BIBLICAL STUDIES AND THE FAILURE OF HISTORY

Copenhagen International Seminar

General Editors: Thomas L. Thompson and Ingrid Hjelm,

both at the University of Copenhagen

Editors: Niels Peter Lemche and Mogens Müller,

both at the University of Copenhagen
Language Revision Editor: James West

Published
Argonauts of the Desert: Structural Analysis of the Hebrew Bible
Philippe Wajdenbaum

Biblical Narrative and Palestine’s History: Changing Perspectives 2

Thomas L. Thompson

Biblical Studies and the Failure of History: Changing Perspectives 3

Niels Peter Lemche

Changing Perspectives 1: Studies in the History, Literature and

Religion of Biblical Israel
John Van Seters

The Expression ‘Son of Man’ and the Development of Christology:

A History of Interpretation
Mogens Müller

Japheth Ben Ali’s Book of Jeremiah: A Critical Edition and Linguistic

Analysis of the Judaeo-Arabic Translation
Joshua A. Sabih

Origin Myths and Holy Places in the Old Testament:

A Study of Aetiological Narratives
Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò
Biblical Studies and the Failure of History
Changing Perspectives 3

Niels Peter Lemche

 Published by Equinox Publishing Ltd.
UK: Unit S3, Kelham House, 3 Lancaster Street, Sheffield, S3 8AF
USA: ISD, 70 Enterprise Drive, Bristol, CT 06010

www.equinoxpub.com

First published 2013

© Niels Peter Lemche 2013

Introduction © John Van Seters 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
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permission in writing from the publishers.

ISBN: 978-1-78179-017-5 (hardcover)

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Lemche, Niels Peter.
Biblical studies and the failure of history / Niels Peter Lemche.
    p. cm. – (Changing perspectives ; 3) (Copenhagen international seminar)
Includes index.
ISBN 978-1-78179-017-5 (hardcover)
1. Bible. O.T.—Historiography. 2. Bible. O.T.—Criticism, interpretation,
etc. I. Title.
BS1180.L44 2012
221.6’7—dc23
2012022765

Typeset by JS Typesetting Ltd, Porthcawl, Mid Glamorgan.

Printed and bound in the UK by MPG Books Group.
 Contents

Acknowledgements vii

Introduction 1
John Van Seters

1. The ‘Hebrew slave’: comments on the slave law,

Exodus 21:2‑11 11

2. The manumission of slaves – the fallow year – the Sabbatical

Year – the Jubilee Year 26

3. Andurārum and Mišarum: comments on the problem of social

edicts and their application in the ancient Near East 45

4. The Greek ‘amphictyony’: could it be a prototype for

Israelite society in the Period of the Judges? 61

5. The chronology in the story of the Flood 69

6. ‘Hebrew’ as a national name for Israel 77

7. Rachel and Leah: on the survival of outdated paradigms in the

study of the origin of Israel 95

8. The Old Testament: a Hellenistic book? 133

9. Power and social organization: some misunderstandings and

some proposals, or is it all a question of patrons and clients? 158

10. Is it still possible to write a history of ancient Israel? 169

11. Is it still possible to speak about an ‘Israelite religion’? From

the perspective of a historian 189

12. Kings and clients: on loyalty between the ruler and the ruled
in ancient ‘Israel’ 201
vi Contents

13. Justice in western Asia in antiquity, or why no laws were

needed! 212

14. From patronage society to patronage society 230

15. Are we Europeans really good readers of biblical texts and

interpreters of biblical history? 242

16. History writing in the ancient Near East and Greece 253

17. Good and bad in history: the Greek connection 264

18. On the problems of reconstructing pre-Hellenistic Israelite

(Palestinian) history 275

19. How does one date an expression of mental history? The Old
Testament and Hellenism 289

20. Chronology and archives: when does the history of Israel and
Judah begin? 307

21. ‘Because they have cast away the law of the Lord of Hosts’,
or ‘We and the rest of the world’: the authors who ‘wrote’
the Old Testament 317

Index of biblical references 334

Index of authors 339
 Acknowledgements

The works in this volume appeared originally in the following journals and col-
lections of scholarly papers and are republished here by the kind permission of
the respective publishers and editors. They are listed below in the order of their
appearance in this volume.

Chapter 1: The ‘Hebrew Slave’: Comments on the Slave Law, Exodus

21.2‑11, Vetus Testamentum 25 (1975), 129–44 and ‫ חפשי‬in 1 Sam
xvii 25. Vetus Testamentum 24 (1974), ­373–74.
Chapter 2: The Manumission of Slaves – the Fallow Year – the Sabbatical
Year – the Jubilee Year, Ve­tus Testamentum 26 (1976), 38–59.
Chapter 3: Andurārum and Mišarum: Comments on the Problem of Social
Edicts and Their Application in the Ancient Near East, Journal of
Near Eastern Studies 38 (1979), 11–22.
Chapter 4: The Greek ‘Amphictyony’: Could It Be a Prototype for the Israelite
Society in the Period of the Judges?, Journal for the Study of the
Old Testament 4 (1976), 48–59.
Chapter 5: The Chronology in the Story of the Flood, Journal for the Study
of the Old Testament 18 (1980), 52–62.
Chapter 6: ‘Hebrew’ as a National Name for Israel, Studia Theologica 33
(1979), 1–23.
Chapter 7: Rachel and Leah: On the Survival of Outdated Paradigms in the
Study of the Origin of Israel, Scandina­vian Journal of the Old
Testament 2 (1987), 127–53; Scandina­vian Journal of the Old
Testament 1 (1988), 39–65.
Chapter 8: The Old Testament: A Hellenistic Book?, Scandi­navian Journal
for the Old Testament 7 (1993), 163–93.
Chapter 9: Power and Social Organization: Some Misunderstandings and
Some Proposals, Or Is It All a Question of Patrons and Clients?,
(1994, unpublished).
Chapter 10: Is It Still Possible to Write a History of Ancient Israel?,
Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament 8 (1994), 163–88.
Chapter 11: Is It Still Possible to Speak about an ‘Israelite Religion’? From
the Perspective of an Historian, (1993), transl. from German
‘Kann von einer “israelitischen Religion” noch weiterhin die Rede
sein? Perspektiven eines Historikers’, in W. Dietrich and M. A.
Klopfenstein (eds) Ein Gott Allein? (Freiburg: Universitätsverlag,
1994), 59–75.
viii Acknowledgements

Chapter 12: Kings and Clients: On Loyalty Between the Ruler and the Ruled
in Ancient ‘Israel’, Semeia 66 (1995), 119–32.
Chapter 13: Justice in Western Asia in Antiquity, Or Why No Laws Were
Needed!, The Kent Law Review 70 (1995), 1695–716.
Chapter 14: From Patronage Society to Patronage Society, in V. Fritz and P. R.
Davies (eds) The Origins of the Is­raelite States, JSOT Supplement
Series 228 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 106–20.
Chapter 15: Are We Europeans Really Good Readers of Biblical Texts and
Interpreters of Biblical History?, Journal for the Study of North-
West Semitic Languages (Studies Hannes Olivier) 25 (1999),
185–99.
Chapter 16: History Writing in the Ancient Near East and Greece (1999:
unpublished).
Chapter 17: Good and Bad in History: The Greek Connection, in S. L. McKenzie
and T. Römer (ed) Rethinking the Foundations: Historiography in
the Ancient World and in the Bible. Essays in Honour of John Van
Seters, BZAW 294 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2000), 127–40.
Chapter 18: On the Problems of Reconstructing Pre-Hellenistic Israelite
(Palestinian) History, Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 3/1 (2000).
Chapter 19: How Does One Date an Expression of Mental History? The Old
Testament and Hellenism, in L. L. Grabbe, Did Moses Speak
Attic? Jewish Historiography and Scripture in the Hellenistic
Period, Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement
Series 317 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 200–24.
Chapter 20: Chronology and Archives: When Does the History of Israel and
Judah Begin?, in D. M. Gunn and P. McNutt (eds) Imagining
Biblical Worlds: Spatial, Social, and Historical Constructs.
Essays in Honor of James W. Flanagan. Jour­nal for the Study
of the Old Testament Supplement Series 359 (Sheffield: Sheffield
Academic Press, 2002), 264–76.
Chapter 21: ‘Because They Have Cast Away the Law of the Lord of Hosts’,
Or ‘We and the Rest of The World’: The Authors Who ‘Wrote’ the
Old Testament, SJOT 17 (2003), 268–90.
 Introduction
John Van Seters

The author of the collection of essays in this third volume of the Changing
Perspectives series is widely known as the founder of the ‘Copenhagen
School,’ a term that has become synonymous with rather radical and ‘mini-
malist’ views to many in biblical scholarship, especially in North America,
and often without any clear idea about Lemche’s contributions to scholarship.
Niels Peter Lemche conducted his theological studies and graduate research
at the University of Copenhagen during the period of 1964 to 1978, and from
there he had his first teaching appointment at the University of Aarhus, dur-
ing 1978 to 1986. It was there that he published his very important doctoral
thesis, Early Israel: Anthropological and Historical Studi­es on the Israelite
Society before the Monarchy (in Danish, 1984, and English, 1985), and shortly
thereafter became Professor of Theology at the University of Copenhagen
(1987), where he has remained even since. It was primarily through this work,
Early Israel, with its strong emphasis on anthropological and sociological
approaches to Israelite history, that he became known to the English-speaking
world of scholarship.
I wish to call special attention to this period of the mid-1980s because in
the chapters that follow in this collection, this time period constitutes a sig-
nificant divide between the first six, which would appear to most scholars as
rather conservative in method and conclusions, and the rest, which reflect the
various themes for which he is now famous. In this way this division reflects
Lemche’s own ‘change in perspective’ and the fact that during this early period
in his career he was fully conversant with all of the biblical scholarship that
was associated with the pre-monarchical origins of ‘early Israel’ and the pos-
sibility of Late Bronze Age traditions being reflected in biblical texts. The fact
is that because of the prevailing trend in biblical scholarship during the 1960s
and 1970s, it was expected that one have expertise in Akkadian and Ugaritic,
in addition to the biblical languages, as well as a command of the history and
civilization of the Near East back to the third millennium, and this is reflected
very well in these opening articles, in which he is a master of this material. It is
to this first group of articles that we will now turn.
Chapters 1 to 3 have to do with the antiquity of the Covenant Code in rela-
tionship to the parallel laws in Deuteronomy and the Holiness Code, and specifi-
cally with the law of the Hebrew Slave and related laws and edicts regarding
2 Biblical studies and the failure of history

manumission. In these chapters, Lemche was governed by the widely accepted

view that the Covenant Code was a product of the second millennium bce, pro-
duced under strong Babylonian influence and mediated by Canaanite scribes to
the Hebrews during the early monarchy period. As such, it was prior to the par-
allel versions of similar laws in Deuteronomy by several centuries. In support of
this early dating of the law of the Hebrew Slave (Chapter 1), Lemche examines
two terms in the law that have a rather distinctive social meaning within their
second millennium setting. The first one is the designation ‘Hebrew’ (‘ivri,),
which is equated with habiru, a term that was widely used during this period
�
in a wide variety of contexts over a broad area, including that of a domestic
servant. Within this social context, Lemche understands the term to mean an
outlaw or refugee who sells himself into service for a limited period of time,
and therefore it was not originally an ethnic term. It was only much later that it
was reinterpreted in the Deuteronomic law to be the equivalent of an Israelite.
The second term Lemche investigates is h[ops]i, to be ‘free’. He associates this
term with the Akkadian term hupšu, as found in the Amarna letters with the
meaning ‘a dependent on a city� state or on a citizen of the same’. For Lemche,
this makes the sociological interpretation of this law in Exodus 21:2-6 entirely
distinct from its reinterpretation in Deuteronomy 15:12-17, where these terms
are seen to take on a quite different meaning.
In Chapters 4 and 5, Lemche takes up the complex questions of the relation-
ship of the manumission of slaves in the seventh year and the institutions of pub-
lic cancellation of debts every seven years, since slavery for debt was common,
the fallow year for crops as an aid to the poor, and the year of jubilee (yobel). In
addition, there is the royal declaration of an amnesty from debt (deror), which
is related to the Neo-Assyrian concept of andurārum. With great skill, Lemche
attempts to thread his way through all of these issues, and the interrelationship
of the various sources to each other. In all of this he is completely engaged with
all of the Near Eastern and biblical scholars of the day.
Closely associated with these chapters is ‘“Hebrew” as a National Name for
Israel’ (Chapter 6), in which Lemche continues to investigate the broader cul-
tural and sociological setting of the designation ‘Hebrew’ in the Covenant Code
as originating in the habiru of the second half of the second millennium bce, and
�
the later use of this terminology in an ethnic and nationalistic sense in the later
periods. For this reconstruction, as with the three earlier articles, much depends
upon the acceptance of the notion that the casuistic laws of the Covenant Code
are the oldest collection of laws in the Pentateuch and stem from a second
millennium Canaanite–Akkadian law code. This study should now be com-
pared with his comments on the term ‘Hebrew’ in The Israelites in History and
Tradition (1998, pp. 57–62), where he presents a revision of his dating of the
Covenant Code to the exilic period with a setting in Babylonia. Nevertheless, it
is clear from the earlier study included here that the term ‘Hebrew’, whatever its
origins, became an etic designation for the inhabitants of the highland regions
of Palestine, whereas the term Israelite was an emic ideological self-designation
of the people of the region. It is quite likely that this distinction persisted until
quite late into the first millennium bce.
 Introduction 3

Also belonging to this early group of essays is ‘The Chronology in the

Story of the Flood’ (Chapter 5), which regards the chronology of the Flood
story as basic to the literary-critical analysis of its sources. The study is based
upon the assumption that each of the three chronologies belongs to one of the
Pentateuchal sources, J, P and Rp. Lemche recognizes the broadly accepted
limits of each source and notes that J uses round numbers, such as seven- or
forty-day periods; P uses precise dating based upon Noah’s age; and a third by
the redactor Rp, who attempts to reconcile the two. It is an interesting attempt
to solve a perennial problem of the classical Documentary Hypothesis – that
of the relationship between the two sources, J and P – but is not completely
convincing. In subsequent years, Lemche largely abandoned this literary criti-
cal approach.
An essay by Lemche on ‘The Greek “Amphictyony”: Could It Be a Prototype
for the Israelite Society in the Period of the Judges?’ (Chapter 4) is based upon
his former monograph in Danish in 1972 (a Master’s thesis), which was a criti-
cal analysis of Martin Noth’s theory of an amphictyonic league of Israelite tribes
in the time of the judges. Lemche finds that the Greek parallels used as evidence
for such an amphictyony will not support Noth’s historical reconstruction. The
evidence from Greece is much too late and of a particularly specialized nature
to allow such a parallel in the time of the judges. This critique went much
beyond other voices that were being raised against this very popular notion and
contributed to its eventual demise. The piece also reflected two other signifi-
cant developments in Lemche’s work. The one was to give more attention to
a critique of prior scholarship on Israelite historiography, especially as it had
to do with sociological models; the second was to pay more attention to Greek
comparisons than to Mesopotamian ones, as reflected in his earlier articles.
There is a gap of several years between the first six chapters and Chapter 7,
‘Rachel and Leah: On the Survival of Outdated Paradigms in the Study of the
Origin of Israel’, which is quite significant, as we indicated at the beginning of
this introduction, and for this reason I will give it a little more attention. This
article is a study of the impact of scholars from Wellhausen to Alt at the turn
of the twentieth century on the subsequent understanding of the Israelite set-
tlement and the formation of the state. Its review of scholarship, together with
Lemche’s major work Early Israel (1985), represented a kind of paradigm shift
for Lemche, reflecting the changing perspectives of that period of time, a shift
which he acknowledges in this work. Alongside his description of Wellhausen’s
understanding of the development of Israelite religion, corresponding to the
literary stratification of the Pentateuch, Lemche speaks of Wellhausen’s ‘ration-
alistic paraphrase of the Old Testament tradition’ in his treatment of Israelite
history, and it is this treatment of history that becomes one of Lemche’s primary
concerns. Wellhausen’s approach to the early history was sociological, dealing
with simple tribal entities and with little concern for any comparison with larger
Near Eastern nations.
Lemche then goes on to show that this focus on the migration of tribes gave
rise to two opposing tendencies in the study of Israelite history. The one was
to reject the possibility of recovering any history of a national entity before the
4 Biblical studies and the failure of history

time of the monarchy and to focus instead on clues in the tradition regarding
the gradual settlement of tribal groups associated with two groups of the sons of
Jacob: the Leah tribes and the Rachel tribes. The other tendency among histori-
ans was to look in the narratives of the patriarchs and the exodus and conquest
traditions for ‘historical’ clues regarding this early history. The exception was
Eduard Meyer’s Die Israeliten und ihre Nach­barstämme; Meyer was rather crit-
ical of both methods as merely the rationalization of biblical traditions, instead
of real historical studies.
Lemche carries through his careful analysis of all the significant biblical his-
torians right down to the primary exponents of both tendencies in Martin Noth
and John Bright, with Noth as the heir of the German methodology in his treat-
ment of the tribes of Jacob for his early history, and Bright making use of a great
mass of studies to support the historicity of early historical events. He concludes
by stating that we must accept two ‘common-place axioms: (1) Our most impor­
tant duty is to acknowledge our ignorance, and (2) once we have acknowledged
the state of our ignorance we are in a position to acknowl­edge what we really
do know.’ This means that for Lemche ‘the real task for the historian is to find
the Sitz im Leben of a sys­tematic thinking of this kind’. Thus, the primary focus
of the modern historian should be to understand the narratives about the early
history of Israel within the historical context of the biblical writers themselves
(i.e. why they write about their origins in the way that they do).
It should be noted that at this point during the mid-1980s when Lemche
wrote his Early Israel and this historical survey, his primary focus was still on
the pre-monarchy period and scholars’ treatment of this period using ‘ration-
alistic paraphrase’ and had not yet extended this critique to the history of the
monarchy and beyond. Thus, in Ancient Israel (1988), Lemche was still able to
write a chapter of over fifty pages on the period of the monarchy from David
and Saul to the exile, although with many an appropriate caution about the bias
of the Deuteronomist. In time he would become much more sceptical of such
an endeavour.
After another lapse of five years, Lemche’s views on the history of Israel
had changed significantly, as reflected in: ‘The Old Testament: A Hellenistic
Book?’ (Chapter 8). Rather than accepting an exilic dating for the historical
narrative from Genesis to 2 Kings (J + Dtr), as a number of scholars, includ-
ing myself, had done, Lemche now raised the possibility of a much later date
in the Hellenistic period. Instead of starting with conjectures about the earli-
est traditions reflected in the Pentateuch and reconstructing a tradition-history
(Überlieferungsgeschichte) to their later historiographic formation, Lemche
begins with the manuscript evidence for the Greek Old Testament and the
Hebrew Bible as a whole and works back to earlier stages of its major compo-
nents, such as the Pentateuch and historical books, the collection of Prophets,
and the Writings. Lemche tries to establish clear and datable evidence for each
step back to an older level in the text before he moves to an earlier stage for its
individual components. His conclusion is that except for bits and pieces within
the major divisions, the Hebrew Bible is a collection of Hellenistic literary
works. In this approach he was strongly influenced by the Heidelberg scholar
 Introduction 5

Bernd Jørg Diebner, who published his views in a private journal of limited
circulation of which he was the editor.
Lemche, in this article, supports his late dating by a critique for the early
dating of texts, using a broad range of examples. He also acknowledges that
in my earlier studies I had called attention to similarities between Greek and
Hebrew historiography, especially in the case of the Yahwist; but he rejects my
suggestion that this similarity can be accounted for by regarding the advanced
literary culture of the Phoenicians as the source for such literary forms in both
the Greeks, with whom they had a long history of contact, and the Israelites,
their neighbours. Instead, he prefers to see this similarity as the result of direct
contact in the Hellenistic period. Lemche likewise discredits the Persian period
as a likely setting for the biblical text because of the small and rather impover-
ished state of Jerusalem during this period.
In several of the articles that follow Lemche returns to the issue of the
Hellenistic dating of the Hebrew Bible, particularly its historical tradition, and
the closely related questions of whether it is possible to reconstruct a history of
‘Israel’ and what sort of history it would be, and the closely related problem of
the history of ‘Israelite’ religion.
This re-evaluation of the political and religious history of Israel was reflected
in two essays published in 1994. The first of these was ‘Is It Still Possible to
Write a History of Ancient Israel?’ (Chapter 10). For most histories of Israel of
this period, including Lemche’s earlier history Ancient Israel (1988), the history
of Israel proper arises from ‘the changes that have occurred at the beginning of
this history, that is, before 1000 bce’ (i.e. the rise of David). Now Lemche in this
chapter seeks to push this change to include a critical re-evaluation of virtually
all of the monarchic period that follows it as well, as a continuation of his criti-
cism in Early Israel (1985). Lemche acknowledges that he is building on the
work of Gösta Ahlström and Philip Davies, who argued that ‘the Israelites’ were
an ideological construct invented by Old Testament writers. In a monograph on
the subject, The Canaanites and their Land: The Tradition of the Canaanites
(1991), Lemche had suggested that the designation of Canaanites was likewise
an ideological construct of whatever was evil and non-‘Israelite’.
In this 1994 article he reviews some attempts to deal with the nature of bibli-
cal historiography – is it history at all? How much historical information actu-
ally survived in the Old Testament? Lemche uses three examples:

1. the city of Pithom mentioned in the story of the exodus (Exod. 1:11), but
which did not exist before c.600bce;
2. the possible migration of the Benjaminites into their homeland in the story
of Joshua; and
3. the relationship between David and Omri in tradition and history.

