mysticism is a 

tribute to the worthiness of this attempt to describe the religious dimension of Paul’s 

career. While Ashton’s book manifests limitations that go along with trying to describe 

and label matters that are somewhat beyond reach, the author is a learned historian and 

interpreter who is to be commended for his bold, lively, and well-written book. 

Dustin W. Ellington, Duke University, Durham, NC 27708 

Paul and the Salvation of the Individual, by Gary W. Burnett. Biblical Interpretation 

Series 57. Leiden: Brill, 2001. Pp. vii + 246. $89.00. 

The purpose of this volume is to redress a perceived imbalance in Pauline scholarship. 

Burnett believes that both the New Perspective on Paul and social-scientific interpretation, 

while sometimes helpfully illuminating Paul’s concern for groups (e.g., Jews, 

Gentiles), neglect or deny Paul’s valuation of the individual. 

I am sympathetic with Burnett’s charge that recent studies have sometimes erased 

the individual in an attempt to understand early Christianity, but this agreement only 

heightens my disappointment in his failure to address the issue clearly, thoroughly, and 

fruitfully. Unfortunately, Burnett’s inadequate definition of “individual” hampers the 

project from the start, limiting the scope of the project and preventing him from engaging 

with Paul fully. In the introductory chapter he explains that he seeks to understand 

Paul’s concern for “the individual qua individual, irrespective of social or, indeed, historical 

identity” (p. 10). Thus, Burnett does not seek to uncover Paul’s attitude toward the 

individual in relationship with others and how the individual acts as a creative force 

(either negatively or positively) in shaping society and culture; rather, he wants to know 

Paul’s attitude toward the individual without regard to the individual’s relationship with 

others, the “individual qua individual.” This reaction against group-focused studies is far 

too extreme, however, and the disappointing but unsurprising result is that Paul’s concern 

for the “individual qua individual” is discovered only in the universality of the 

gospel: all persons are individually responsible for sin and all persons are individually 

saved by faith. He states, “The fact, however, that faith has now been removed from an 

ethnic or strictly community setting . . . and can be exercised by any person . . . throws 

the spotlight on the individual and his or her personal response” (p. 165). And again, 

“the universality of his gospel gives it an a priori emphasis on the individual” (p.167). 

The book is in two parts. Part 1 seeks to provide a social-scientific (ch. 2) and historical 

(chs. 3–5) basis for the exegesis of three texts in Romans in part 2. The survey of 

contemporary social-scientific thought on the individual is brief but adequate. He correctly 

draws attention to Anthony Cohen’s critique of the tendency in the social sciences 

to submerge the individual and to reify culture, and he is correct that the same tendency 

exists among some biblical scholars. Cohen’s “primacy of the self” thesis properly highlights 

the self-consciousness and individuality of persons, which rightly regards them as 

777


agents of culture. Burnett summarizes, “For Cohen, culture is quite simply the product 

of thinking selves, which filter and process their social experiences through their own 

perceptions” (p. 24). However, Burnett fails to maintain Cohen’s concern for the individual 

as an agent of culture, as well as his careful definitions. Three chapters that survey 

the “increase in individualism” in the Hellenistic world as seen in ancient philosophy 

and religion follow. This shift highlights the need for definitions. Since the terms “individual” 

and “individuality” and “individualism” (as well as “individualist” and “individualistic”) 

can easily become confusing, clear definitions would have helped the reader, 

especially since even Burnett appears to confuse the terms at times (cf. pp. 87, 159). 

Given his repeated assertions that individualism was “on the increase” (e.g., pp. 57, 218), 

it would be helpful to know what specifically was increasing. It is also unclear what he 

means when he speaks of ancient persons having “a lively sense of the individual” (p. 57) 

or there being “high degrees of individuality” in Mediterranean society (p. 52). Furthermore, 

and perhaps more significantly, he fails to engage satisfactorily contemporary 

scholarship on the discussion of individualism in the ancient world, limiting his concern 

to signs or suggestions of its existence rather than to a discussion of its meaning and 

value to ancient persons. Attention to this matter might have rescued the project. At 

least since the early 1980s with Michel Foucault’s Histoire de la sexualité, Le souci de soi 

(Paris: Gallimard, 1984) scholarly discussion of the individual and individualism in the 

ancient world has focused its attention on the various attitudes expressed by ancient persons 

regarding the value of the individual and individualism. Luther Martin, for example, 

has claimed that ancient attitudes (expressed in religion and philosophy) toward 

individualism were predominantly negative, stating, “the emergence of individualism 