According to Lemche:

the first example shows how late information is referred back to earliest
times in order to create a picture of the Israelite sojourn in Egypt; the second
6 Biblical studies and the failure of history

e­ xample demonstrates … that older traditions were re-em­ployed to create a

story of an Israelite conquest. The third example clearly exposes an author
who reshaped two great figures of Israelite history to create a new entity: a
Judean empire of David and Solomon [modelled on that of Omri and Ahab],
although such a Judean realm may never have existed.

This ancient method of writing history is hardly that of the modern historian,
and makes all biblical history suspect.
In the next complementary chapter, ‘Is It Still Possible to Speak about
an “Israelite Religion”? From the Perspective of an Historian’ (Chapter 11),
Lemche addresses the problem of a biblical history of religions. He begins this
discussion by noting that the revolutionary historical views of Mendenhall and
Gottwald were intended to give up the biblical history of the conquest in favour
of salvaging the religion of Israel, although in the Old Testament history and
religion are inseparable. This biblical religion is presented as the story of the
people of God from its beginning. Therefore, to reconstruct the history of Israel
by modern standards is also to reconstruct the history of their religion. Lemche
then proceeds to give a critical appraisal of this early biblical history (e.g. Noth’s
presentation of the settlement and the amphictyony). For Lemche, the entire
biblical history from the patriarchs to, and including, David and Solomon is all
‘fictive’. He spends a lot of time on the history of the Davidic–Solomonic period
because so much of biblical religion depends upon it. He concludes from this
historical review: ‘The biblical and real history form two independent universes.
It needs to be understood that the universe created by biblical writers was cre-
ated entirely on the basis of their situation and time.’ Lemche again expresses
the view that the universe of biblical historiography is Hellenistic (see Chapter
10), and in contrast to the contemporary historical uses of Israel, the biblical
use is entirely ideological. Building on this distinction, Lemche turns to a dis-
cussion of ‘Israelite’ religion in comparison with historical and archaeological
remnants of that religion. Can the Old Testament’s Israelite religion be made to
correspond in any way with the religion of the Northern Kingdom? The distinc-
tion between the biblical religion and the archaeological evidence of religious
practice in the time of the monarchies makes obvious the transformation of this
religion of Yahweh over time. Lemche warns that this is not a minor adjustment
of the older paradigm but a radical change to an entirely new paradigm for
understanding biblical religion.
As if to illustrate this point about a new paradigm, Lemche includes, ‘Are We
Europeans Really Good Readers of Biblical Texts and Inter­preters of Biblical
History?’ (Chapter 15), which begins by offering a reading of the Flood story,
as compared with its Mesopotamian counterparts, the story of the destruction
of Sodom and Gomorrah, and the story of David’s Rise in 1–2 Samuel, com-
pared with the rise of King Idrimi of Alalah. Each story has its own particular
moral, whether it is biblical, Mesopotamian�or North Syrian, and in this respect
the myth of the Flood is no different from the story of David, which is in the
nature of a fairy tale and therefore is not intended as an account of what actu-
ally happened. Reading the story as if it were a piece of modern historiography
 Introduction 7

is entirely misleading because as such it would have had no meaning for the
ancient. Europeans come to these stories with the wrong anachronistic per-
spective and misread the point of the stories. Lemche also argues, with several
examples, that the ancients, including Israel, had a quite different conception
of space, time and what we mistakenly regard as history, and he proceeds to
lay out some of the problems of modern Western readings of ancient texts. So
many of the new methods and fads of reading the Bible, both historical and
non-historical, fail to ‘distance them­selves from their own tradition and are
willing to read ancient texts within the con­text of ancient societies as products
of a mythic and magic culture’.
In 1999 Lemche wrote two essays in response to my own studies on bibli-
cal historiography. His point of departure for the first one, ‘History Writing in
the Ancient Near East and Greece’ (Chapter 16), was my comparative study of
biblical historiography In Search of History (1983) within the context of his-
tory writing in the ancient Near East and Greece. While Lemche accepts the
broad implications of that study, he places far greater emphasis on the impact of
Greek historiography upon the Near East, including the Jews in Palestine, dur-
ing the Hellenistic period. As Bertil Albrektson already pointed out in History
and the Gods (1967), in all these ancient histories the gods play an active role
in the affairs of humans, and Lemche takes time to spell out the ideological and
propagandistic nature of Near Eastern history with little regard for historical
accuracy. He then engages in a form-critical analysis of both Near Eastern and
Greek styles of writing about the past and concludes that only the Greek style
of history writing fits the biblical model from Genesis to 2 Kings.
A second essay on the Bible’s Greek connection – ‘Good and Bad in History:
The Greek Connection’ (Chapter 17), written for my Festschrift in 1999 – takes
up in greater detail the stylistic arguments for favouring the later Hellenistic
connection with biblical historiography than the earlier dating (sixth century
bce), which I preferred. Lemche first dismisses, as a very late invention, the
complete biblical history of Israel, which therefore cannot be used as a context
for dating anything within it, including not only the early history of the patri-
archs down to the conquest and settlement, but the whole of the monarchies
from David down to, and including, the exile. This immediately makes dating
anything to the exilic period problematic. The ‘myths’ associated with the exile
are products of the Hellenistic era. Such a point of departure can only result in
the negation of any interpretation of the biblical history (i.e. stories) within this
historical period. For purposes of comparison, Lemche uses the Roman histo-
rian Livy in the time of Augustus and its role in Roman education as a model for
understanding the nature and purpose of biblical historiography. My own model
of comparison in Prologue to History (1992) had been the history of Dionysius,
The Antiquities of Rome, which was also used by Josephus for his Antiquities of
the Jews. In comparable fashion with classical education, Lemche views bibli-
cal historiography as works that were for the intension of educating the elite in
the basic Jewish way of life and its understanding of good and evil in the world.
Both this piece and the previous one present a serious challenge to an exilic dat-
ing, which needs to be engaged and not merely to be dismissed as ‘minimalist’.
8 Biblical studies and the failure of history

If one accepts the view that biblical history is largely a fantasy of the
Hellenistic period and of little value as a history for the modern historian, then
how can one make use of any possible historical references in this biblical
­history for the reconstruction of a Palestinian history of this period? In ‘On
the Problems of Reconstructing Pre-Hellenistic Israelite (Palestinian) History’
(Chapter 18), Lemche attempts to deal with this question. In order to discuss
the distinction between fact and fiction in biblical historiography, Lemche
takes up two examples of historical events mentioned in 2 Kings: the story of
Sennacherib’s campaign against Judah and Jerusalem in 2 Kings 18–19 and
its parallels in the Assyrian annals, and, as a second example, the war against
Mesha in 2 Kings 3 and its parallel in the Mesha inscription. These are used
to illustrate the difficulty of reconstructing the historical and distinguishing it
from the story element, and labelling the resulting accounts as history. Historical
criticism of this kind is inevitably circular, which leads to the admission that a
history of Israel cannot be produced by this method. The extra-biblical confir-
mation of the names of Israel and Judah and the names of a few kings does not
constitute much of a basis for any historical reconstruction of the monarchies.
These royal names may suggest king lists of the two states with a few very brief
remarks about a significant event during a particular reign, and little else. This
shifts the discussion to the author’s particular uses of the past for his own time.
A survey of the biblical history from the patriarchs to the post-exilic period, as
compared with extra-biblical historical and archaeological evidence, confirms
its story-like and invented character.
A closely related issue concerning historical sources within biblical history
has to do with the possibility of archival sources for the history of the kings
of Israel and Judah, and this is addressed in ‘Chronology and Archives: When
Does the History of Israel and Judah Begin?’ (Chapter 20). In this chapter,
Lemche focuses on the problem of the so-called ‘chronicles of the kings of
Israel/Judah’, which list a few of the deeds of kings and length of their reign,
similar to Mesopotamian king lists. His examination of the lengths of reign
seems to reveal a distinct pattern in which certain reigns or combinations of
reigns yield the ‘pregnant’ number of forty, especially in the early part of the list,
whereas after Jehu in the north and Amaziah in the south there is no such pattern
evident. Lemche concludes from this that it would appear that only after these
two kings was any accurate record-keeping possible. Prior to this the numbers
for the length of each king’s reign were artificially constructed, and the chro-
nology of the monarchy for this earlier period quite useless. This would also
suggest that the time of Jehu and Amaziah was the beginning of administrative
literacy in these kingdoms and that there were no written records or archives of
the earlier period.
The last two chapters that deal with the Hellenistic dating of the Old Testa­
ment (Chapters 19 and 21) address two issues that have been rather over-
looked before. The first of these issues is the neglect of due consideration of
the Mesopotamian element within the biblical histories. This he does in ‘How
Does One Date an Expression of Mental History? The Old Testament and
Hellenism’ (Chapter 19) by defining more precisely the Sitz im Leben of the
 Introduction 9

biblical authors. Lemche develops the notion of a ‘mental matrix’, a combina-

tion of political and religious sentiments, by which the ancient historiographers
reconstructed their past. The task is to identify the essential components of such
matrices, corresponding to an ­intellectual ‘profile’ of the author. For traditional
societies the past was always an important component of this profile, as well as
the author’s ‘situational background’. Much of the piece is dedicated to finding
the appropriate social and historical context for this ‘mental matrix’, which for
him is the Hellenistic period; but it must also accommodate the evidence of a
strong Mesopotamian influence, of which he gives numerous examples. The
environment or ‘matrix’ in which both Hellenistic and Oriental traditions could
amalgamate and form the context for the production of the Pentateuch is located
in Seleucia, in Mesopotamia.
The other issue that Lemche somewhat neglected is the relationship of the
historical books to the rest of the Old Testament, especially the prophets. This
lack he makes good in Chapter 21 by building on the previous study of the
‘matrix’ of the biblical authors in Mesopotamia. Lemche begins by giving a
brief survey of how biblical studies of both the historical books and much of the
prophetic literature came to focus primarily on the decisive event of the exile
as the interpretive key for this large corpus of the Bible. In this piece he calls
this into question, preferring to render the term golah as the ‘diaspora’ and to
see the more important context as an elite band of ‘university students’ of the
Torah in a Babylonian environment of the Seleucid period. To support this view,
Lemche offers fresh interpretations of Isaiah (Isa. 4:2-6, 5:8-24, 6:11-13) as a
way of reconstructing a community of the law much like that of Qumran. He
concludes by stating:

To a great extent, this lit­erature is the expression of a religious and political

program. Following the guidelines of the argument in this article, we may be
close to the senti­ments and ideas, which created Judaism as a conglomerate
of Syro-Pal­estinian and Mesopotamian ideas and notions, which have been
submitted to heavy Greek cultural influence and sometimes adorned with
Egyptian motifs.

This would also summarize much of the argumentation in the previous arti-
cles on this subject.
Another major concern of Lemche’s scholarship that is reflected in the
remaining four chapters that we need to look at (Chapters 9 and 12–14) has to do
with the basic sociological structure of early Israelite society – the patron–client
relationship. This attempts to go beyond his earlier discussion of family, lineage
and tribe in his treatment of pre-monarchic Israel, in Ancient Israel (1988), by
building on the work of Mario Liverani on Late Bronze Age vassal treaties and
the relationship between the vassal kings and the great king. Liverani sees this
as corresponding to the Roman system of wealthy and powerful patrons and
their clients. In ‘Power and Social Organization: Some Misunderstandings and
Some Proposals, Or Is It All a Question of Patrons and Clients?’ (Chapter 9),
Lemche explains this basic structure and relation­ship between patron and client
10 Biblical studies and the failure of history

by using its modern counterpart, the godfather and his clients in the mafia as
a persistent Mediterranean tradition since the second millennium bce. Lemche
uses this comparison of the patron–client relationship to explain the covenant
relationship between the deity and his people in the Old Testament, and this
becomes a major theme of his sociological research. In this relationship, God
as patron demands a pledge of ­absolute loyalty from his people as client and in
return promises to be guardian and defender of the client.
In ‘Kings and Clients: On Loyalty between the Ruler and the Ruled in
Ancient “Israel”’ (Chapter 12), Lemche expands on how this understanding of
God as patron is reflected in the covenant language of the Hebrew Bible. This
patronage model is also applied to the relationship between king and subjects,
and to the covenant relationship between God and king in the Davidic cov-
enant. In accordance with his patronage model, Lemche endeavours to make the
case, in ‘Justice in Western Asia in Antiquity, Or Why No Laws Were Needed!’
(Chapter 13), that laws were not used in Western Asia in spite of their presence
in the Pentateuch, as indicated by the fact that no law codes have turned up in
archaeological finds of Alalah or Ugarit. Lemche then discusses the problem of
understanding the purpose of�Mesopotamian law codes in the training of jurors
rather than a fixed standard for all situations. Law is regarded as divine law
given by God to the king to administer, not in written form. In terms of how the
judicial system would have actually worked, his answer is to appeal again to
the institution of patronage and how justice is administered in such a system.
The result is a very persuasive thesis, although it perhaps raises as many ques-
tions as it answers. It is noteworthy that his new dating of the Covenant Code
in the late Babylonian period reflects a major ‘change in perspective’ from that
of his earlier treatment of this Hebrew slave law (see Chapter 1). Finally, in
‘From Patronage Society to Patronage Society’ (Chapter 14), Lemche begins
by reviewing the problem of the historicity of David and the rise of Judah as a
state by applying Jamieson-Drake’s population study. He concludes that there
was no United Kingdom of David and Solomon. Instead, he suggests that the
society of the LB period was a patronage system, which survived down to the
time of the Hebrew kings. From a detailed review of patronage in LB Palestine,
Lemche moves to a proposed reconstruction of the transition of patronage to
Iron I or II. However, since we are left with only sparse archaeological remains
of villages for most of this period, their political or social nature must remain
guesswork. Consequently, Lemche guesses that there were rudimentary patron-
ages of the lineage type and from these village patrons the system developed
towards regional patronage ‘kings’, as reflected in the ‘house of David’.
 1

The ‘Hebrew slave’: comments on the

slave law, Exodus 21:2‑11
1975

It is widely accepted that there is a direct connection between the law of the
Hebrew slave in Exodus 21:2ff., Deuteronomy 15:12ff. and Jeremiah 34:8ff.
because the word ‫ עברי‬has been used in all three passages.1 As a matter of fact,
it would be more reaso­nable to focus on the use of ‫ חפשי‬in those passages. This
word very clearly implies a dependence of Deuteronomy 15:12ff. and Jeremiah
34:8ff. on Exodus 21:2ff., since in Deuteronomistic literature the use of ‫חפשי‬
is limited to Deuteronomy 15:12, 13, 18 and the Deuteronomistically coloured
Jeremiah 34:9, 10, 11, 14 and 16. Apart from the passages mentioned, ‫ חפשי‬is
used elsewhere only once in the Deuteronomistic historical work – namely, in
1 Samuel 17:25. This has, however, a non-Deu­teronomistic setting and the way
in which the word is used is often misinter­preted.2 The use of the words ‫עברי‬
and ‫ חפשי‬thus suggests links between Exodus 21:2ff. and the aforementioned
passages, though they are also of the utmost importance for an understanding of
Exodus 21:2ff. and its ‘Sitz im Leben’. How ‫ עברי‬and ‫ חפשי‬have been used also
allows us to draw conclusions about the historical construction of the first part
of the Book of the Covenant, Exodus 21:2–23:16.

The first part of the Book of the Covenant in light of

Canaanite and Mesopotamian law

It falls outside the scope of this chapter to dis­cuss precisely when the first part
of the Book of the Covenant was amplified by the second part, Exodus 22:17–
23:16, and by the apodic­tic passages of the first part. Most modern Old Testament

1. Cf., among others, G. Beer and K. Galling, Exodus (HAT I 3; Tübingen: Mohr, 1939),
107, and especially M. David, ‘The Manumission of Slaves under Zedekiah’, OTS 5
(1948), 63–79.
2. This is usually inter­preted to mean that David’s family was promised a special tax
exemption. For literature, see H. J. Stoebe, ‘Die Goliathperikope 1 Sam. xvii 1-xviii
5 und die Textform der Septuaginta’, VT 6 (1956), 397–413, 403, and Das erste Buch
Samuelis (KAT VIII 1; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1973), 324. Cf. my note
‘‫ חפשי‬in 1 Sam. xvii 25’, VT 24 (1974), 373–4.
12 Biblical studies and the failure of history

scholars date the amalgamation of the two parts to the Period of the Judges.3 It is
generally agreed that the first part of the Book of the Covenant is older and that
so-called casuistic laws are related to Near Eastern legal traditions.4
It seems appropriate to refer to the recent study of S. M. Paul, which, I think,
repre­sents the most compre­hensive commentary on the Book of the Covenant
based on Near Eastern source material.5 Hardly a single section in the older part
of the Book of the Covenant (Exodus 21:1–22:16, apart from secon­dary addi-
tions in Exodus 21:12-17, 23-25) is without parallel in the extra-biblical legal
literature of the second millennium. Paul endeavours to prove with his analysis
that the Book of the Covenant, as a whole, was part of a code of laws, which
extended from Exodus 19 to 24, where Exodus 19:3b‑6 (plus the Decalogue)
functioned as prologue to Exodus 23:20‑33’s epilogue. Paul dates the material
to a period just prior to the sett­lement of the Israelite tribes6 and refuses to accept

3. E.g. F. Horst, ‘Bundesbuch’, RGG I, col. 1524; M. Noth, Die Gesetze im Pentateuch,
(1940), in Ges. St. I (Munich: Chr. Kaiser, 1957), 9–141, 17, 31, and Das zweite Buch
Mose, Exodus (ATD 5, 3rd edn; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprect, 1965), 140–41; G.
von Rad, Theologie des Alten Testaments, I (4th edn; Munich: Chr. Kaiser, 1966), 44; E.
Nielsen, The Ten Commandments in New Per­spective (SBT SS 7; London: SCM, 1968),
77. In disagreement are A. Philips, Ancient Israel’s Criminal Law (London: Blackwell,
1971) 159, who dates the collection to the time of David and Solomon; also G. Fohrer (in
E. Sellin and G. Fohrer, Einleitung in das Alte Testament, 10th edn; Heidelberg: Quelle
& Meyer, 1965, 149–50, and G. Fohrer, Geschichte des israelitischen Religions, Berlin:
Walter de Gruyter, 1969, 131), who places it in the time of Jehu. Cf., already, A. Menes,
Die vorexi­lischen Gesetze Israels (BZAW 50; Berlin: Töpelmann, 1928), 43, but also M.
Noth’s decisive objections in Ges. St. I, 30–31. Fohrer discusses the question from the
assumption that the Book of the Covenant was a reform pamphlet and, in this connec-
tion, refers to Mesopo­tamian codices. These can hardly be called reforms, which were
contained in the mišarum-acts, the royal edicts. Cf., in this regard, F. R. Kraus, Ein Edikt
des Königs Ammi-úaduqa von Babylon (SD 5; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1958), 182–247; J. J.
Finkelstein, ‘Ammi-úadu­qa’s Edict and the Babylo­nian “Law Codes”’, JCS 15 (1961),
91–104, and ‘Some New Misharum Material and its Implica­tions’, Assyriological
Studies 16 (1965), 233–46; J. Botté­ro, ‘Désordre économique et an­nullation des dettes
en Mésopotamie á l’époque Paléo-Babylonienne’, JESHO 4 (1961), 113–64. Cf. also,
in general, C. J. Gadd in CAH, II/1 (3rd edn; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1973), 187ff.
4. Departures from the general opinion are M. David, ‘The Codex Hammurabi and its
�
Relations to the Provision of Law in Exo­dus’, OTS 7 (1950), 149–78; Z. W. Falk, Hebrew
Laws in Biblical Times (Jerusalem: Wahrmann,1964), 33f.; and W. Preiser, ‘Vergeltung
und Sühne im altisraelitischen Strafrecht’ (Festschrift für Eberhard S­chmidt, 1961), 7–38,
reprinted in K. Koch, Um das Prinzip der Vergeltung in Religion und Recht des Alten
Testa­ments (Wege der Forschung 125; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft,
1972), 236–77, 240ff. The parallels from the Ancient Near East, however, far exceed
‘ge­neral conditions’ and possibly include the construction of the law material; cf. V.
Wagner, ‘Zur Systematik in dem Codex Ex 21.2‑22.26’, ZAW 81 (1969), 176–82.
5. S. M. Paul, Studies in the Book of the Covenant in the Light of Cuneiform and Biblical
Law (VT supplement, 18; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1970).
6. Ibid., 101–2. The author here tries to prove the existen­ce of a codex modelled on the
prologue primary corpus by analogy to the Codex Hammurabi (hereafter, CH ).
� �
 The ‘Hebrew slave’ 13

the ­possibility that casuistic laws had been taken over from the Canaanites,
though he does admit that, as far as investiga­tions have shown, Canaanite law
seems to betray a strong dependence on cunei­form law.7 Even though Paul’s
thesis finally must be rejected, as he apparently fails to follow up on his analy-
ses and is not fully aware of the value of modern literary criticism or history of
tradition, his conclusion is that very little – if any – material in the casuistic laws
of Exodus 21:2–22:16 suggests that Israelite law-­givers inspired this collection.8
It is, indeed, quite possible to place the origin of the first part of the Book of the
Covenant in any Canaanite city state of the second half of the second millen-
nium and assume that it was later (in extenso?) drawn into the Israelite tradi­tion.9
The consequence of this is that undocu­mented assertions such as those that G.
E. Mendenhall has brought forward need to be rejected. Men­den­hall maintains
that the Book of the Covenant cannot have belonged to a Canaan­ite background
because of a reputed low moral development of Canaanite commu­nities and
their strict social stratifi­cation.10 Such an argu­ment is obviously based on an
insufficient knowledge of Canaanite social stratifica­tion in Canaanite city states.

7. Ibid., 104–5, 116ff.; Cf. to this Alt, ‘Eine neue Provinz des Keilschriftsrechts’, (Kl.
Schr., III; Munich: Beck, 1959), 141–57 and R. de Vaux, Les institutions de l’Ancien
Testament, I (2nd edn; Paris: Les éditions du Cerf, 1961), 226–7.
8. It is a fact, however, that this part of the Book of the Covenant has been enlarged by cer-
tain apodictically formed rules: Exodus 21:12‑17, 23‑25. Cf. also G. Liedke, Gestalt und
Bezeichnung alttestamentlicher Rechtsätze (WMANT, 39; Neukirchen: Neukirchener
Verlag, 1971), 130ff. Apart from vv. 23‑25, the talion formula, there is, in every case, an
unmistakable connection to the decalogue: Exod. 21:12 ↔ 20:13; 21:16 ↔ 20:15; 21:15,
17 ↔ 20:12 (cf. to the original content of 20:15. E. Nielsen, Ten Commandments, 85, 91,
who follows Alt, ‘Das Verbot des Diebstahls im Dekalog’ (1949, in Kl. Schr., I; Munich:
Beck, 1953, 333–40). R. Hentschke (‘Erwä­gungen zur israelitischen Rechtsgeschichte’,
Theologia Via­torum 10, 1965/­66, 108–33) suggests that this alteration of casuistic and
apodictic segments should be compared to a corresponding variation in Ammiùaduqa’s
edict (about 1645), which has been published by Kraus, Ein Edikt, and provided with a
substantial supplement by J. J. Finkelstein, ‘The Edict of Ammiùaduqa: a New Text’, RA
63 (1969), 45–64. Hentschke’s argument has been emphatically opposed by S. Herrmann,
‘Das “apodiktische Recht”. Erwägungen zur Klärung dieses Begriffs’, MIO 15 (1969),
249–61, 255f. Cf. also apodictic law outside Israel: Liedke, Gestalt, 115–16, 126–7.
9. Most recently, L. Rost, ‘Das Bundesbuch’, ZAW 77 (1965), 255–9; cf. also O. Eissfeldt,
The Old Testament: An Introduction (Oxford: Blackwell, 1965), 26ff. Eissfeldt is
inclined to think that a continuous series of laws was adopted: The Old Testament, 29;
cf. also to this L. Watermann, ‘Pre-Israelite Laws in the Book of the Covenant’, AJSL 38
(1922), 36–54, and A. T. Olmstead, History of Palestine and Syria to the Macedonian
Conquest (New York: C. Scribner’s Sons 1931), 104ff. Alt thought that the casuistic
laws in the Book of the Cove­nant were originally Canaanite (see his Die Ursprünge des
israeliti­schen Rechts, 1934, in Kl. Schr., I, 278–332, 295ff.). A. Jepsen, Untersuchungen
zum Bundesbuch (BWANT, III 5; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1927), 76ff., 97ff., admits that
they were of ‘Palestinian’ origin but he introduces the idea of a ‘Hebräergesetz’ based
on an under­standing of the ‘Hebrews’ that is now obsolete. Neither Jepsen’s nor Alt’s
interpretations exclude the possi­bility that the collection was developed by Is­raelites.
10. G. E. Mendenhall, ‘Ancient Oriental and Biblical Law’, BA 17 (1954), 26–46, now in
BARe III (New York: Doubleday, 1970), 3–24, 15.
14 Biblical studies and the failure of history

It also implies that Mendenhall un­critically accepts the picture of Canaanite

civiliza­tion that has been developed by Israelite storytellers and prophets.
It has been maintained that the absence of a codex in western Asia speaks
against the idea that casuistic laws in the Book of the Covenant were inher-
ited from Canaanites.11 However, this argument is not decisive. The lack of
codices could be ascribed to chance archaeological finds. Great text discoveries
have only been made at Alalah and Ugarit. Civil servants of the West Semitic
�
states actually did have a profound knowledge of Akkadian cuneiform writing
throughout most of the second millennium. The greater part of international
correspondence was written in Akkadian. Letters were also ex­changed between
West Semitic princes and it is evident from the ‘Canaanisms’ of which we are
particularly familiar with from the Amarna letters that such letters had been
written by West Semitic clerks.12 One must also conclude, if we consider the
teaching methods of the time, that the segment of the population who was famil-
iar with Akkadian possessed a considerable understanding of Meso­po­ta­mian
literature.
That Mesopotamian codices hardly had legal functions ascribed to them
proves that the absence of codices in Western Asia should not be overes-
timated. As is well known, there is scarcely a single reference to the Codex
Hammurabi (CH ) in the very comprehensive legal material that is extant
� �
from the Old Babylonian period.13 This, however, means that legal usage in
Babylonia must have rested on ‘com­mon practice’, based on usus, which was
unwritten. It is apparently a misapprehension of the function of Babylonian
codices which brings Liedke to claim that similar codices were not needed
in West Semitic states because juridical deci­sions were in the king’s hands
and the king could not be tied to fixed rules.14 It must also be assumed that

11. Thus Preiser, ‘Vergeltung und Sühne’, 246.

12. To this, F. Böhl, Die Sprache der Amarnabriefe mit be­sonderer Berücksichtigung der
Kanaanismen, (LSS V 2; Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung, 1909); cf. also
K. Beyer, Althebräische Grammatik (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1969), 23f.
Cf. as to Ugarit, J. Nougayrol, ‘L’influence babyloni­enne à Ugarit d’après les textes en
cunéiformes classiques’, Syria 39 (1962), 28–35, and J. Krecher, ‘Schreiber­schulung in
Ugarit: Die Tradition von Listen und sumerische Texten’, UF 1 (1969), 131–58; as to
Alalah, see M. Tsevat, ‘Alalakhiana’, HUCA 29 (1958), 109–36, particularly II, 124ff.,
�
and G. Giakumakis, The Akkadian of Alalah (Janua Linguarum Ser. Prac. 59; The
�
Hague: Mouton, 1970), passim.
13. Cf. B. Landsberger, ‘Die babylonischen Termini für Gesetz und Recht’ (Symbolae
Koschaker, SD 2, 1939), 219–34; and P. Koschaker, ‘Zur Interpretation des Art. 59
des Codex Bi­lalama’, JCS 5, (1951), 104–22, 121f. Cf. also the fact that a judge is
nowhere found referring to any existing law or obligation to keep such law. The Codex
Hammurabi §5 warns the judges against corruption, but it does not impose upon them
�
any foundation for judgement.
14. Against Liedke, Gestalt, 57. Cf. the king’s function as judge in Ugarit: G. Boyer, ‘La
place des textes d’Ugarit dans l’Histoire de l’Ancien Droit oriental’ (PRU III; Paris:
C. Klincksieck, 1955), 281–308, 281ff., and A. F. Rainey, The Social Stratification
of Ugarit (diss. Brandeis University, 1962), 19ff., cf. 21: ‘Disputes were not settled
by the whim of the king. On the contrary, certain legal pro­cedures, well known from
 The ‘Hebrew slave’ 15

Mesopota­mian kings, like their West Asiatic colleagues, formed a supreme court
of appeal.15
It is impossible to say whether the first part of the Book of the Covenant
came into existence without Canaanite influence, merely because no written
evidence of judicial rules has been found in Syria–Palestine. The appearance of
a code of laws or legal decisions16 un­doubt­edly goes back to the influence of the
Babylonian ‘Weltan­schau­ung’.17
Other scholars have written against the thesis of a non-Israelite origin of the
first part of the Book of the Covenant, suggesting instead that although it does
show a relationship to Mesopotamian (and Canaanite) law, it is more primi­tive,
presupposing (under the influence of blood feuds) more severe punish­ments.18
However, this objection does not take into consideration that there are also vari-
ations in Mesopotamia from one code to another regarding the character of pun-
ishments (especially concerning the use of fines as opposed to death penalties),19
nor that it is only to be expected that the more complicated Babylonian com-
munity needed other rules than a Canaanite polity. In Mesopotamia, differences
existed from state to state, as can be seen when comparing the CH to other
codi­ces.20 It is unreasonable, moreover, to look to the development �of laws in

other sources, were followed.’ To the Babylonian codices: cf. Finkelstein, JCS 15, 103f.
(‘royal apologies and testaments’ which were to prove to the gods, whose vicar the king
was, that the king was a šar mišarim).
15. To this, particularly W. F. Leeman’s ‘King Hammurapi as judge’, (Symbolae Martino
�
David, 2; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1968), 107–29 (with ample documentation). Cf. also
R. Haase, Einführung in das Studium keilschriftlicher Rechtsquellen (Wiesbaden:
Harrassowitz, 1965), 36ff.
16. On the interpretation of C as a codex of ‘judgements’, see F. R. Kraus, ‘Ein zentrales
Problem des altmesopotamischen Rechtes: was ist der Codex Hammurabi?’, Genava
�
NS 8 (1960), 283–96.
17. Cf. Nougayrol, Syria 39, 32.
18. Among others, von Rad, Theologie, 44ff.
19. Jepsen gives an example of a Mesopotamian law that demands capital punishment
in cases where the Book of the Covenant only imposes fines: Exod. 22:15-16, cf.
Bundesbuch, 69. This shows that it cannot be consistently maintained that the Book
of the Covenant is more primitive. Jepsen depends on an obsolete translation of Yale
Babylonian Collec­tion 2177 (publ. by A. T. Clay, Yale Oriental Series, Babylonian Texts,
vol I, no 28) §8 in B. Meißner, Babylonien und Assyri­en, I (Heidelberg: Carl Winters
Universitätsbuchhandlung, 1920), 151; cf. A. Jirku, Altorientalischer Kommentar zum
Alten Testament (Leipzig: A. Deichertsche Verlagsbuchhandlung Dr. Werner Scholl,
1923), 98 (‘Wenn jemand die Tochter eines Mannes gewaltsam fortführt gegen den
Willen (?) ihres Vaters und ihrer Mutter und sie erkennt, so soll der Mann, der sie wider
Willen (?) erkannt und vergewaltigt hat, auf Befehl der Götter getötet werden’); cf. also
Finkel­stein’s trans­lation in ANET 3 (1969), 526: ‘If [a man] deflo­wered the daugh­ter of
a free citizen in the street, her father and her mother having known [that she was in the
street], but the man who deflowered her denied that he knew [her to be of the free citizen
class] and, standing at the temple gate, swore an oath [to this effect, he shall be freed].’
20. Cf. M. San Nicólo, Beiträge zur Rechtsgeschichte im Bereiche der keilschriftlichen
Rechtsquellen (Oslo: H. Aschehoug 1931), 63ff.; cf. also David, OTS 7, 149ff. David
arrives at the negative conclusion that there is no connection.
16 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Mesopotamia for special West Semitic traits.21 Many laws, and among them at
least one codex, have been handed down from the Sumerians and it seems that
West Semites followed the same path as the earliest inhabi­tants of Mesopotamia.
Nevertheless, the possibility that the increase in CH of certain penalties in rela-
tion to former codices may be due to West Semitic� influence still exists.22

The placing of Exodus 21:2ff. in its present context in

the Book of the Covenant

According to the Masoretic Text (MT), Exodus 21:2 ff. is an account of a pur-
chase of a slave, which was cancelled after six years. Alt thought – in partial
agreement with A. Jepsen – that v. 2 originally related how a ‘Hebrew’ sold him-
self.23 For form-critical reasons, Jepsen corrected ‫ תקנה‬to ‫יקנה‬, and Alt went even
further and read ‫ ימכר‬in correspondence with Deuteronomy 15:12. When Paul
rebuts Alt’s emenda­tion on the grounds that ‫ תקנה‬in v. 2 is dependent on ‫ תשים‬in
v. 1, and thus original, he disregards form­-critical as well as tradition-historical
criteria.24 Supposing Paul correct, v. 1 was from the beginning an introduction
to an im­portant code of laws whose first units were vv. 2‑6. This, however, is
unrea­sonable. Moreover, Jepsen’s objection against the second person singular
is valid since it encroaches on the casuistic legal phrase as such.25 More objec-
tions have been raised against the assertion that v. 2 should have been preserved
in its original form. Paul’s arguments are also inse­parably bound up with his
(Mosaic?) dating of the Book of the Covenant as a whole.26 There can be no
doubt, however, that, isolated, Exodus 21:1 shows a tension between the Book
of the Covenant and its setting and that it disrupts the coheren­ce of the text.27
In maintaining his correction of the verbal form, Alt wanted to re­place the
difficult ‫ עבד‬by the neutral ‫איש‬, by analogy with vv. 7, 14, 18 (pl.), 20, and
so on.28 ‫ עבד‬is most troublesome where it stands now, and, if the MT is to be
retained, it can best be understood as a proleptic expres­sion.29 Not until he is
bought or sold, does an ‫ עברי‬become a slave.

21. Against Jepsen, ‘Die “Hebräer” und ihr Recht’, AfO 15 (1945–51), 55–68.
22. Cf. Codex Ur-Nammu (about 2112–2095bce), Ur III, translated by Finkelstein in ANET
3, 523ff. and Yale Babylonian Collection 2177 (cf. n. 19), same place, 525–6. The theory
of a West Semitic origin of the regularly recurrent royal edicts cannot be upheld inas-
much as the oldest testimony of this is Sumerian and dates back to c. 2350 (‘Urukagina’s
reform’); see also Finkelstein, JCS 15, 103–4.
23. Alt, Kl. Schr. I, 291 and n. 2; Jepsen, Bundesbuch, 56.
24. Paul, Studies, 46, n. 7.
25. To the casuistic law, compare in particular the very exhaustive study by Liedke, Gestalt,
19–61. Liedke also looks upon the ‘when-you’ wording in casuistic legal rules as the
product of a later development.
26. Paul, Studies, 101f.
27. Cf. further E. Nielsen, The Ten Commandments, 51; Alt, Kl. Schr., I, 286 n. 1.
28. Alt, Kl. Schr. I, 291 n. 2; Cf. also Jepsen, Bundes­buch, 56: ‫כי יקנה איש‬.
29. Alt, Kl. Schr. I, 291 n. 2; cf. Noth, ATD, 143.
 The ‘Hebrew slave’ 17

It would strengthen Alt’s emendations if the present position of Exodus

21:2‑11 could be shaken. J. M. P. van der Ploeg has asserted several times that
vv. 2‑11 are secondary elements in the Book of the Covenant, which had been
inserted at a later date and placed at the beginning head of the com­pilation for
‘nationalistic’ reasons (‫ = עברי‬Israelite).30 Van der Ploeg’s main argument is that
the current position breaks an otherwise systemati­c arrangement of the Book
of the Covenant in so far as its slave law does not appear in Exodus 21:26‑27.
However, several objections can be raised against van der Ploeg. In the first
place, there is, as mentioned previously, every reason to believe that the word-
ing opening v. 2 has been influenced by the secondary intrusion of v. 1. Second,
the insertion of slave laws at the head of a code (even such as aim at very par-
ticular cir­cumstances) does not exclude that other decrees on slaves appear in
other places within the same codex. To keep to the best-known parallels, there
are slave laws (decrees on slaves) in CH §§116–19, but also and especially in
�
§§279–82. Finally, even if it could be proven that vv. 2‑11 have been placed at
the head of the Book of the Cove­nant at a later stage of tradition, the possibility
is not excluded that this section originally belonged somewhere else and, if so,
is probably to be con­nected with vv. 26‑27, according to which the slave reaches
a state of ‫ חפשי‬because he has been mutilated by his owner.