. . . presented rather a problematic to be solved” (Technologies of the Self [Amherst: 

University of Massachusetts, 1988], 50). The difference in approach can be seen in the 

different examples they cite. Burnett cites the atypical individualistic exploits of Achilles 

in the Iliad in order to demonstrate the existence of individualism in the ancient world; 

whereas Martin cites the wanderings of Lucius, the “Hellenistic Everyman,” in 

Apuleius’s Golden Ass, wandering in search of salvation from his unique identity, in 

order to understand a typical attitude toward individualism. Martin does not deny that 

individualism existed in the ancient world; his concern is to understand the value placed 

on it, but Burnett fails to appreciate this point and dismisses his anti-individualism thesis 

as irrelevant (pp. 7–8). 

A similar lack of engagement is reflected in Burnett’s use of Christopher Pelling’s 

study of Thucydides (“Conclusion,” in Characterisation and Individuality in Greek Literature 

[ed. C. Pelling; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990]). He cites Pelling’s conclusions 

as evidence for the existence of individualism in Athens (pp. 33ff.), failing to 

notice, however, that Pelling had emphasized Thucydides’ moralizing treatment of individualism 

as a negative cultural characteristic that led to the fall of Athens. This failure 

to interact with contemporary scholarship is most unfortunate, however, in his treatment 

of Christopher Gill, who, during the past twenty years, has produced an impressive 

and important body of work on the subject of ancient persons, theorizing that the 

ancient Greek notion of the self was more “objective-participant” than “subjective-individualist.” 

Burnett distorts and dismisses Gill in little more than one page (pp. 34f.), 

which is especially ironic given the potential of Gill’s “objective-participant” view for 

illuminating and clarifying Burnett’s categorization of the Mediterranean as an essen-

Book Reviews 

tially “collectivist society” with individualistic behavior becoming more pronounced (p. 

56). In particular, Gill’s study of the four-personae theory of Cicero in de Officiis might 

well have benefited Burnett’s work. Finally, Burnett treats Bruce Malina’s work on the 

dyadic nature of ancient persons with contempt: “What are we to make of Malina’s first 

century individual . . . ? Such a person would be a shell of a human being, a social drone 

incapable of the behaviour that makes us truly human” (p. 45). Admittedly Malina sometimes 

states his views in an unguarded fashion, but this absurd distortion of his ideas is 

inappropriate. This decision to ignore the dyadic quality of human existence, rather than 

to consider it fairly, further hastens Burnett down the wrong road. 

In part 2 Burnett intends to apply the conclusions of part 1 to Paul, but it is apparent 

that only Cohen’s “primacy of the self” thesis finds use here, unfortunately, however, 

only in truncated form. The failure in chapters 3 through 5 to grapple with ancient attitudes 

toward the meaning and value of the individual and individualism leaves Burnett 

without a significant contextual entry point for discerning Paul’s valuation, resulting in a 

short-circuited effort that ultimately offers little more than confirmation that Paul recognized 

the individuality of persons (p. 138) (that is, that persons are self-conscious, creative 

agents), without any analysis of Paul’s valuation of the specific expressions of that 

individuality in the creative shaping of culture. Burnett might have examined, for example, 

1 Corinthians, which provides an abundance of material for such a study, with Paul 

promoting the creative agency of individuals to shape their culture in specific ways (e.g., 

1 Cor 12–14), while also recognizing that this same individuality can be expressed in 

negative ways (e.g., 1 Cor 5–11). Romans too provides potent examples for analysis 

(5:12–21; 12:1–15:13). Instead, however, he restricts his study to three salvation passages 

in Romans. Before analyzing these passages, by which he seeks to demonstrate 

that Paul had a “lively interest” in the individual (p. 215), Burnett surveys the field of 

Romans studies (ch. 8), demonstrating the overwhelming interest in corporate matters 

in Paul (e.g., the relationship between Jew and Gentile) among contemporary scholars, 

including Tom Wright, James Dunn, E. P. Sanders, Will Campbell, A. J. M. Wedderburn, 

J. C. Beker, Francis Watson, Mark Nanos, Stanley Stowers, and Neil Elliott. Burnett 

does not deny that Paul has corporate concerns, he claims instead that the 

consensus view exceeds Paul’s corporate concerns and neglects his concern for the individual. 

Again, I agree with this assessment of the state of Pauline scholarship; however, 

the more balanced assessment Burnett desires (p. 221) eludes him, as a result of his concern 

only for the “individual qua individual” and not for the individual as a creative agent 

shaping the collective. Chapter 7, a study of Rom 1:16–17, argues that Paul understood 

salvation to be a personal matter of faith, realized by the deliberate choice of a self-conscious 

individual. “The defining criterion of the new community of ‘faith’ of necessity 

puts the spotlight firmly on the individual. Faith implies a personal, cognitive response 

on the part of individuals, and necessitates individual and deliberate choice” (p. 147). 

Similarly, in ch. 8 Burnett argues that Rom 3:21–28 reveals Paul’s concern for individuals 

because there he identifies the human problem (sin) and the divine solution (faith) as 

directed toward the individual. Again, however, Burnett offers no more than recognition 

of individuality in truncated form. He states, “Response to God by a people operates 

first and foremost at the level of the individual—trust and confidence are mental, 

cognitive processes that originate in individual brains—and faithful obedience is carried 

out by individuals as deliberate, willful action” (p. 154). Undoubtedly it is true that faith, 

779


trust, and faithfulness are the acts of a self-conscious individual, but they are always acts 

of an individual in relationship with others. This discussion of faith cries out for attention 

to Paul’s regard for the value of the individual in relationship and in community. The 

covenantal, communal, corporate nature of faith surfaces repeatedly in the discussion of 

the relevant texts, and Burnett is well aware of this, as his discussion of faith in the OT 

reveals (pp. 149–54), yet he steadfastly refuses to allow these passages to “deflect” him 

from his purpose and influence his understanding of the individual as viewed in Scripture 

and in Paul. He can write, “The fact that the covenant underpins Paul’s theological 

reflection and what he has to say about faith should not deflect us from recognizing the 

individual relevance of his theology” (sic, p. 167). Finally (ch. 9), according to Burnett, 

Rom 7:7–25 demonstrates Paul’s concern for the “individual qua individual,” because 

the experience expressed there is necessarily the experience of an individual person not 

a group. According to Burnett the passage describes the experience of any individual 

person whose life is lived by the law and is, therefore, a “grave warning” to his readers, 

“both Jew and Gentile . . . of the dangers of slipping back into a law-observant religion” 

(p. 212). “Paul’s argument works primarily at the level of the individual, where it is the 

individual who struggles with sin within and the sense of what he ought to do . . . Paul 

once again has the individual and personal aspects of salvation clearly in mind” (p. 214). 

Since Burnett purports to offer a critique of the New Perspective on Paul regarding 

its neglect of the individual, and given his emphasis on the salvation of the individual, 

it is striking that he takes no position on or even discusses James D. G. Dunn’s 

influential claims concerning justification, righteousness, and “works of the law.” Do 

these works refer to an individual’s attempt to attain righteousness by legal obedience, 

as the traditional view maintains, or do they refer to a group’s attempt to preserve 

national righteousness through the maintenance of group boundaries, as the New Perspective 

avers? Does Burnett agree with Dunn that “the need to attain one’s own righteousness 

was no part of traditional Jewish teaching” (Theology of Paul [Grand Rapids: 

Eerdmans, 1998], 369)? Or does he agree with the critics of the New Perspective who 

claim that Paul reveals the existence of elements of works-righteousness within the general 

covenantal nomism of first-century Judaism (e.g., Rom 9:30–10:4; Gal 3:10–14; Phil 

3:2–11)? Sadly, Burnett missed a significant opportunity to offer a valuable assessment 

and critique of the New Perspective’s view of the individual on the matter of salvation. 

Paul and the Salvation of the Individual does not achieve its author’s worthy goal 

of restoring balance to Pauline studies by revealing the importance of the individual in 

Paul’s thought. In fact Paul’s interest in the individual person is far greater than this 

study reveals and goes well beyond an interest in personal salvation. For Paul each individual 

has unique and creative gifts to be exercised enthusiastically for the benefit and 

shaping of the community of Christ’s followers. Burnett’s imposition of the category 

“individual qua individual” appears to be entirely alien to Paul’s thought and ultimately 

the cause of his inability to engage with Paul. Ironically, by imposing this category on 

Paul rather than following Paul’s own creative shaping of categories for the individual 

(e.g., the individual in-Christ, in-Adam, or in the Christian community), Burnett has 

ignored in Paul the very individuality he sought to reveal. 

Robert Keay, St Marys College, University of St Andrews, KY16 9JU UK

Book Reviews 781 

Polycarp and the New Testament: The Occasion, Rhetoric, Theme, and Unity of the 

Epistle to the Philippians and Its Allusions to New Testament Literature, by Paul 

Hartog. WUNT 2.134. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 2002. Pp. x + 281. €49.00 (paper). 