‫ עברי‬and ‫חפשי‬

To understand Exodus 21:2‑6 it is necessary to understand exactly what the

terms ‫ עברי‬and ‫ חפשי‬mean. Today nearly all Old Testament scholars acknowl-
edge the connection between ‫ עברי‬and habiru. But since they look upon the
first part of the Book of the Covenant as� an Israelite inven­tion, they take ‫עברי‬
for a gentilic noun instead of an appellative. In this way it becomes a matter of
purchase and sale among country­men.31
Thus, on the one hand, R. North recognizes a connection between ‫ עברי‬in
Exodus 21:2ff. and ‫ עברי‬habiru, on the whole; yet he understands the verses in
a traditional light. On the� other hand, he is doubt­ful as to whether Deuteronomy
15:12ff. is dependent on Exodus 21:2‑6 and therefore suggests that both laws
have a common source: a habiru document.32 The most original suggestion in
�

30. J. P. M. van der Ploeg, ‘Studies in Hebrew Law’, II, CBQ 12, (1950), 416–27, see 425f.,
and III, CBQ 13 (1951), 28–43, 28f.; and, most recently ‘Slavery in the Old Testament’,
VT 22, (1972), 72–87, see 78, 81.
31. E.g. F. Horst, Das Privilegrecht Jahwes (FRLANT 45; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck &
Ruprecht, 1930), now in Gottes Recht (Munich: Chr. Kaiser, 1961), 17–154, 97; R. de
Vaux, Les insti­tutions de l’Ancien Testament, I (Paris: Les éditions du Cerf, 1961), 129
(cf. 136, 265); this also applies partly to Beer and Galling, Exodus, 107, though they
realize that vv. 2‑6 did not originally refer to the Israelites, but to the ‘Hebrews’.
32. R. North, Sociology of the Biblical Jubilee (AnBi 4; Rome: Ponteficial Biblical Institute,
1954), 148; this point of view is shared by Paul, Studies, 46.
18 Biblical studies and the failure of history

recent years has been made by A. Phillips,33 to whom it is a decisive factor

that the slave is to be set free in the seventh year. The Book of the Covenant
gives no reason for this. However, based on Deuteronomy 15:1ff., and espe-
cially Deuteronomy 31:10f., Phillips suggests that Exod 21.1‑6 is taken as a
secondary ‘secularizing’ of an originally cultic decree. Accordingly, Israelites,
who had fallen into slavery were to be set free to enable them to take part as
free citizens in the amphictyonic feast of the renewal of the Covenant. Phillips
believes it can be deduced from Deuteronomy 31:10-11 that this feast took
place every seventh year. This suggestion is, however, dependent on several
obscure circumstances. First, it is taken for granted that the classical thesis of
the amphictyony can be maintained – a very uncertain assumption according to
more recent studies.34 This alone forces Phillips to moderate his theory. Second,
the discrepancies between Deuteronomy 15:1‑11 and 15:12‑18 show that the
Sabbath year and the liberation of slaves do not origi­nate within the same tradi-
tion. In fact, Deuteronomy 15:12ff. seems to treat the liberation of the slaves
individually, setting them free after a specified period of slavery, not collectively
every seventh year.
Paul, who follows J. Lewy on this point, claims that the paral­lels from Nuzi
may be taken as a proof that ‫ עברי‬in Exodus 21:2ff. is an appellative. Given,
however, his views on the Book of the Covenant, it is not suffi­ciently clear
how he is to inter­pret ‫ עברי‬in opposition to habiru.35 J. Lewy tried to reinterpret
�
the word as suggesting a specific element among the inhabitants of Palestine –
namely, ‘the Hebrews’, who are not to be con­fused with Israelites or Canaanites.
In this, he has been supported by J. Weingreen.36 Lewy’s argumenta­tion is based
partly on a traditional view of the origin of the Israelites and partly on a now
obsolete interpretation of the habiru, which, owing to his distinction between
� towards an ethnic understanding of habiru.37
‘Hebrews’ and Israelites, points
� 21:2‑6
His main argument against the assertion that the ‘Hebrew’ of Exodus
was an Israelite is Leviticus 25:44ff., where it is required that slaves in the

33. A. Phillips, Ancient Israel’s Criminal Law, 73ff.

34. Compare my Israel i Dommertiden (Tekst og Tolkning 4; København: CEG Gad, 1972).
To the literature mentioned there, should be added the very important article by R. de
Vaux, ‘La thèse de l’“ámphic­tyonie Israëlite”‘, HThR 64 (1971), 415–36.
35. Paul, Studies, 45ff. J. Lewy, ‘âbirû and Hebrew’, HUCA 14 (1939), 587–623, ‘A New
Parallel between âbirû and He­brews’, HUCA 15 (1940), 47–58.
36. J. Lewy, ‘Origin and Signification of the Biblical Term “Hebrew”’, HUCA 28
(1957), 1–13; Cf. J. Weingreen, ‘Saul and the Abiru’ (IV World Congress of Jewish
Studies, I, 1967), 63–66, 65, ‘The Deuteronomistic Legislator a Proto-Rabbinic Type’
(Proclamation and Presence, Old Testament Essays in Honour of Gwynne Henton
Davies, London: SCM, 1970), 76–89, and ‘The Commu­nity of Tradition from Bible to
Mishna’ (in V World Congress of Jewish Studies, I, 1972), 27–34, 29ff.
37. As apparent from the prevailing discussion on habiru, the same objection may be raised
�
against Weingreen’s theory on habiru/‫ עברים‬in 1 Samuel. Cf. also R. de Vaux, Histoire
�
ancienne d’Israel I (1971), 205, who thinks it reasonable to suppose that, apart from
Exodus 21:2ff. and 1 Sam. 14:21, (‫ עברי)ם‬is always used in the Old Testament to refer to
‘Israelites’.
 The ‘Hebrew slave’ 19

p­ osses­sion of an Israelite be foreigners.38 However, Leviticus 25 is of no prac-

tical importance as evidence, as it is more likely that the entire passage from
vv. 39ff. on is late and, in some ways, is to be understood as a substantially
rewritten recapitulation of Exodus 21:2ff. and apparently Deuteronomy 15:12ff.
as well. In any case, the passage is certainly not a traditio-historical unity.39
Alt was the first to realize that ‫ עברי‬in Exodus 21:2ff. does not refer to a cer-
tain ethnicity, but solely to the slave’s social standing.40 Alt even goes so far as
to claim that ‫ עברי‬is probably used nowhere in the Old Testament of the Israeli­tes
as ‘eine echte und volltönende Nationalitätsbe­zeich­nung’. By ‫ עברי‬is meant a
person who sells himself as a slave because of debt. On the whole, Alt is right,
but his interpreta­tion of ‫עברי‬/habiru is too narrow.
�
Today sociological interpretation dominates, and the identification of habiru
� 41 A
with ‫ עברי‬may, so long as the opposite remains unproven, be maintained.
more detailed account of this interpretation of habiru is thus not needed.42
Nearly all testimonies from Western Asia� use the determination habiru
� are
collectively. In Nuzi, though, habiru are treated as individuals. Here they
�
mentioned in private documents, describing the terms of their voluntary surren-
der into bonda­ge.43 The Nuzi contracts mention no fixed time limits; but they
­frequently mention the possibility of an annulment of the contract (defined as a
breach of contract), either by allowing the habiru slave to produce a substitute
or by letting him pay for his manumission.� However, if the slave is a woman,

38. HUCA 28, 3f.

39. Noth, Das dritte Buch Mose. Leviticus (ATD 6, 2nd edn; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck &
Ruprecht, 1966), 167–8; K. Elliger, Leviticus (HAT I 4; Tübingen: Mohr, 1966), 341ff.;
H. Graf Reventlow, Das Heiligkeitsgesetz formgeschichtlich unter­sucht (WMANT 6;
Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1961), 136–7.; R. Kilian, Literarkritische und form­
geschichtliche Untersuchung des Heiligkeitsgeset­zes (BBB 19; Bonn: Peter Hanstein,
1963), 137; Chr. Feucht, Untersuchungen zum Heilig­keits­gesetz (Theol. Arb., 20; Berlin:
Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1964), 51.
40. Alt, Kl.Schr. I, 291ff.; see also J. Hempel, Die althe­bräische Literatur und ihr helleni-
stisch-jüdisches Nachleben (Berlin: Akademische Verlagsgesellschaft Athenaion, 1934),
75, 80.
41. R. Borger’s linguistic objections against this identifi­cation, ‘Das Problem der apiru
(“habiru”)’, ZDPV 74 (1958), 121–32, may be rejected; cf. M. Weippert, Die Landnahme
�
der israelitischen Stämme (FRLANT 92; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1967),
78ff., and J. Botté­ro, ‘Habiru’ (RLA IV/1, 1972), 22.
�
42. Cf., in general, on habiru research Weippert, Die Landnahme, 66–101. To the literature
�
mentioned, there should be added the important study by M. Liverani, ‘Il fuoruscitismo
in Siria nella tarda età del bronzo’, Rivista Storica Italiana 77 (1965), 315–36. Cf. also
R. de Vaux’s research summary, ‘Le problème des hapiru après quinze années’, JNES 27
�
(1968), 221–8, and Histoire ancienne, 106–12, 202–8, and J. Bottéro, RLA IV/1, 14–27.
Important in this connection is also M. L. Heltzer, ‘Problems of the Social History of
Syria in the Late Bronze Age’, in M. Liverani (ed.), La Siria nel tardo bronzo (Rome:
Centro per le Antichità e la Storia dell’Arte del Vicino Oriente, 1969), 31–46.
43. The documents have been collected and commented upon by Bottéro (ed.), Le problème
des habiru à la 4e RAI (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1954), 43–70, and in M. Greenberg,
�
The Hab/piru, AOS 39 (New Haven, CT: American Oriental Society, 1955), 23–32.
�
20 Biblical studies and the failure of history

there seems to have been no possibility of libera­tion.44 No doubt these slave

contracts were the only means through which a habiru could be legally accepted
�
within Nuzi society.45
It is remarkable that there is hardly any testimony of a habiru wanting to
� a habiru owing
become a slave because of debt. It was possible to become
to economic trouble and then a slave in order to release oneself �from life as a
habiru. In view of this, it is too simple to assume that the Hebrew of Exodus
�21:2 sold himself because of a debt. On the other hand, this is a possibility that is
available not only because debt was one of the main reasons for slavery, but also
because the well-known Mesopotamian parallel to Exodus 21:2‑6, CH §117,
� as for
contains rules for a man delivering himself into bondage for debt, as well
his manumission from the same.46
In Exodus 21:2 the term of service has been fixed at six years, possibly origi-
nally seven years, as has been proposed by B. Stade, with reference to Genesis
29:18.47 After having served six (or seven) years, an ‫ עברי‬reached the status of
‫ חפשי‬without, as in Nuzi, being under the obligation of giving anything in return.
‫ חפשי‬is usually translated as ‘freedman’, ‘Freige­lassener’.48 This translation,
which has been generally accepted, is based on the word’s secondary use in the
Old Testament, or, rather, it seems to have been used without regard to its origi-
nal meaning, as found, for example, in Job 3:19. J. Peder­sen suggests that ‫חפשי‬
is normally used to denominate the op­posite of a slave in the Old Testament,
and, of course, he is right.49 Nevertheless, it is worth noting that all examples
of this use of the word ‫ חפשי‬outside the Book of the Covenant (Deuteronomy
15:12, 13, 18; Jeremiah 34:9, 10, 11, 14, 16, apart from Job 3:19; Isaiah 58:6)
are dependent on Exodus 21:2ff.
Pedersen also saw that there was a connection between ‫ חפשי‬and the hupšu,
known from the correspondence of Rib-Adda from Byblus.50 hupšu was the� name
� the Old Assyrian
of a social class which has been verified by documents from

44. Cf. Bottéro, 4e RAI, no. 61, 62, 66b.

45. Cf. E. Cassin, 4 e RAI, 69.
46. Against I. Mendelsohn, Slavery in the Ancient Near East (New York: Columbia
University, 1949), 85. In the Old Testament there is one example to the effect that a
private person vouched by his own life for a debt (2 Kgs 4:1, but this has probably no
relation to Exodus 21:2ff.).
47. B. Stade, Geschichte des Volkes Israel, vol. I (Berlin: Grote, 1887), 378; cf. I. Benzinger,
Hebräische Archäologie, 3rd edn (Tübingen: Mohr, 1927), 131 n. 2, and Beer and
Galling, Exodus, 107. David, OTS 5, 65 n. 7, says, against Benzinger and Beer and
Galling, that Jacob’s service to Laban cannot be characterized as slavery and, fur­ther,
that Laban is not a ‘clansman’ to Jacob. David’s objec­tion becomes irrelevant when the
preconceived understanding of ‫ עברי‬in Exodus 21:2 is given up, as mentioned above.
Moreover, Jacob’s position corresponds rather accurately to the position of the habiru
�
slave in the Nuzi documents, as does the dating.
48. Cf. KBL3, 328; Beer and Galling, Exodus, 106.; Noth, ATD 5, 136; cf. further New
English Bible: ‘He shall go free.’
49. J. Pedersen, ‘Note on Hebrew ÿofšī ’, JPOS 6 (1926), 103–5, 105.
50. Ibid.
 The ‘Hebrew slave’ 21

and Old Babylonian period, in­cluding Nuzi, and, apart from the Amarna letters,
even later in Western Asia in docu­ments from Alalah and Ugarit.51 A closer
definition of this social group is, however, still a matter�of debate. The choice is
between defining them as ‘independent’ – that is, free in the modern sense of the
word (‘free proletarians’) – or as ‘half-free’ – that is, dependent on private per-
sons or on the govern­ment (the king). To look upon them as ‘free proletarians’ or
‘Bauern’52 is incompatible with the sources from Byblus, Ugarit and Alalah, as
�
well as with the use of hupšu in Assyrian texts. Heltzer has shown that at Ugarit
�
hupšu belonged to the bnš mlk, ‘the king’s men’. At Ugarit as well as Alalah,
�hupšu had a pre­dominantly military function and received the supplies neces- �
�sary for their subsistence in the form of plots and provi­sions from the palace
admini­stra­tion.53 This is in agreement with the ­mention of hupšu in Rib‑Adda’s
let­ters.54 It has not been possible to trace a direct connection� between habiru and
�
hupšu. Even so, it has been assumed that the political propaganda of Abdi-Aširta
�of Amurru was directed at the hupšu class at Byblus, and that, accordingly,
Rib-Adda had reason to fear that� his hupšu would either revolt against him or
�

51. Literature: cf. Weippert, Die Landnahme, 74 n. 9. To this, may be added W. von Soden,
AHw, I, 357a; CAD 6 (Chicago, IL: Oriental Institute, 1956), 241–2.; J. Gray, The
Legacy of Canaan (VT supplement, 5; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1957), 100 n. 6; A. F. Rainey,
The Social Stratification of Ugarit, 144; M. Heltzer, ‘Klassovaja i političeskaja borb’a v
Bible amarnskogo vremeni’ (‘Class Struggle and Political Conflicts at Byblus During the
Amarna Period’), VDI 1954/1, 33–9, 36ff., ‘Vojsko ugarita i ego organizacija’ (‘The Army
of Ugarit and its Organiza­tion’), VDI 1969/3, 21–38, 33; his results have been summa-
rized in Liverani (ed.) La Siria, 31ff., and in ‘Soziale Aspekte des Heerwesens in Ugarit’,
in H. Klengel (ed.) Be­iträge zur sozialen Struktur des Alten Vorderasien, = Schrif­ten zur
Geschichte und Kultur des Alten Orients 1 (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1971), 125–31;
H. Klengel, Geschichte Syriens im 2. Jahrtausend v.u.Z. Teil 2. Mittel- und Südsyrien
(Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1969), 250, 255; M. Di­etrich and O. Loretz, ‘Die soziale
Struktur von Alalah und Ugarit (II)’, WO V 1 (1969), 59–93. To the etymology of hupšu,
� �
L. Kopf, ‘Das arabische Wörterbuch als Hilfsmittel für die hebräische Lexicographie’,
VT 6 (1956), 286–302, 300ff.; cf. already W. F. Albright, ‘The North-Canaanite Poems
of Al’âyân Ba’al and the “Gracious Gods”’, JPOS 14 (1934), 101–40, 131 n. 102, and
From the Stone Age to Christianity (2nd edn; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1957), 285
n. 12.
52. ‘Bauern’: thus after Knudtzon, Die El-Amarna Tafeln, VAB II (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs
1915), 1417. ‘Free Proletarians’: according to I. Mendel­sohn, ‘The Canaanite Term for
“Free Proletarian”’, BASOR 83 (1941), 36–9.
53. Heltzer, VDI 1969/3, 33, Cf. his ‘Carskie ljudi’ (bnš mlk) i carskie xozjaststvennye cen-
try (gt) v Ugarite’ (‘Royal Dependents [bnš mlk] and Units of the Royal Estate [gt] in
Ugarit’), VDI 1967/2, 32–47, and the same in Liverani, La Siria, 34, and in Klengel,
Beiträ­ge, 129. The testimonies of hupšu in Ugarit are few. They are mentioned, however,
�
together with the military group šana­nu/tnn in PRU 5, 15 (cf. also I Krt 90–91: hpt.dbl.
�
spr / �nn.dbl.hg, ‘h. without numeral, �. without number’). Impor­tant in this connection is
�
also the RŠ 24.247 (KTU 1.103 (+ KTU 1.145) mlkn.j ’zz. ’l.hp�h, ‘Our king shall prevail
�
over his hupšu’, cited by Gordon, UT, 404, no 915. The greater part of the material relat-
�
ing to hupšu in Alalah has been treated by Dietrich and Loretz, ‘Die soziale Struktur’.
� �
54. Rib-Adda’s failing confidence in the loyalty of his hupšu was a result of his inability to
�
provide them with the mentio­ned supplies; cf. EA 118: 23–4; 125: 25ff.; 85: 10ff.
22 Biblical studies and the failure of history

they would bolt and join Abdi-Ašir­ta.55 The social standing of hupšu in Assyria
�
seems to have been very much the same as in western Asia. There, they were
also soldiers (mercenaries) with specific corvée obliga­tions.56 The mention of
hupšu, however, is not restricted to the military profession. From Nuzi, we know
�of three cases in which persons, characterized as hupšu, are weavers.57 From
� artisans, shep­herds, one
Alalah (stratum IV, fifteenth century) we have various
�
courier and one doctor (all exceptions)58 who belong to the hupšu (= name in
�
Alalah).
�
From this material, it is possible to define ‫ חפשי‬in Exodus 21:2 in two ways.
A Hebrew has become a ‫ חפשי‬by being released from slavery and, in turn, has
entered into a private relationship with his former master. Alternatively, the
hitherto privately owned ‫ עברי‬has passed into a form of col­lec­tive dependency
on the city-state to which his former master belonged. For this reason, it is inac-
curate to define his social position merely as a freedman. A ‫ חפשי‬should also
be placed socially, somewhere between a slave and a freed­man. Accordingly
there is a difference between Exodus 21:2ff. and its secondary development in
Deuteronomy 15:12ff. and Leviticus 25:39ff. The last two passages treat the
manumission as a complete restitution, whereas Exodus 21:2ff. only allows the
slave to advance to a subordinate class.
Such promotion was not always looked upon as desirable, as is apparent
from Exodus 21:4‑6, which confirms the Hebrew’s right to choose for himself
whether he will remain a slave.59 It is not quite clear what his position as an ‫עבד‬
in Exodus 21:2ff. really means. The parallels from Nuzi define the social stan­
ding of a male habiru slave as wardatum ‘slavery’60 and of a female as amtum.
� latter, the punishment for breach of contract on the part of
In the case of the
the slave was severe corporal mutilation and resale, which might be taken to
mean that it was not normally permissible to sell a slave in Nuzi. Whether a
similar measure existed in the Book of the Covenant is un­certain, but probable.
Nowhere in the Old Testament is the resale of Hebrew slaves mentioned.
Nothing can be said about the rights and obligations of a Hebrew slave in
the situation of prolonged slavery. The term ‫ עבדו לעלם‬in Exodus 21:6 seems to
indicate that the slave was to remain in the service of his master indefinitely;

55. Klengel, Geschichte II, 250, and Liverani, ‘Implica­zioni sociali nella politica di Abdi-
Ashirta di Amurru’, RSO 40, 1965, 267–77, 272f. Cf. also EA 118: 36–9: al-lu / pa-ñá-ri-
ma LÚ.MEŠ hu-up-ši ù / ùa-ab-tu LÚ.MEŠ.­GAZ. MEŠ/URU, ‘it is a fact that the Hupši
� �
have run away, and the habiri have (consequently) captured the town’.
�
56. The material has been summed up in CAD 6; cf. most recently G. Cardascia, Les lois
assyriennes (Littératures Anciennes du Proche-Orient 2; Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf,
1969), 220–21. (to MAL A 45, dating from the twelfth century though the law may be
older; cf. Meek, ANET3 180).
57. Cf. E. R. Lacheman, ‘Note on the Word hupšu at Nuzi’, BASOR 86 (1942), 36–7.
�
58. Cf. Dietrich and Loretz, ‘Die soziale Struktur’, 87. Only in the case of 18 out of 542
persons has an occupation been mentioned.
59. Further details to vv. 3‑6 in Paul, Studies, 47ff.
60. One exception: Bottéro, 4e RAI, no. 54:3 [a-na gi]-el-lu-uh-ti. The reading and the con-
�
tent of the word is not quite certain. Cf. von Soden, AHw, I, 284, s.v. gelduhlu, gel­zu(h)lu.
� �
 The ‘Hebrew slave’ 23

but whether this meant that the owner could not get rid of his slave by selling
him or setting him free at a later date must be left an open question at present.61

Exodus 21:7‑11

With regard to vv. 7-11, which, in their present context state the rules a Hebrew
must follow in the case of wanting to sell a daughter, it is necessary to obviate
some misunderstandings. It is expressly stated that the issue is the sale of a
daughter, who is apparently a virgin, not the sale of a Hebrew woman, an ‫עבריה‬.
Thus, the law described in vv. 7‑11 cannot be taken to apply to Hebrew women
in general and to mean that these could not be set free on the same conditions as
male slaves.62 Either there are no rules for a Hebrew selling his wife (or his sons,
for that matter) or these two categories are incorporated in the law of vv. 2‑6 in
a way that it was considered impossible that a man sell his wife and remain free
himself and, further, that a son sold into bondage had the same possibilities of
manumission as his father.

Conclusion

The traditional point of view that the Book of the Covenant is of Israelite ori-
gin has supported many absurdi­ties and distortions in the interpretation of the
Hebrew slave and his social standing. This chapter attempts to shed new light
on a number of obscurities in Exodus 21:2‑11:

1. The first part of the Book of the Covenant fits in very well with a context
that is Canaanite, not Israelite.

61. Paul, Studies, 50, thinks that ‫האלהים‬, Exodus 21:6 refers to the household god (elsewhere
in the Old Testament ‫תרפים‬. In this case, the slave was accepted as a permanent mem-
ber of the household in the presence of the god (whose protection was thus extended
to him). This would also explain Rachel’s theft of Laban’s ‫ תרפים‬as enabling Jacob to
break his contract of service to Laban as a person without his having to break away
from the protective penates. Cf. M. Greenberg, ‘Another Look at Rachel’s Theft of the
Teraphim’, JBL 81 (1962). The rather fanciful interpretation of Rachel’s psycholo­gy may
be neglected in this connection. It is, however, more pro­bable that ‫ האלהים‬indicates that
the ceremony took place in the local sanctuary; cf. to this, most recently, M. Weinfeld,
Deutero­nomy and the Deuteronomic School (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1972),
233.
62. In opposition to Beer and Galling, Exodus, 108; Noth, ATD, 5, 144, and P. A. H. de
Boer, ‘Some Remarks on Exodus xxi 7‑11’, Orientalia Neerlandica 1948, 162–6. Cf.
Jepsen, Bundesbuch, 27–8, who is probably right when stating partly that she is not set
free because of the status she obtains with her owner. Both Jepsen, Bundesbuch, 28, and
de Boer, ‘Some Remarks’, 162, are right when interpreting ‫ עם‬in v. 8a as ‘family’, thus
indicating that the slave girl cannot be sold to another family. I. Mendelsohn, Slavery,
12f. takes vv.7‑11 as parallels to the ‘sale-adoption’ contacts from Nuzi; but it is doubtful
whether this is actually a parallel; cf. also Paul’s hesitations, Studies, 53.
24 Biblical studies and the failure of history

2. This also applies to the first law in the Book of the Covenant, the law of
the Hebrew slave. The placing of this law within the first part of the Book
of the Covenant cannot really be challenged, but several objections may
be raised against the wording of v. 2. The beginning of v. 2 should be cor-
rected in accordance with Alt’s views.
3. The interpretation of this law must necessarily include the general debate
on habiru and hupšu. I have tried to explain the words ‫ עברי‬and ‫ חפשי‬in
� agreement� with the modern view on habiru and hupšu as sociologi-
close
� �
cal denomina­tions.

According to this a habiru should be taken to mean an outlaw and hupšu some-
one dependent on a �city-state or on a citizen of the same.63 The thought
� that the
Hebrew of Exodus 21:2 was neces­sarily an Israelite must be ruled out; but this
does not exclude the possibility that he might have been. It is quite probable that
impoverished Israelites or groups from the now resident Israelite tribes joined
the habiru and it must have been difficult, at times, for the original inhabitants
�
to distinguish between Hebrews and Israelites among the roaming gangs of
robbers.
The results reached do not, however, solve all problems. There is still the
question of how the transformation of the Hebrew from an antisocial straggler to
an Israelite citizen took place, and of how the traditional synthesis of the laws of
the manumission of slaves with the law of the fallow year, transforming it into
first a ‘Sabbath year’ and later a ‘Year of Jubilee’, was effected.64

Appendix

‫ חפשי‬in 1 Samuel 17:25

Some uncertainty attaches to the usual interpretation of the last part of Saul’s
oath to David’s family:

‫ואת בית אבי יעשה חפשי בישראל‬

In general, it is held that ‫ חפשי‬means ‘free’ from something – for example, from
paying tax or other duties65 or, alternatively, free from corvée obligations66 or

63. It is not improbable that hupšu/‫ חפשי‬is the West Semitic word for Akkadian muškênum,
�
who were also a client-class. Cf. W. von Soden, ‘Muškênum und die Mawali des frühen
Islam’, ZA 56 (1964), 133–41, who finds similarities between the Arabic mawali and
the muškênum class in the Old Babylonian period; cf. too B. Kienast, ‘Zu muškênum =
Maula’, XVIII Rencontre assyriologique internationale, 1970 (Bayerische Akad. d. Wiss.
Phil. Hist. Kl. Abh., N.F. 75; Munich: Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaftten, 1972),
99–103.
64. I refer to these problems (including Jer. 34:8ff.) in Chapter 2, this volume.
65. Thus K. Budde, KHAT V11I, 126; W. Nowack, HKAT 1 4, 88; H. Gressmann, SATA II/1,
67; W. Hertzberg, ATD 10, 114.
66. H. P. Smith, ICC, 158.
 The ‘Hebrew slave’ 25

possibly both.67 Other suggestions have been put forward by W. Caspari68 who
thinks that Saul offered to annul whatever debt might have been incurred by
David’s family, and by H. J. Stoebe69 who would prefer to write off the whole
passage as secon­dary, partly because it is not included in the LXX and partly
because it makes no sense in view of the fact that David was a free landown­er.
This last argument is irrelevant, however, since Saul could not know beforehand
who was going to accept his offer. Nor would it offer any solution to look upon
Saul’s pledge to grant tax exemption as insignifi­cant since David’s family, as
Judeans, could not have been tributaries of the Israelite king. In this connection,
I think it most probable that no political union existed between Israel and Judah
before David became king of both countries.70
Another way of understanding v. 25 is by way of a closer definition of the
word ‫חפשי‬. I have tried above to prove that in Exodus 21:2 ‫ חפשי‬should be inter­
preted in light of the source material on the hupšu from the Near Orient.
Hupšu/‫ חפשי‬were a class of clients in the �city-state, supported by the alloca-
tion� of plots for cultivation or by supplies of provisions from the royal stores.
It seems to me clearly relevant to take this under­standing of the hupšu/‫חפשי‬
� meant in
into consideration when trying to penetrate into what Saul actually
promising the status of a ‫חפשי‬. Probably there is no question of tax exemption
or the like (a typically modern thought), but rather of an offer to grant supplies
from the royal household. It is well known from 1 Samuel 17:7 that Saul had the
means to support a private guard of mercenaries, and it may be deduced from
this that he also had the means to attract influential families as his clients. In
this particular case, the intention may have been to procure adherents in Judean
circles just as later on David bought himself support from leading Judeans.

67. R. de Vaux, Institutions I, 137.

68. KAT VII, 204.
69. VT 6, 403; cf. KAT VIII 1, 324.
70. Mowinckel, BZAW 77, 137–8, and de Vaux, Histoire ancienne, 50ff.
 2

The manumission of slaves – the fallow year –

the Sabbatical Year – the Jubilee Year
1976

Introduction

On several occasions during the last few years the royal edicts known from the
Old Babylonian period have been associated, because of their social tenden-
cies, with the Israelite laws of manu­mission, land regulation and transactions
etc.1 The Israeli­te laws are, for the most part, to be found in the le­gislation
related to the Sabbatical Year in Deuteronomy 15:1‑18, and to the Jubilee Year
in Leviticus 25. According to the Old Testament, these particu­lar years occurred
every seventh or every fiftieth year. In the absence of any proof, however, that
the Babylonian edicts should have been issued at regular intervals, F. R. Kraus
and J. J. Finkel­stein are rather unwilling to accept that the Babylonian institu-
tion is parallel to the Is­raelite one. J. Lewy, on the other hand, goes further and
at­tempts to prove from the cuneiform literature that the Meso­potamian decree
on the remission of debt, manumis­sion, etc. and the Israelite Jubilee Year leg-
islation had mutual origins in the Amorite popu­lation which was spread over a
large part of Mesopotamia, as well as Palestine and Syria. In pre-monarchical
Israel the institution was supposed to recur at regular intervals due to the lack
of governmental authorities, whereas in Mesopo­tamia the various kings were
free to regulate the dates freely.
M. Weinfeld has recently gone further in his compari­sons and tries to show
that the Israelite Sabbath and Jubilee Year institutions survived all through the
period of the Israelite monarchy in the form of royal reform laws, issued at regu-
lar inter­vals.2 The most important evidence for this is the de­scription in Jeremiah

1. Thus, J. Lewy, ‘The Biblical Institution of derôr in the Light of Akkadian Documents’,
EI 5 (1958), 21–31, 29ff; J. Bottéro, ‘Désordre économique et annullation des dettes en
Mésopotamie à l’époque paléo-babylonienne’, JESHO 4 (1961), 113–64, 164; cf. also,
but with reservations, F. R. Kraus, ‘Ein Edikt des Königs Samsu-Iluna von Babylon’,
Assyriological Studies 16 (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1965), 225–31,
230–31; and J. J. Finkel­stein, ‘Some New Misharum Material and Its Implications’,
Assyriological Studies 16 (1965), 233–46, 245.
2. M. Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1972), 152ff. To some extent also the same author’s ‫זרמים תיאולוגיים בספרות התורה‬,
Beth Miqra 44 (1970), 10–22, 15 and n. 19.
 The manumission of slaves 27

34:8ff. of repealing manu­mission, which is usually considered an exceptional

occurrence. Weinfeld includes addi­tional material to show that this manumis-
sion ordinance was not exceptional at all, but was, in fact, charac­teristic of
ordinary prac­tice during the time of the monarchy, even as the technical term
‫דרור‬, in Jeremiah 34:8, is not found anywhere else in the sources for the study
of the history of the Israelite and Judean kings other than in Leviticus 25:10,
Isaiah 61:1 and Ezekiel 46:17. Weinfeld tries to prove that ‫ שים מישפט‬in Exodus
15:25; 21:1; Joshua 24:25 and ‫ עשה משפט‬in 2 Samuel 8:15 (cf. 1 Kgs 3:28; 6:12;
8:45, 49, 59; 10:9; 11:33, etc.) were ordinary words for a royal decree, bear-
ing social implications. Accor­ding to Weinfeld, ‫ שים מישפט‬should correspond to
šiptam šakānum and mišaram šakānum in the Mari letters.3 Mišaram šakā­num
was often used in the Old Babylonian period to announce the issue of a royal
decree bearing social implications. This use of mišarum in Akkadian seems to
correspond to the Hebrew ‫ מישרים‬in, for example, the Enthronement Psalms
96:10; 98:9; 99:4.
No doubt, Weinfeld is right in emphasizing a connection bet­ween ‫מישרים‬
of the Enthronement Psalms and Akkadian mišarum. On the other hand, it
does seem peculiar that mišaram šakā­num should be analo­gous to ‫שים מישפט‬
when an all but literal paral­lel to mišaram šakānum is found in Psalm 99:4:
‫אתה כוננת מישרים‬. It is also noteworthy that ‫ מישרים‬is not found in connection with
a mortal king in, for example, Psalm 72, which might otherwise have seemed
obvious evidence for the conti­nuity of the Old Babylonian reform practice.
Only in connection with the Enthronement Feast of Yahweh do we find ‫משרים‬
in a connection that may be compared to the motives behind the royal reform
edicts of Mesopotamia. There is one exception, Isaiah 11:4: ‫ושפט בצדק דלים‬
‫וחוכיח במישור לענוי־ארץ‬. However, the parallelism between ‫ צדק‬and ‫מישור‬
may support the impression that ‫ מישור‬is not applied in a specific technical
sense (though it must be noted that the word is in the singular, like Akkadian
mišarum),4 whereas ‫ מישור‬is neutral in the same way as in Malachi 2:6; Psalms
45:7 and 67:5.5 Finally, it is significant that the only reference to a royal edict –
namely, Jeremiah 34:8ff. – uses ‫ דרור‬corresponding to the Akkadian andurārum
instead of ‫מישרים‬/‫מישור‬.6

3. Weinfeld, Deuteronomy, 152 and 155 n. 9.

4. Accordingly, I do not distinguish between ‫ מישור‬and ‫מישרים‬. It is probably the same word.
5. The collation of ‫ צדק‬and ‫ מישור‬/ ‫ מישרים‬in Isa. 11:4 (cf. 45:19; Ps. 9:9; 58:2; Prov. 1:3;
2.9) can best be compared with the collation of the Akkadian mišarum and kittum; cf.
to this CAD 8, K, 470–71, and S. M. Paul, Studies in the Book of the Covenant in the
Light of Cuneiform and Biblical Law (VT sup, 18; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1970), 3ff. ‫מישרים‬
and ‫ קדצ‬are also found collocated as twin gods in Philon of Byblus (Misor and Sydyk);
cf. H. G. Güterbock, Kumarbi. Mythen vom churritischen Kronos aus dem hethitischen
Fragmenten zusammengestellt, übersetzt und erklärt (Istanbul Yazilari no 16; Zürich:
Europaverlag, 1946), 114–15, and E. A. Speiser, ‘Authority and Law in Mesopotami­a’,
JAOS Supplement 17 (1954), 8–15, 12 n. 24. Cf. that kittum and mišarum also occurs as
twin gods in Babylonian documents. See CAD 8, K, 471 with references. Cf. the appen­
dix below to Isa. 11:4.
6. Cf. p. 37ff., this volume.
28 Biblical studies and the failure of history

In other words, it may be asserted that royal edicts, if such existed in Israel,
were not called ‫ מישרים‬acts, and it is hardly possible to take for granted a direct
Mesopotamian impact upon the use of Hebrew ‫ מישרים‬in the Old Testament. In
fact, the use of ‫ מישרים‬in connection with the Enthronement Feast of Yahweh to
some extent indicates that the connection is indirect and that the special inter-
pretation of the word as related to social reforms has been lost in the same way
as the use of mišarum in Mesopotamia, the technical sense of the word appar-
ently having fallen out of use after the Old Babylonian period.
Although I find it necessary to disagree with Weinfeld’s argument, I admit
that his theory of an Israelite institution corresponding to the Babylonian decrees
of ‘freedom’ and ‘justice’ may be correct. It is obvious from the Old Babylonian
edicts that these were issued primarily in connection with a new king’s accession
to the throne, usually in the second year of his reign7 (and at times later in his
reign).8 Since the intention behind these edicts was to re-establish social balance
(as is apparent from their designa­tions), they cannot be separated from the obli-
gation which bound oriental rulers to protect the lives and welfare of the poor,
an obligation, imposed upon kings by their divine overlord.9 The possi­bility that
a similar institution had served as the background of hopes attached to the new
king (or his designated successor), which finds expression in several passages
from the Old Testament, cannot be dismissed without further explanation.10
The discussion of the Old Testament Sabbath and Jubilee years should, nev-
ertheless, not rely uncritically on so-called parallels in cuneiform literature. The
results of a closer investigation of the Babylo­nian material require that one
not unhesitatingly compare Akkadian mišarum of the Old Babylo­nian era with
Hebrew ‫מישרים‬, as M. Weinfeld has done, since mišarum was apparently not
used for social edicts after the Old Babylonian period. Consequently, ‫– מישרים‬
if we try to follow Weinfeld – must have been borrowed from Akkadian long
before the Israelite immigration and survived in this meaning in Palestine alone
for about 1000 years. This is not pos­si­ble. On the other hand, andurārum, in
Hebrew ‫( דרור‬corresponding to Neo-Assyrian durārum), may have been bor-
rowed at any time in its 1000-year history, bearing the meaning of a social edict
or royal favour. Therefore, to more precisely arrive at the exact time of the bor-
rowing and to obtain a better understan­ding of the problem of the origin of the