By any standard Polycarp of Smyrna must be reckoned as one of the most notable 

figures in the early postapostolic church. Yet despite his importance for the history of 

the church in the early second century, Polycarp’s one surviving letter has seldom been 

given attention for its own sake, as scholarship has tended to discuss it primarily in terms 

of its significance for other matters (such as the authenticity of the Ignatian letters). This 

book declares its intention to rectify this state of affairs by examining Polycarp’s letter to 

the Philippians on its own terms and for its own sake, and only then with regard to what 

it may contribute to other important questions—in this case, Polycarp’s contribution to 

our understanding of the early formation of the NT. 

Chapter 1 offers a nice review of past scholarship. Noting the way that most previous 

research was driven by extrinsic concerns, Hartog embraces the recent call to treat 

documents such as Polycarp’s letter first in terms of its own circumstances and situation. 

He therefore properly directs attention to matters of introduction and prolegomena. 

Chapter 2 reviews and assesses the sources of (and the information they preserve about) 

the life of Polycarp, while the third surveys Smyrna, Philippi, and the churches there. 

He then turns to the letter itself as he discusses the text and authenticity of Philippians 

(ch. 4) and investigates the background of the letter, especially the indications of previous 

contact between Polycarp and the Philippian congregation (ch. 5). In ch. 6 he turns 

to the identity and role of the heresy mentioned in Philippians 7. He rightly rejects P. N. 

Harrison’s claim that the primary focus of the letter is a crisis sparked by Marcion (or his 

followers). He also critiques H. O. Maier’s “twin problem” view that the letter deals with 

two separate and largely unrelated problems, docetic heresy and avarice of the presbyter 

Valens. Yet his own proposal—that Polycarp’s response to the problem of Valens is 

the letter’s primary focus, that the Valens incident reveals a failure of leadership at 

Philippi that leaves the congregation vulnerable to false teachers, and thus the reference 

to heresy is a generic anti-docetic exhortation—seems to differ from Maier only with 

respect to secondary details. Chapters 7 and 8 survey (rather cursorily) epistolary and 

rhetorical features of the letter, ch. 9 analyzes the theme of “righteousness” and its function 

in the letter, and ch. 10 addresses the question of the document’s integrity (is it one 

letter or two?). 

The stated topic of the book is the focus of the remaining three chapters. These 

address NT allusions in Philippians (ch. 11), Polycarp and Scripture, including Polycarp’s 

alleged Marcionite leanings and questions related to the development of the NT 

canon (ch. 12), and Polycarp and Paul (ch. 13). A conclusion, bibliography, and three 

indices conclude the volume. 

Chapters 9 and 10 constitute the book’s major contribution to the study of Philippians. 

In his investigation of the theme of “righteousness” (ch. 9), Hartog pays close 

attention not only to the meaning of the term—confirming earlier studies that indicated 

that Polycarp used “righteousness” in “the ethical sense of morality rather than in a theological 

notion of ‘justification’” (p. 145)—but also to the theme’s function in the letter. 

Polycarp employs the theme not only to deal with the matter of Valen’s sin, but also to


shape what he hopes will be the congregation’s response: “forgiveness instead of 

vengeance or anger,” and “patient endurance even in unfortunate circumstances.” 

Whereas previous investigations have paid primary attention only to the letter’s content, 

Hartog integrates his discussion of content with observations about the letter’s form, 

function, and purpose, and does so fruitfully. In the process, he paints a portrait of Polycarp 

as a creative and dynamic pastor quite at odds with the traditional view that he was 

a rather colorless and marginal figure. 

The proposal put forth by P. N. Harrison in his 1936 monograph—that Philippians 

is really two letters, the first (comprising chs. 13–14) written shortly before the death of 

Ignatius, and the second (chs. 1–12) written some twenty or more years later, in the late 

130s C.E.—has dominated research on the topic ever since, with many scholars simply 

taking his proposal as an established fact. Shorn of its rhetorical flourishes and special 

pleading, however, Harrison’s case is really quite weak, and at its core depends almost 

entirely on Harrison’s estimation of what a “sensible man” would have done in Polycarp’s 

circumstances. Drawing together previous critiques and utilizing the results of his 

own discussion of the letter’s epistolary features and rhetorical situation, Hartog presents 

in ch. 10 a convincing rebuttal of Harrison’s two letter hypothesis and a persuasive 

case for the unity of the letter. 