7. See Finkelstein, ‘Some New Misharum Material’, 243ff., and his ‘Ammiùaduqa’s Edict
and the Babylo­nian “Law Codes”’, JCS 15 (1961), 91–104, 102; see also F. R. Kraus,
Ein Edikt des Königs Ammi-úaduqa von Babylonien (Studia et Documenta ad Iure
Orientis Antiqui Pertinentia; Leiden: E. J. Brill,1958), 224ff.: nos 33 (Ham­murabi), 36
�
(Samsuiluna), 38 (Abiešuh), 41 (Ammiditana), 43 and 44 (Ammiùaduqa).
�
8. Cf. to this Finkelstein, Assyriological Studies 16, 243ff.
9. Cf. C. Fensham, ‘Widow, Orphan and the Poor in Ancient Near Eastern Legal and
Wisdom Literature’, JNES 21 (1962), 129–39.
10. Cf. Ps. 72:1ff; Isa. 11:1ff. See also M. Noth, ‘Amt und Berufung im Alten Testament’,
1958, in Gesammelte Studien I, 2nd edn (Munich: Chr. Kaiser, 1960), 309–33, 332 n. 49.
Noth thinks that a royal institution may have formed the background of Isa. 61:1ff.
 The manumission of slaves 29

Old Testament Sabbati­cal and Jubilee Years, one needs first of all to analyse the
Old Testament material.11

The laws

Exodus 21:2ff.; 23:10‑11

In the Book of the Covenant, Exodus 21:2–23:16 (19), we have two separate
laws, which are repeated twice later on in the Old Testament in the legislation
on the Sabbatical and Jubilee Year. Exodus 21:2ff. first prescribes that a pur-
chased Hebrew slave shall, after six years’ service, pass to the status of a client.12
Second, Exodus 23 demands that land under cultivation lie fallow every sev-
enth year. In the context of the Book of the Covenant, these paragraphs do not
contradict one another. The law of the Hebrew slave is placed at the be­ginning
of the first part of the Book of the Covenant, Exodus 21:2–22:16, which is now
generally consid­ered the oldest part, and which in the opinion of many schol-
ars – including myself – has strong links to Canaanite and Meso­po­ta­mian laws.
This part is pre­dominantly of a profane character (jus). Opposite it are the rules
based on cult and religion (fas), which are to be found in the second part of
the Book of the Covenant, Exodus 22:17–23:16 (19), and which, among other
things, compri­se the law of the fallow year. Between those two parts of the Book
of the Covenant there was originally no connection. Every section had its own
significance to society. It seems probable, though, that the two sec­tions were
brought together as early as the time of the judges.
Exodus 21:2: ‫כי תקנה עבד עברי שש שנים יעבד ובשבעת יצא לחפשי חנם‬. In this verse,
there is no fixed date according to which all slaves of Hebrew origin should be
set free. On the contrary, it is expressly stated that every single slave is to be
manumitted after having completed his term of service. In this connec­tion, it
should be noted that the slave law, Exodus 21:2‑6, only relates to male Hebrew
slaves – that is, to habiru, who will be admitted to the community again; sub-
� are mentioned, in Exodus 21:7‑11, relating only to the
sequently, regulations
daugh­ters of Hebrews, not to Hebrew women in general.13

11. Cf. Chapter 3, this volume. The necessary technical information will be found there. The
two principal theses are:
1. Mišarum was not used of social edicts after the Old Babylonian period, whereas
andurārum could be used in this sense from Old Babylo­nian to Neo-Assyrian times
(the last evidence known perhaps dates to the reign of Assurbanipal.
2. Some referen­ces to mišarum (and also to andurārum) later than the Old Babyloni­an
period should not be understood uncritically as references to royal edicts with more
general consequences. They are perhaps, rather, only referring to acts concerning
individu­als.
12. As to Exodus 21:2ff., I would like to refer to Chapter 1, this volume.
13. Cf. Chapter 1, this volume, n. 12.
30 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Exodus 23:10‑11 seems to refer to a seven-year cycle when prescribing that

the soil should lie fallow every seventh year. To this order, which originates in
agrarian conditions so difficult to separate from the reli­gious conditions, has
been added a social justification in v. 11.14 Nevertheless, based on these two
verses alone, it is hardly possible to claim that this regulation was valid through-
out the entire Israelite territory. It is far more probable that every farmer left his
fields fallow at regular intervals (possibly in turns),15 and it is also probable that
an older agrarian custom had been augmented by v. 11b: ‫כי־תעשה לכרמך לזעתך‬,
which, syntactically considered, limps behind.16

Deuteronomy 15:1‑18
In Deuteronomy 15:2‑18 we seem to find the same two sections from the Book
of the Covenant joined together in the law of the Sabbatical Year.
Deuteronomy 15:1: ‫מקץ שבע־שנים תעשה שמטה‬. This does not necessarily
imply that Deuteronomy 15:1 refers to a general observation every seventh
year. The range of the ‫ שמטה‬has not been stated, and besides it is a question of
whether agrarian condi­tions are included in the use of ‫ שמטה‬in Deuteronomy at
all. In the ‘commentary’ on Deuteronomy 15:1‑11, there are conditions related
to landed pro­perty that have been allowed for. However, it seems that from the
‘commen­tary’ in vv. 2-3 and also from the added regulations on loans in vv.7ff.,
the Deuteronomists in Deuteronomy 15:1‑11 refer to a ‫ שמטה‬regularly recur-
ring, which is analogous to the annulment of liabilities in a Deu­teronomistic
context.17

14. It may be maintained against Noth (Das zweite Buch Mose, Exodus, ATD, 5; Göttingen:
Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1958, 154) that even though the practical importance of the
fallow year for soil fertility is not explicitly mentioned in Exod. 23:10‑11, this may well
be implicitly understood according to the understanding of the period. Cultivation of the
soil and the harvesting of its products have always been subject to religious perceptions
and it is wrong, based on modern farming and its particular working morale, to draw
conclusions regarding farming conditions of the past.
15. In opposition to e.g. Beer and Galling (Exodus, HAT I 3; Tübingen: Mohr, 1939, 119),
who think that Exod. 23:10‑11 prescribes the observance of a generally valid Sabbatical
Year and who argue on the basis of, first, an analogy to v. 12, and, second, a parallel
to Lev. 25:2‑7 and Exod. 23:12, which demand the observance of the weekly Sabbath
is irrelevant, in view of the fact that the two parts, vv. 10‑11 and v. 12, have evidently
been joined together because of the analogy between the seven years in vv. 10‑11 and
the seven days in v. 12. This does imply, however, that it becomes possible to draw
conclusions regarding the actual contents of vv. 10‑11 from v. 12. As regards Lev. 25:2‑7,
this is probably a late and secondary interpretation of Exod. 23:10f. Cf. also Noth’s less
categorical treatment of Exod. 23:10‑11, ATD 5, 153–4.
16. E.g. F. Horst, Das Privilegrecht Jahwes (FRLANT 45; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and
Ruprecht, 1930), now in Gottes Recht (Munich: Chr. Kaiser, 1961), 17–154, see 80;
see also G. Seitz, Redaktionsgeschichtliche Studien zum Deuteronomium (BWANT 93;
Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1971), 167.
17. Even though there is no complete agreement with regard to the details of Deut. 15:1‑11,
it seems a fact that several layers of commentaries and warnings have been added to the
older law, cited in v. 1 on the basis of the ‫ שמטה‬ordinance of v. 1. Cf. e.g. Horst, Das
 The manumission of slaves 31

Deuteronomy 15:12: ‫כי־ימכר לך אחיך העברי או העבריה ועבדך שש שנים ובשנה‬

‫השביעת תשלחנו חפשי מעמך‬. This section is probably introduced by v. 11 which
con­nects the preceding section with that which follows. As to form, v. 12 is
closely related to Exodus 21:2. Stylistically, the most essenti­al divergence is that
Exodus 21 opens with a direct address in the second person singular, ‫תקנה‬, while
Deuteronomy 15:12 opens with a third person singular,‫ימכר‬. Exodus 21:2ff. has
a third person singular and Deuteronomy 15:21ff. a second person singular in
connection with the slave owner and a third person singular in connection with
the slave. This is an essential indication that ‫ תקנה‬in Exodus 21:2 is secondary,
while the original text had either ‫תקנה‬, as A. Jepsen thinks,18 or ‫ימכר‬, as sug-
gested by A. Alt.19 It might reaso­nably be expected that the Deuteronomists
would use the second person singular ‫ תקנה‬if this were what had been found in
the Book of the Covenant at the time when they cited it. The use of the word
‫ עברי‬and the vv. 16-17, which in content and also, to some extent, in wording
corresponds to the usage in Exodus 21:5-6, makes it clear that they must have
cited from the Book of the Cove­nant, which we find in Deuteronomy 15:12.20
However, it is impossible to believe that they should have tried to make an older
slave law, cited in Deuteronomy 15:12, conform to the wording of Exodus 21:2
by inserting ‫ עברי‬and ‫עבריה‬, as suggested by R. P. Merendino.21
One thing is certain. The word ‫ עברי‬in Exodus 21:2 has been interpreted not
as habiru in its originally sociological meaning, but as ‘countryman’, ‘Israelite’.
To� elucidate this reinter­pretation, the Deuteronomists inserted v. 12. and aug­
mented ‫ עברי‬with the feminine form ‫עבריה‬, which is only used here (and in the
quotation of this passage in Jer. 34:9). The augmentation of ‫ עברי‬by ‫ עבריה‬has
not penetrated to the predicative, ‫חפשי‬, which is still in the singular in accord
with Exodus 21:2, whereas Jeremiah 34:9 has ‫חפשים‬.22
It is not expressly stated in Deuteronomy 15:12ff. that the Israelites sold
them­selves to their countrymen because of debt. However, the main cause for
people selling themselves undoubtedly was dire poverty. So, Leviticus 25:39ff.!
It is charac­teristic that sales of land and mortgage on land play no part in this
passage. Not one word indicates whether the free citizens who were sold as
slaves also lost their property because of their debt, although they probably did
if this legislation had ever been put into force in reality. It would also have been

Privilegrecht, 79ff., and G. von Rad, Das fünfte Buch Mose. Deuteronomium (ATD,
8; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1964), 74. See also R. P. Merendino, Das
deuteronomistische Gesetz (BBB, 31; Bonn: Peter Hanstein, 1969), 106ff., and Seitz,
Redaktionsgeschichtliche, 167ff.
18. A. Jepsen, Untersuchungen zum Bundesbuch (BWANT, III 5; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer,
1927), 56.
19. Alt, Kl. Schr. I, 291. See also Chapter 1, this volume.
20. Note the use of ‫‘ מרצע‬pricker’, which in the Old Testament is only used in these two
passages. Although the quotation does not follow Exod. 21 word by word, the majority
of the words in Deut. 15:16f. have been taken from the Book of the Covenant.
21. Merendino, Das deuteronomistische Gesetz, 113.
22. The adaptation of Jeremiah 34 apparently has not understood ‫ י‬in ‫ חפשי‬as a gentilic end-
ing. Cf. below.
32 Biblical studies and the failure of history

necessary to mention the pos­sibility of the redemption of the property sold or

its possible return in connection with the manumis­sion of slaves if this had been
looked upon as a complete restitutio for slaves of Israelite birth. Otherwise,
the manu­mission could only have been formal and impossible for a slave to
accept in practice. But it is possible that ‫ חפשי‬in Deuteronomy 15:12ff., as in
Exodus 21:2ff., signified a special group within the community which was
dependent on the free citizens, either private persons or possibly greater units
such as villages, towns or even the central government.23 It is more probable,
though, that the Deuteronomists use ‫ חפשי‬about the ‘free’ in general, which is
also indirectly indicated by the fact that they seem to have realized the difficul-
ties likely to arise in connection with manumission and that they have tried to
eliminate these by warning the owner not to send his former slaves away empty
handed. In this connec­tion one might speak of the humanitarian attitude of the
Deuteronomists as Weinfeld does;24 but it should not be overlooked that if the
law of Deuteronomy 15:12‑18 had been realized, it would have increased soci-
etal problems, for the law would have created a proletariat, or at any rate would
have increased the number of the very poor.
Finally, it says something about the origin of this part of the law of the
Sabbatical Year that nowhere in Deuteronomy 15:12‑18 is there any reference
to a fixed seven-year cycle involving a collective manumis­sion at a certain time
every seventh year. On the contrary, it is quite clear that slaves had to serve their
time without complaint before they could be set free.
The conclusion seems to be that the Sabbatical Year is a Deutero­no­mistic
construct. The legislation relating to the Sabbatical Year dates back to two sepa-
rate laws taken from separate parts of the Book of the Covenant: Deuteronomy
15:1 from Exodus 23:10‑11 and Deuteronomy 15:12 from Exodus 21:2. The
originals must have had different roles in society. The reason why these two
were combined evidently lies in the fact that it was a question of seven years
for both. Behind Exodus 21:2ff., there is no seven-year cycle, and in Exodus
23 the fallow year is probably limited to parts of the cultivated land. The
Deuteronomists have understood the fallow year regulations as if they were
universal, but they have forgotten that it was originally an agrarian ordinance,
and so have interpreted it as a remission of debt. For the same reason, they have
demanded that slavery for debt be abolished. It seems odd that they have not
done more to harmonize Deuteronomy 15:1‑11 and 15:12‑18.

Leviticus 25
In its present shape, the legislation of the Jubilee Year, Leviticus 25, forms part
of the Holiness Code, Leviticus 17–26. The first half of Leviticus 25 is devoted
to the Sabbatical Year, taken to mean a fallow year with a religious founda-
tion (vv. 1‑7). The second part of Leviticus 25 defines the intention of the spe-
cial Sabbatical Year, which, supposedly every fiftieth year, coin­cides with the

23. As to the interpretation of ‫חפשי‬, see pp. 24–5, this volume.

24. Weinfeld, Deuteronomy, 282–3.
 The manumission of slaves 33

o­ rdinary Sabbatical Year recurring every seventh year. This year is described
as ‫( יובל‬the precise meaning of this word has probably been forgotten),25 and
the celebration of it follows upon a declaration of ‘freedom’ (‫)דרור‬. The real
­intention of the Jubilee Year legislation follows in v. 10b: ‫ושבת איש אל־משפחתו‬
‫ואיש אל־אחזתו‬. All details must be consi­dered in view of this. V. 10bα refers to
the ‫ גאלה‬regulations in the following verses – in particular, vv. 25ff. and v.10bβ
to the slave law in vv. 39ff. Apart from this, the legislation maintains rules for
the observance of the fallow year in the same way as it does for the normal
Sabbatical Year and also for loan activity.
Traditio-historically, Leviticus 25 is far from being a unified whole, but
presents many problems. The most conspicuous difficulty is the date for the
Jubilee Year in v. 11 – namely, every fiftieth year. This coin­cides with the
Sabbatical Year, which recurs every seventh year. Literally, this suggests that
two Sabbatical Years be observed in a row, a most damaging prescription if
carried out in reality.26 Several solutions have been suggested: one that the
number fifty of v. 11 roun­ds off forty-nine to fifty.27 Another proposes that the
forty-ninth year is reckoned as the fiftieth because the former Jubilee Year is
included in defining the entire Jubilee period.28 If E. Kutsch was correct in say-
ing that the tenth day of the seventh month was not understood as an ancient
New Year’s date, then the Jubilee Year would stretch from the forty-ninth year
into the fiftieth. This might offer a third explanation for the chronology.29 It is
worth mentioning, though, that if the date of v. 9 may reasonably be understood
as dependent on the intro­duction of a new calendar shortly before the exile,30 the
fiftieth year in v. 11 cannot be explained with Kutsch. As to the first suggestion,

25. Cf. R. North, Sociology of the Biblical Jubilee (AnBi 4; Rome: Pontificium Institutum
Biblicum, 1954), 96ff.
26. Cf. R. de Vaux, Les institutions de l’Ancien Testament, I (Paris: Les éditions du cerf,
1961), 268.
27. E.g. North, Sociology, 129ff., who makes a comparison to Pentecost πεντεκοστή origi-
nally ‘fifty (day)’, though Deut. 15:9 says ‘seven weeks’, and Lev. 23:16 ‘Seven weeks’
from the day after the Sabbath until the day after the Sabbath = fifty days, but in reality
it is only = forty-nine.
28. A. Jirku, ‘Das israelitische Jubileejahr’ (1929), in Von Jerusalem nach Ugarit (Graz:
Akademische Druck- und Verlagsanstalt, 1966), 320, follows the suggestion made by
Kugler. The number fifty has been reached through the Hebrew practice of counting
both terminus a quo and terminus ad quem. In the case of Lev. 25, this implies that both
old and new Jubilee Years are included in a Jubilee Year period of fifty years; cf. also
K. Elliger, HAT, I 4, 352, and H. Graf Reventlow, Das Heiligkeitsgesetz formgeschich-
tlich untersucht (WMANT 6; Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1961), 125.
29. Cf. E. Kutsch, Das Herbstfest in Israel (Masch. Schr. Diss.; Mainz 1955; not avai-
lable), and R. Kilian, Literarkriti­sche und formgeschichtliche Untersuchung des
Heiligkeitsgeset­zes (BBB 19; Bonn: Peter Hanstein, 1963), 123–4.
30. See Noth, ATD 6, 162, and Reventlow, Das Heiligkeitsgesetz, 129, who follows J.
Begrich, Die Chronologie der Könige von Israel und Juda (Beiträge z. hist. Theol., 3;
Tübingen: Mohr, 1929), 156ff. Cf. also Zimmerli, ‘Das Gnadenjahr des Herrn’, in Arnulf
Kutschke and Ernst Kutsch (eds) Festschrift für Galling, Kurt: Archäologie und Altes
Testament (Tübingen: Mohr, 1970), 325.
34 Biblical studies and the failure of history

it is a question of whether seven times seven years was not, to the Israelites, in
fact, a round figure, represented as fifty years.
Concerning recent tradition-research dealing with this chapter, there is lit-
tle or no agreement on details. H. Graf Reventlow suggests three originally
­independent segments. The first, ending with v. 24, retains two older tradition
units which are opposed to each other: a Sabbatical Year legislation, which
originally offered agrarian ordinances, and a legislation of the Jubilee Year,
which contained regulations for the ‫גאלה‬. In the last part of Leviticus 25 (vv.
25ff.), Reventlow demonstrates a complex of so-called ‫ מוך‬rules which were
social ordinances for the benefit of the impoverished segment of the population.
These elements were, according to Reventlow, secondar­ily joined together in
Leviticus 25, and a ‘Prediger’ has added his partly parenetic commentaries.31
R. Kilian assumes at least four stages of tradition. He mentions one redactor
for the archetype, another for the inclusion of the Holiness Code, a third who
is identical with the compiler of the P-source, and a fourth who created the
legislation of the Jubilee Year. Originally there was only the legisla­tion of the
Sabbati­cal Year, which Kilian thinks can be separated from Leviticus 25 through
literary criticism. Not until late, probably after Nehemiah, was this legislation
on the Sabbatical Year amplified and reinterpreted to accord with the law of the
Jubilee Year. The latter legislation is in itself expressive of a late Utopia.32
The scholar who has gone farthest in the direction of splitting Leviticus 25
into discrete sources is K. Elliger, who traces up to eight stages of tradition in
this chapter.33 Elliger assumes the existence of an older written law dealing
with land transactions, which was converted into the Jubilee Year law no later
than the seventh century bce, partly through the addition of social ordinances to
relieve poverty. An even later redaction has combined the Jubilee Year legisla-
tion with that of the Sabbatical Year and, finally, the laws regarding enslaved
debtors have been added.
The following laws in Leviticus 25 are mentioned in detail:

1. vv. 1‑7: the Sabbatical Year;

2. vv. 8‑24: the Jubilee Year in general;
3. vv. 25‑55: the Jubilee Year in detail – that is:
(a) the annulment of sales of land;
(b) the regulation of loans; and
(c) manumission.

In this chapter, the Sabbatical Year is understood as a fallow year comprising both
fields and vineyards, but given a religious context. The wording of Leviticus 25
is undoubtedly literarily dependent on the wording of Exodus 23:10. Compare
Leviticus 25:3: ‫ שש שנים … תזרע שדך ואספת את תבואתה‬with Exodus 23:10: ‫שש שנים‬
‫תזרע את ארצך ואספת את תבואתה‬. The technical use of the root ‫שמט‬, either verbal­ly

31. Reventlow, Das Heiligkeitsgesetz, 139ff.

32. R. Kilian, Literarkritische, 130ff.
33. HAT, I 4, 347ff.
 The manumission of slaves 35

‫תשמטנה‬, Exodus 23:11, or as a noun ‫שמטה‬, Deuteronomy 15:1, has been avoided
in Leviticus 25:2ff. However, the close relationship between Leviticus 25:2ff.
and Exodus 23:10‑11 is obvious for two additional reasons. First, in Leviticus
25:3ff, the vineyards are included from the Sabbatical Year law. They are also
included in the fallow year legislation of Exodus 23:10-11. However, as men-
tioned above, they have been inserted secondarily. There is no economic reason
to include the vineyards in Leviticus 25:3ff. or in Exodus 23:10-11 and eco-
nomic reasons are most likely to have provided the actual background of the
fallow year.34 The inclusion of vineyards in Leviticus 25 also breaks the literary
connection between Leviticus 25:3a and 25:3c (cf. Exod. 23:10!). Second, it is
remarkable that ‘the wild animals of the country’ (Lev. 25:7) are the consum-
ers of the products of the soil during the Sabbatical Year. In vv. 4‑5, mem-
bers of Israelite households, including ‫ גרים‬and domestic animals, receive their
food from the fields, not the poor whom Exodus 23:11 expressly mentions as
those who benefit from the law. The wild animals have been included both in
Leviticus 25:7 ‫ חית אשר בארצך‬and in Exodus 23:11 ‫חית השדה‬.
Verses 1‑7 emphasize that the Sabbatical Year was generally valid, inasmuch
as v. 2 demands observance of the Sabbath in the ‘country’, ‫ארץ‬, which expres-
sion can only refer to the whole of the Israelite territory. In contrast, we have
a practical formulation of the law of the Sabbatical Year in v. 3 (4b), which
has ‫ שדה‬about the fields instead of ‫ארץ‬. In v. 4a, however, ‫ ארץ‬appears once
again, with the meaning ‘the national area’. In comparison, it may be mentioned
that the fallow-year regulation of Exodus 23:10 ‫ ארץ‬is not used in regard to
‘the country’, but instead refers to ‘the fields’. This may be taken as proof that
the older fallow year regulation, Leviticus 25:3 (4b), has been inter­preted and
generalized by this later adaption. The final commen­tary in v. 6 also would be
meaningless if not for the fact that, in vv. 2ff., arrange­ments of general value
were referenced. Sabbatical Year legislation is, finally, accessed and concluded
in vv. 20‑22. This com­men­tary may well be more recent (in traditio-historical
terms); but it firmly establishes the fact that in the fallow year had not actually
been put in practice before the time of the commentator.
With regard to contents, the first part of the Jubilee Year law, vv. 11‑12, corre­
sponds to the Sabbatical Year. V. 13 introduces the ‫ גאלה‬institution, under­ly­ing
the annulment of land purchase, the redemption of lands and manumission. The
rules of vv. 14‑16 and 27‑28, which deal with how the price of land is fixed,
correspond to similar rules for the manumission of enslaved debtors (vv. 50‑52).
In both cases, payment is fixed on the basis of the remaining length of time of
an arrangement within a given Jubilee Year. The main segment, dealing with
‫גאלה‬, in relation to landed property, is undoubtedly modelled on older sources,
as it appears from the different ways in which landed property is treated in town

34. It is useless for a vintner to let his vineyard lie fallow every seventh year. It is normal,
today, for a vine to have uninterrupted production for thirty years, after which it is cleared
and new vines, which take five years to reach a reasonable standard of production, are
planted. This applies to vineyards of good quality. Those of lesser quality require a
longer period of development.
36 Biblical studies and the failure of history

and in country (including the unfortified towns). With literary criticism alone,
it cannot be determined whether the ‫ גאלה‬institution has always built on Jubilee
Year legislation.
Reventlow has suggested that vv. 25‑54 represent an originally inde­pend­ent
social codex, characterized by the use of the formula ‫אחיך כי־ימוך‬, vv. 25, 35, 39,
(47). One part of this codex (vv. 35ff.) does not mention the Jubilee Year at all,
which is all the more remarkable as it was supposed that debts were remitted in
accord with the Jubilee Year, particularly insofar as this was analogous to Old
Babylonian mišarum acts. The fact that the Jubilee Year is not men­tioned in vv.
35-36 could indicate that a reinterpretation of the original intention of the ‫מוך‬
laws has led to the incorporation of verses 25‑54 within Jubilee Year legislation.
Assuming that the importance attached to the absence of the Jubilee Year
in vv. 35ff. has been exaggerated, it seems worth­while to consider whether
reference to the Jubilee Year in the ‫ מוך‬laws belongs among their principal
compo­nents, even though missing in vv. 35ff. If so, a reference to a Jubilee
Year should not be taken as a reference to a Sabbatical Year. In vv. 39ff., we
have legislation relating to slaves who were to be set free at the beginning of
the Jubilee Year. Even though one must keep in mind that an indebted Israelite
was not to be exploited as a slave but treated as a paid worker, ‫ – שכיר‬a service
period lasting up to fifty years – could potentially imply lifelong slavery, and
any offer of manumission would accord­ingly be illusory.35 A fifty-year period
is not, however, empha­sized anywhere in the ‫ מוך‬laws as a fixed Jubilee Year
term, and I suggest that vv. 39‑54 (in which passage, many verses are probably
secondary) be interpreted by analogy with the slave laws of Exodus 21:2ff.
and Deuteronomy 15:12ff., both of which insist that six years of service is suf-
ficient for persons who have been forced to sell themselves because of debt. If
the inter­pretation of ‫ יובל‬as deriving from the verbal root √ jbl, as suggested by
R. North, is correct,36 the Jubilee Year may be taken to mean the ‘manumis­sion
year’, ‘the year of release’ or the like. In accordance with Exodus 21:2ff. and
Deuteronomy 15:12ff., this was probably identical with the seventh year of
service. It thus becomes possible to suppose that the connection between the
celebration of the Sabbatical Year every seventh year, understanding the Jubilee
Year as a seven-year term, was fixed individually for slaves and for various
cases of land purchase, which has led to a secondary collection of the fallow
year and social laws of Leviticus 25. That the Jubilee Year occurs at intervals
of forty-nine years, in accord with Leviticus 25, may be due to the fact that it
has been interpreted as a countrywide arrangement, and practical and economic
motives inspired the redactor to place the Jubilee Year as the seventh Sabbatical
Year.

35. This has been acknowledged by, e.g., de Vaux, Institutions, I, 327, Noth, ATD 6, 168, and
Kilian, Literarkritische, 129.
36. North, Sociology, 102ff. North also compares this with the Akkadian biltu (from wabālu,
‘to bring’) meaning ‘tri­bute.’ Biltu is, however, used particularly in regard to duties
imposed on tenants (‘the so-called nāšî bilti’), as well as in regard to yields of the soil,
in general.
 The manumission of slaves 37

Whether the law of the Jubilee Year was ever put into practice along the
lines described in Leviticus 25 cannot be decided here. We must first investi­
gate whether there are references to this or similar arrangements elsewhere in
the Old Testament.

Practical examples

Jeremiah 21:8‑20
Zedekiah’s law relating to the manumission of Hebrew slaves, Jeremiah 34:8ff.,
is the only example we know from the Old Testament of a royal edict issued
with an apparently social intention. It is generally considered to be a unique
provision aiming at the replenishment of the ranks after the war against the
Babylonian enemy. Alternatively, by manumit­ting the slaves, the authori­ties
hoped they would not have to feed them during a possible Babylonian siege.37
No matter what the intention, the royal edict was repealed the moment there was
no longer a danger of siege.
Viewed traditio-historically, the basic elements of Jeremiah 34:8ff. have
been incorporated into the so-called ‘Book of Baruch’; but it is, in general,
acknowl­edged that the passage has been mutilated in the process.38 The most
conspicuous difficulty is that the quotation from the law referred to in v. 14 does
not corre­spond to the contents of the royal edict. Zedekiah’s law concerned
all enslaved debtors of Judean birth (v. 9). In v. 14, the question centres on
individual manumission after six years of service. M. David is probably cor-
rect in maintaining that the additions to Jeremiah 34:8ff. and their subsequent

37. B. Duhm, Das Buch Jeremia (KHAT, XI; Tübingen Mohr, 1901), 279ff., and P. Volz.
Prophet Jeremia (KAT, 10; Leipzig and Erlangen, A. Deichert’sche Verlagsbuchhandlung,
1922), 317f., both suggest the last possibility, whereas W. Rudolph, Jeremia (HAT,
I 12, 2nd edn; Tübingen: Mohr, 1958), 203ff., and M. David, ‘The Manumis­sion of
Slaves under Zedekiah’, OTS 5 (1948), 63–79, 63 think that military considerations
were responsible. A. Weiser, Das Buch Jeremia (ATD, 20/21, 5. Aufl.; Göttingen:
Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1966), 311–12 thinks that the king wanted to do penance to
Yahweh. It is probable that military considerations were the underlying reason for the
proposal. However, I have found no parallels to such manumission in the ancient Near
East. In classical antiquity, it was not an unknown phenomenon; cf., e.g., the fact that the
Spartans released a contingent of Helots in the Peloponesian war, who had been at war
in Thrace under Brasidas. This was, no doubt, the consequence of a previous promise of
manu­mission (Thucydides, V: 34), similar to what occurred when the Thebans and their
allies threatened to invade Laconia in 371/370bce. (Xenophon, Hellenica, VI: 5.28).
After the battle of Chaironeia in 338bce, Hyperides proposed that the slaves should be
set free and armed against the Macedonians (Hyperides Orationes sex cum ceterarum
fragmentis edidit Christianus Jensen; TB; Leipzig: Teubner, 1917, 118–19). After the
defeat at Cannae, 216bce, the Roman state bought 8000 slaves from private persons and
armed them; but it is not stated whether they were manumitted (Livy, 211: 57.11). I owe
these references to Dr Sten Ebbesen, professor in classical philology at the University of
Copenhagen.
38. Thus Duhm, Das Buch Jeremiah, Weiser, Das Buch Jeremiah, and of Rudolph, Jeremiah,
the C-source.
38 Biblical studies and the failure of history

adaption ­cannot be separated, traditio-historically, from Deuteronomy 15.39 The

­discrepancies of v. 14 between ‫ מקץ שבע שנים‬and ‫ ועבדך שש שנים‬can most con-
veniently be explained on the basis of Deuteronomy 15, since ‫ מקץ שבע שנים‬is
identical to the Sabbatical Year legislation in Deuteronomy 15:1. The sentence
immediately following has been taken from the slave law of Deuteronomy
15:12 and repeated word for word. This also affects the dating of the texts.
Therefore, Jeremiah 34:8ff. undoubtedly has been subjected to Deuteronomistic
adaptation. This becomes clear as early as v. 9, where ‫ עבריה‬and perhaps ‫ עברי‬are
glosses that have been used because this event was linked to Deuteronomistic
slave legislation. Whether ‫ חפשים‬also derives from the glossator of v. 9 is doubt-
ful; but the further development from Deuteronomy 15:12 to Jeremiah 34:9ff.
is interesting. As suggested above, Deut 15.12 uses the singular ‫חפשי‬, whereas
Jer 34.9, 10, 11 and 16 has the plural (in v. 16 the suffix to ‫ שלחתם‬is also in the
plural contrary to Deut 15.12 ‫)תשלחנו‬.40 In vv. 10, 11, 16 and 17, ‫ עבריה‬and ‫עברי‬
are no longer mentioned. Originally, the law simply focused on enslaved debtors
of Judean birth.
The technical term for the decree in Jer 34.8ff. is ‫דרור‬, ‘freedom’, which, as
mentioned previously, is a loan word from the Akkadi­an andurārum. Another
technical expression was ‫ )קרא( דרור‬used of the Jubilee Year, Leviticus 25:10:
‫וקראתם דרור בארץ‬. However, while ‫ דרור‬in Leviticus 25 is usually used for regu-
lations of the Jubilee Year, in general, in Jeremiah 34:8ff., the expression has
been limited to one aspect of the Jubilee Year only – namely, manumission.
In the Old Testament, we also find this expression in Isaiah 61:1 and Ezekiel
46:17.41 In Trito-Isaiah, ‫ דרור‬is used only in regard to the ‘freedom’ of prisoners,
including enslaved persons. In Ezekiel 46:17, ‫ שנת הדרור‬signifies the date fixed
for the annulment of gifts of land from a sovereign (‫ )נשיא‬to his subjects. By the
‫שנת הדרור‬, plots given away should return to his subjects. By ‫שנת הדרור‬, plots
given away should return to the donator. It is questionable whether, by ‫הדרור‬
‫ שנת‬in Ezekiel 46:17, the introduction of a Jubilee Year corresponding to the
one described in Leviticus 25 was intended – namely, a regularly recurring cycle
of five years; but it is probable that the ‘year of freedom’ in this case has been
understood as a general annulment of transactions dealing in landed property.42
The conclusion we reach with regard to Jeremiah 34:8ff. is to suggest that
the Deu­terono­mists interpreted Zedekiah’s law as somet­hing unique, which, in
their opinion, was motivated by the slave law, Exodus 21:2ff. (Deuteronomy
15:12ff.). However, in their adaptation of Jeremiah 34:8ff., the Deuterono­mists

39. David, ‘The Manumission of Slaves’, 74–5.

40. The LXX has a shorter text for vv. 10‑11, at any rate, in the original Septuagint version.
However, even though ‫ חפשים‬is left out twice in the LXX, this is of no conse­quence for
the transmission of ‫ חפשים‬in v. 9 and 16, where the LXX also has this word (ε’ λευθέρους).
41. Cf. to this Zimmerli, Galling Festschrift, 321ff.
42. Against Zimmerli, ibid., 327–8; cf. his Hezechiel (BKAT, XIII/2; Neukirchen:
Neukirchener Verlag, 1969), 1179. Against David, ‘The Manumission of Slaves’, 75 n.
38, it may be said that ‫ דרור‬is not always concerned with slavery and manumission is
only one aspect of this issue, as shown in Leviticus 25.
 The manumission of slaves 39

were unable to refer to precedents, let alone a regular practice, resulting in the
issuance at regular intervals of royal laws with such an intention.

Nehemiah 5:1‑13
In the Old Testament, there is another example of a social reform of more gen-
eral character – namely, Nehemiah 5:1‑13 (from about 445bce).43 Due to com-
plaints from the poorest that in order to buy corn or pay their duties they were
forced to sell their child­ren and property, Nehemiah called for a general amnesty
for enslaved debtors and the annulment of every land mortgage.
Nowhere in Nehemiah 5:1‑13 are older laws referred to as normative in this
matter and nowhere is it implied that this is a description of a recurrent phe-
nomenon. Nevertheless, there are some affinities with the Jubilee Year legisla-
tion. In Leviticus 25:39ff., it is emphasized that it was not permissible to sell
compatriots who had been enslaved because of debt; further­more, Jews, who
had pledged themselves to people of other nationalities, should be redeemed as
soon as possible.44 In Nehemiah 5:1‑13, transactions of land are cancelled in
cases where debt has been incurred.
I would like to add the following comments. In Leviticus 25, it seems self-
evident that the last part of the chapter consists of an originally inde­pendent
codex of so-called ‫ מוך‬rules, which may never have been looked upon as general
amnesties before their incorporation within the legislation on the Sabbatical
Year, but were rather understood as rules relating to individual transac­tions.
Links between Nehemiah 5:1‑13 and Leviticus 25 all concern such ‫ מוך‬rules;
and, since Nehemiah 5:1‑13 does not refer to set dates for the annulment of all
obligations, the Jubilee Year legislation, as expressed in Leviticus 25, was not
normative in the eyes of Nehemiah’s contemporaries. This does not necessarily
mean that it never existed. Rather, it should be taken as a confirmation of the
hypothe­sis that Leviticus 25 merely expresses pious theory.45
In either case, the reform mentioned in Nehemiah 5:1‑13 should be arranged
on the same line as Zedekiah’s law – namely, as a singular measure, which was
not repeated, as is in accord with the Old Testament eviden­ce.