Chapter 11, “New Testament Allusions” (which one would anticipate, in view of 

the book’s title, to be the heart of the book) is a major disappointment. An initial awareness 

of a central problem—“one must ask whether [Polycarp] is using New Testament 

literature or oral, catechetical materials”—appears to have little impact on the following 

discussion. Recognizing the need for “objective criteria” to help identify quotations and 

allusions, Hartog proposes—after a one-paragraph discussion of previous approaches 

(e.g., R. Hays, M. Fishbane)—his own methodology. It consists of five “tests for demonstrating 

instances of use” of the NT: verbal quantity, density, recurrence, singularity, 

and formulaic introduction. But there is no rationale given for this method, nor is there 

any discussion of how these “tests” are to be applied: does an alleged instance of use, for 

example, need to pass just one test or more than one of these five tests? If more, how 

many? Nothing at all is said in this regard, and the following discussion leaves the 

impression of an ad hoc rather than systematic application of the tests. 

The situation does not improve when the discussion turns to the examination of 

specific passages in Philippians. The discussion of the Pauline material, apart from the 

Pastorals, occupies the equivalent of one printed page. One is informed that 1 Cor 6:2 is 

“clearly referred to” in Phil 11.2, and that Rom 14:10–12 is “clearly used” in Phil 6.2— 

but no evidence is presented to support these statements. It is said that “various other 

minor correspondences with 1 Corinthians and Romans are found throughout Phil”— 

but no information is given. With regard to Galatians, Hartog states that “Polycarp 

begins a quotation . . . from Galatians with eijdovte" o{ti (5.3).” But there is no such introductory 

phrase in Phil 5.3; presumably he means 5.1, where the formula introduces a 

proverbial statement (“God is not mocked”) that also occurs in Gal 6:7. But no evidence 

or arguments are offered to indicate why one should conclude in favor of Polycarp’s 

dependence on Galatians rather than traditional or catechetical materials. 

The discussion of Polycarp’s possible use of other portions of the NT is similarly 

superficial and incomplete. One example from the treatment of the Synoptic Gospels

Book Reviews 

must suffice. The discussion of Phil 2.3 and its possible links to the Sermon on the 

Mount and 1 Clem. 13 (with which Polycarp apparently is familiar) oversimplifies the 

complexity of the matter (e.g., the four clauses in Phil 2.3 are part of a differently 

ordered seven-clause series in 1 Clem. 13) and neglects significant data (e.g., the reader 

is not informed that the modifications Polycarp allegedly makes to Matt 7:2 result in a 

text that is identical with Luke 6:38). Furthermore, there is no discussion of the possible 

significance of the introductory formula, in this instance, “remembering what the Lord 

taught when he said.” 

The contrast in quality between chs. 9–10 and ch. 11 is also observable in chs. 12 

(“Polycarp and Scripture”) and 13 (“Polycarp and Paul”). These chapters essentially set 

out answers or responses to the series of ten questions raised on the first page of the 

introduction. When Hartog is able to draw upon and extend the insights reached in chs. 

2–10 (as in ch. 12, points 1, 2, and 3, or ch. 13, points 1, and 4) he makes some well-taken 

observations. At other points, however, the weaknesses evident in ch. 11 recur. Again, 

one example is offered, this one involving one of most contentious and significant historical 

questions regarding Polycarp: did he consider texts now found in the NT to be 

Scripture? Hartog rightly recognizes that the interpretation of Phil 12.1 (“Only, as it is 

said in these scriptures, ‘Be angry and do not sin’ [= Ps 4:5 LXX, cited in Eph 4:26a] and 

‘Let not the sun set on your wrath’ [= Eph 4:26b]”)—a passage that he did not discuss in 

ch. 11—is crucial for answering the question. Following a listing of six possible ways to 

understand the passage, he eventually concludes: “In sum, Polycarp seems to have used 

the label ‘Scriptures’ for Ephesians.” But other than citing three scholars who share his 

view of the matter, Hartog provides no evidence or arguments to support his opinion, 

nor does he interact with some significant contrary estimations of the matter (e.g., D. 

Rensberger, whose work Hartog cites elsewhere). Thus the reader never learns why or 

on what basis Hartog embraces the view he adopts. 

If one may utilize a food analogy, this book is like a meal in which the appetizer 

proves to be more nourishing than the main course. Chapters 2–10 offer a very good 

introduction to Polycarp’s letter. The main topic, however, remains in need of a definitive 

treatment. 

783 

Michael W. Holmes, Bethel College, St. Paul, MN 55112

Journal of Biblical Literature - Society of Biblical Literature

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