43. It is of no consequence whether this ‘reform’ is dated to the time when Nehemiah rebuilt
the walls of Jerusalem, as a majority of modern commentators think, or to the time after
the walls were built, as suggested by L. W. Batten, The Books of Ezra and Nehemiah
(ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1913), 237, and F. Michaeli, Les livres des Chroniques,
d’Esdras et de Néhémie (CAT, 15 I; Neuchatel: Delachaux & Niestlé, 1967), 327.
44. Apparently this referred to conditions in Palestine after the time of the exile: thus the
majority of commentators. K. Galling, however, thinks that the reference is to condi-
tions in the Babylonian diaspora; Die Bücher der Chronik, Ezra, Nehemi­a (ATD, 12;
Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1954), 227.
45. W. Rudolph, Ezra und Nehemia (HAT, I 20; Tübingen: Mohr, 1949), 129, thinks that
Nehemiah does not intentionally refer to Deut. 15 since to him the important issue was
to have a reform carried through immediately. There was no time to wait for the next
Sabbatical Year. Accordingly, it cannot be deduced from Neh. 5:1‑13 that the laws of the
Sabbath Year were out of force. On the other hand, it cannot be maintained, e silentio,
that these laws were in force at the time of Nehemiah.
40 Biblical studies and the failure of history

2 Kings 4:1; Jeremiah 32:6‑15; Numbers 36

A few passages from the Old Testament may help to illustrate how some of the
regulations linked in the legislation to the Jubilee and Sabbatical Years affected
practice.
2 Kings 4:1. A widow was forced to pledge her two sons because of debt
and the creditor demands that his pledges be handed over. Very little can be
deduced from this passage apart from its implication that it was looked upon as
­something natural that an Israelite should be forced into enslavement for debt.
This is also implicit in Isaiah 50:1: ‫או מי מנשי אשר־מכרתו אתכם לו‬.46
Jeremiah 32:6‑15. Jeremiah buys a family estate at Anatoth. The reason for
Jeremiah’s purchase, when such an invest­ment was unfavour­able,47 was his
obligation as a member of the family to redeem the family estate which was
in danger of being lost – probably as a consequence of debt. The term used in
Jeremiah 32:6ff. is ‫משפט הגאלה‬. The transaction de­scribed in Jeremiah 32:6‑15
corresponds to the ordinance of Leviticus 25. However, in Jeremiah 32:6ff.,
there is nothing to indicate that the Jubilee Year legisla­tion was valid so that a
field once sold was automati­cally returned after a fixed period of time. In the
first place, of course, this is due to the fact that the conditions of a sale of land
within the family have not been set forth in the ‫ גאלה‬rules of the Jubilee Year. On
the other hand, it is impos­sible (following Jer. 32:6ff.) to maintain that Jubilee
Year rules were legally binding in the form presented in Leviticus 25.
Numbers 36 (an appendix to the regulations relating to inheritance by daugh-
ters in Num. 36:1‑11). There is a reference to the Jubilee Year in v. 4, but this is
quite meaningless in its present context since Numbers 36:4 demands the imple-
mentation of conditions that seem opposed to the Jubilee Year laws of Leviticus
25, particularly in the way that the inheritance of land through a woman does not
return the land of her native tribe, but is finally handed over to her new tribe.48
In all probability, this means that v. 4 is a secondarily inserted gloss and that
nothing in Numbers 36 can be cited in support of the theory that the Jubilee Year
had been put into effect on any specific date.

Conclusion

An examination of Old Testament descriptions of inter­ventions against debt

(and its consequences, such as slavery and the enforced sale of family property),
which had been incurred by the poor, shows very clearly that it is possible to dis-
tinguish between two kinds of regulations. First, Exodus 23:10‑11 indicates the
existence of some very old rules relating to the fallow year, probably reflecting

46. ‫נושי‬, this also 2 Kgs 4:1: ‫נושה‬.

47. The field was in an area which was more exposed to being plundered if Jerusalem was
besieged; cf. Rudolph, HAT, I 12, 191.
48. Cf. Noth, Das vierte Buch Mose. Numeri (ATD 7; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht,
1966), 222.
 The manumission of slaves 41

the social importance attached to the fallow year. Second, there was the ancient
law of habiru slaves in Exodus 21:2‑6. However, none of the passages from
� of the Cove­nant can be compared directly with the Deuteronomistic
the Book
legis­lation on the Sabbatical or Jubilee Years in the Holiness Code. This is partly
due to the secondary expansion of the originally strictly limited slave law in
Exodus 21:2‑6 to all indebted slaves of Israelite birth and partly due to Leviticus
25’s regulation that every seventh fallow year in­volve the cancellation of land
sales forced by debt. Finally, the whole complex of problems involved in the
contracting of debts, as expressed in both Deuteronomy 15 and Leviticus 25,
represents a completely new element in relation to the regulations of the Book
of the Covenant. This does not mean that rules concerning the remission of debt
may not be older than the Deuteronomistic or priest­ly legislation. The rules of
the remission of debt may well be related to regulations such as the ‫ מוך‬rules in
Leviticus 25:25ff. These may have had a validity of their own before they were
joined together with legislation on the Sabbatical Year and the Jubilee Year,
which the author of Leviticus 25 has taken over, partly from the Book of the
Covenant and partly from the Deuteronomistic Sabbath Year.
The fact that the two parts of Deuteronomy 15 are self-evidently secondarily
linked together, as the contradictory contents of Deuteronomy 15:1‑11 and vv.
12‑18 clearly show, is of decisive importance when one tries to esti­mate the time
in which the idea arose that the Sabbatical and the Jubilee Years reflected the
time in which ownership of the land was regu­lated. But if the Sabbatical Year
was a secon­dary construction for the Deuteronomists, this must also apply to the
legislation of the Jubilee Year in Leviticus 25 given that the generally acknowl-
edged Sabbatical Year every seventh year was invented by the Deuterono­mists.
If the his­tori­cal foundation of the seven-year cycle is allowed to lapse, the fifty-
year cycle of Leviticus 25 also collapses, inasmuch as it is only an amplified
seven-year cycle.
Finally, it appears that the two well-known general amnesties men­tioned in
the Old Testament, Jeremiah 34:8‑20 and Nehemiah 5:1‑13, were put into effect
without any reference or allusion to a Sabbatical or a Jubilee Year. Zedekiah’s and
Nehemiah’s laws should be judged as unique phenomena, a stand­point which is
also shared by the majority of Old Testament scholars. One thing may, however,
assist us in tracing the origin of the idea of the Sabbati­cal and Jubilee Year. The
technical name of Zedekiah’s reform is ‫דרור‬, which corresponds to the Akkadian
andurārum. As becomes clear from Mesopotamian practice, when governments
issued social edicts, andurārum was the Neo-Assyrian word usually applied.
In several places, even in the Neo-Assyrian period, we find andurārum with-
out the prefix, durārum, which is quite analogous to ‫דרור‬. I think the corre­
spondence between Zedekiah’s law and the Neo-Assyrian edicts means that
Zedekiah was dependent on the Neo-Assyrian practice. This is not surprising in
that, at the time of Zedekiah, Judah had been a vassal to the Assyrians for more
than a century, and to the Chaldeans thereafter. It is to be supposed that various
Assyrian edicts, which may have been intended as favours to the Judeans, were
called (an)durārum decrees or that social reforms were, in accordance with
Mesopotamian traditions, called so in the former Northern Kingdom.
42 Biblical studies and the failure of history

If we assume Zedekiah’s edict, Jeremiah 34:8ff was, in fact, depen­dent on a

tradition taken over from the Assyrians in the seventh century bce. Implicitly,
certain conclusions may be drawn regarding the Deuter­ono­mis­tic Sabbatical
Year regulations of Deuteronomy 15:1‑18 – namely, that the Deutero­no­mists
transformed the royal privilege of issuing durārum/‫ דרור‬edicts into a settled
prac­tice blessed by God. They took the period of seven years from the Book
of the Covenant and there they also found a good deal of the substan­ce of the
Sabbatical Year. Apart from its being dependent on Deuteronomistic construc-
tions, the Jubilee Year of Leviticus 25 can be traced directly to the royal reform
evident from its name: ‫דרור‬. At the time of the Old Testament, no attempts
were made to impose the demands of the Sabbatical and Jubilee years by force.
However, 1 Maccabees 6:49, 5349 shows that sometime during the development
of early Judaism, efforts were made to revive the Sabbatical Year. This appar-
ently led to an almost catastrophic food shortage.

Appendix

Wildberger, in his commentary on Isaiah 11:1ff., compares the Hebrew ‫צדק‬

with the Akkadian mišarum (which, accordingly, references the Egyptian m3‘t,
‘truth’, ‘right-doing’, ‘righteousness’).50 Wildberger refers to the so-called
‘prophecies’ of Mesopotamia, which are really vaticinia ex eventu, and to ora-
cles. He speaks of a ‘Parallelität in den Motiven’; but it seems he misses what
actually lay behind the older Near Eastern motifs for what is expected of a new
king, such as we find in Isaiah 11:1ff. In view of what has been said above,
there can be no doubt that the interpretation of ‫ מישור‬in Isaiah 11:4 cannot be
separated from the inter­pretation of Akkadian mišarum in the Old Babylonian
technical sense, which has been drawn from Sumerian (níg.si.­sá). On the other
hand, it has also become quite clear that Weinfeld’s theory of an institution,
corre­sponding to the Old Babylonian practice and in place during the time of
the Israelite monarchy, does not work here. It is therefore natural to compare the
parallelism ‫ מישור‬and ‫ צדק‬in Isaiah 11:4 with the collocation often used in the
cuneiform literature of the Akkadian mišarum and kittum (níg.gi.na). Mišarum
and kittum are not identical conceptions. Kittum signified cosmic, unalterable
justice,51 while mišarum refers to the social justi­ce exercised over human beings
in court or through so-called mišarum acts. When examining the source mate-
rial from Mesopotamia, it is therefore necessary to consider that it is a ­question

49. In v. 49: σάββατον, in v. 53: ε’΄βδομος ε’΄τος.

50. H. Wildberger, Isaja (BKAT X/1; Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1972), 451ff. To
m3‘t, WÄS II, 18ff.; R. O. Faulkner, A Concise Dictionary of Middle Egyptian (Oxford:
Griffith Institute, 1962), 101f.; cf. also W. Helck and E. Otto, Kleines Wörterbuch der
Aegyptologie (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1956), 210.
51. Kittum corresponds to a certain degree to the Egyptian m3‘t.
 The manumission of slaves 43

of the development of the concept of mišarum. On the one hand, we have the
secondary use referred to by Wildberger,52 where the reference to mišarum
merely suggests, in general, that the king tries to rule ‘justly’. On the other
hand, we have the mišarum acts from the end of the third millen­nium bce and
down through the first 500 or 600 years of the second millennium, which aim
to diminish abuse. That the origin of the more general use of mišarum (placed
side by side with kittum as an elliptical expression, comprising ‘justi­ce’ in its
totality) is to be looked for in these edicts is clear both from the Lipit-Ištar hymn
quoted by Wildber­ger53 and, even more clearly, from the documents treated by
Kraus (UM 5, no. 74: v. 11ff.:54

In Nippur stellte ich Gerechtigkeit (níg.si.sá) her, ließ Ehrlichkeit (níg.gi) sich
zeigen. Wie Schäfe … ließ ich sie … Grass fressen. Das schwere Joch nahm
ich von ihren Nacken. Dauernde Wohnung ließ ich sie beziehen. Nachdem
habe ich in Nippur Ehrlichkeit (und) Gerech­tigkeit hergestellt das Land
zufriedengestellt.55

Neither this text nor the Lipit-Ištar hymn are expres­sions of vatici­nia ex
eventu, nor are they oracles aimed at the succee­ding king. They refer to the
actual introduction of social reforms in the reign of the said king.56 In this con-
nection, the pro­logue of the Codex Hammurabi (CH), V 14ff. might be included:
� the people and� instruct high principles, I
‘When Marduk ordered me to guide
decided that order and justice be pro­claimed in the country. I brought the people
happi­ness.’57 Likewise, the prologue of the Codex Lipit Ištar (CL): ‘Accor­ding
to Enlil’s orders I established “social justice” in Sumer and Akkad.’58 The expec-
tations regarding the Davidic descen­dant in Isaiah 11:1ff. should be understood
on the basis of the reform practice: not so much as a complete parallel, but rather
as a late literary reminiscence of it. In this way, Isaiah 11:1ff. reflects a stage
of development within the framework of Israelite royal ideolo­gy which was
in line with the Neo-Babylonian application of the concept of ‘social justice’
(mišarum).

52. Wildberger, Isaja.

53. Ibid. Text: H. de Genouillac, Textes religieux Sumé­riens, nos 48, 65, 67, 91, translated
in A. Falkenstein and W. von Soden, Sumerische und akkadische Hymnen und Gebete
(Zürich: Artemis Verlag, 1953), 126ff.
54. Kraus, JCS 3, 30f. The translation is owing to Kraus.
55. Níg.gi níg.si.sá mu.ni.in.gar corresponds to Akkadian kittam u mišaram aškun.
56. UM 5.74 is an ancient copy of an inscription of an unknown king of Isin from the period
preceding Lipit-Ištar; cf. Kraus, JCS 3.
57. I-nu-ma / dAMAR.UTU / a-na šu-te-su-ur ni-ši /KALAM ú-si-im / šu-hu-zi-im / ú-wa/e-
�
e-ra-an-ni / ki-it-tam / ù mi-ša-ra-am / i-na QA ma-tim / aš-ku-un / ši-ir ni-ši ú-ti-ib (as
to the translation of ina pî matim: see CAD 8, K, 1971, 470).
58. III: 52ff.: Inim den.líl.lá.ta / [níg.]si.­sá / ki.en.gi ki.uri / [i.ni.i]n.gar.ra.aš.
44 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Additional note

Only after I had finished this chapter did I have the opportunity to read N. Sarna’s,
‘Zedekiah’s Emancipation of Slaves and the Sabbatical Year’.59 However, our
conclusions are so divergent that I shall not dwell on it in detail. Sarna thinks
that Zedekiah’s manumission took place in connection with the celebration of
a Sabbatical Year in 599–587bce. He realizes the connection between Jeremiah
34:8ff. and Deuteronomy 15:12ff., but he thinks that Jeremiah 34:8ff. represents
an ancient interpretation of Deuteronomy 15:12ff., evidently stemming from
Jeremiah himself. Sarna may be counted among the scholars who ignore, or at
any rate only superficially touch upon, the literary critical and traditio-historical
difficulties related to the interpre­tation of the Old Testament laws of manu-
mission, etc. Thus, he takes for granted that the Sabbatical Year cycle was an
ancient institution in Israel, based on the Babylo­nian material of mišarum (and
andurārum), the meaning of which he has not investigated.

59. In Orient and Occident: Essays Presented to Cyrus H. Gordon (AOAT 22; 1973), 143–9.
 3

Andurārum and Mišarum: comments on the problem

of social edicts and their application
in the ancient Near East
1979

As a result of F. R. Kraus’s publication of the Edict of Am­miùaduqa, several

scholars have tried to prove – partly based on the material Kraus has brought
forward, stemming mostly from the Old Babylonian period and based, to some
extent, on institutions that are mentioned in the Old Testament (namely, the
Sabbatical Year and the Year of Jubilee) – the existence of a social institu-
tion outside Israel of an impor­tance and a dimension compar­able to the Old
Testament’s years of Jubilee and Sabbath. This institution is thought to have
had a history, which goes back at least to Entemena of Lagash and survives
into Neo-Babylonian times. In reviewing these theses one feels confronted by
something which may be defined as a circulus logicus vitiosus: on the one hand,
one may draw a conclusion from biblical mate­rial, which refers to the Year of
Sabbath and the Year of Jubilee, for clarifying a similar institution in other parts
of western Asia. On the other hand, several Old Testament scholars have used
the Assyriologi­cal data to argue that the years of Sabbath and Jubilee are more
than a mere myth, which supposedly arose in the seventh to ­sixth century bce.
According to these scholars, the years of Sabbath and Jubilee go back to a very
old institution in Palestine and western Asia. I have published a study dedicated
to the material in the Old Testament elsewhere.1 Here I shall try to confine my
investigations to the history of two impor­tant terms for Old Babylonian royal
social decrees – namely, mišarum and andurārum.

1. See Chapter 2, this volume. The confinement here to the terms andurārum and mišarum
is explained by the fact that, among the different terms used in connection with the royal
decrees in Mesopotamia, only these two appear as loanwords from Akkadian in the Old
Testament: mišarum as mîšarîm or mîšôr, most pregnantly in Pss. 96:10; 98:9; 99:4,
and Isa. 11:4; andurārum as derôr in Lev. 25:10 (the law of the Jubilee Year); Jer. 34:8
(Zedekiah’s decree of manumission of slaves); Isa. 61:1 (freeing of priso­ners); Ezek.
46:17 (regulations of real estate).
46 Biblical studies and the failure of history

The Edict of Ammiùaduqa

Any discussion on the subject of the Mesopotamian royal edicts which were
issued to initiate social reforms must start with the Edict of Ammiùaduqa (1646–
1626bce), which dates from c.1646–1645bce, since this is the most complete
extant example­.2 The decree begins with a short introduction: ‘The tablet which
contains the decree imposed upon the country to be heard at the time when
the king established a mišarum for the country.’3 It contains two princi­pal sec-
tions: one con­cerning public affairs, which occupies the main part of the decree,
§§2–3, 10–19; and another concerning private debts, §4 and §§5–9. The decree
is concluded by a supple­ment, §§20–22; §§2–4 mention the general provisions;
§2 provides relief from some duties imposed on groups of crown tenants; §3
outlines the regulations for ‘the stock exchanges’ of Babylon (kārum) and for
KAR.H I.A ša ma-tim (literally, the ‘harbours of the country’). These rules are
�
exclusively concerned with duties payable to the royal administration. In §§10–
11 particulars are given for the general provisions of §3, and §§12–19 explain
the precise contents of §2. According to §4, claims of debt against LÚak-ka-
di-i ù LÚa-mu-ur-ri-i, ‘the Akkadi­ans and the Amorites’ (this implies the whole
population), are cancel­led.4 In this connection, there appear a series of condi­
tions concerning transgressions of this section for which capital punishment is
ordered; §§8–9 state the exceptions to §4 in case of a debt incurred to obtain
a profit or in the course of commer­cial travel. In the supplement, §§20–22,
§20 orders the freeing of people enslaved because of debt from the towns of
Numhia, Emut­balum, Idamaras, Uruk, Isin, Kisurra and Malgum if the slave in
� is a (former) freeman (DUMU [mār], plus city name). The manumis-
question
sion includes his family; §21, however, says that the manumission is not to be
carried out if the debtor is a (former) ordinary slave (GEMÉ ARAD wi-li-[i]d É
[ša DUMU nu-u]m-hi-a, etc.). The decree of Ammiùaduqa ends with §22. This
� the provincial governors who subject military groups to
final article concerns
corvée in return for payment in kind.
The recurring formula, justifying the measures taken in this decree, is:
‘Because the king has established a mišarum for the country’ (aš-šum šar-rum

2. This document has been published by F. R. Kraus, Ein Edikt des Königs Ammi-úaduqa
von Babylon (SD 5; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1958), 17–43, the most important copy Ni 632.
The very fragmentary text B (BM 78259) was published by S. Langdon in 1914 and
again in a revised edition by C. J. Gadd, in Symbolae Koschaker (SD 2; Leiden: E. J.
Brill, 1939), 102–5, and most recently by G. R. Driver and J. C. Miles, The Babylonian
Laws, vol 2 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1955), 320ff. The introduction to the
decree, text C (BM 80209), is published by J. J. Finkelstein, ‘The Edict of Am­miùaduqa:
A New Text’, RA 63 (1969), 45–64. The supplement brought to light by Finkelstein
means that the number of each article according to Kraus’s original publication should
be raised by two.
3. §1: ñup-pí … / ša-mi-am [qá-bi] / i-nu-ma [šar-ru-um mi-ša-ra-am] / a-na ma-tim
iš-[ku-nu], according to the reconstruction by Finkelstein, ‘Edict of Ammiùaduqa’, 47.
4. Ibid., 53 and n. 1.
 Andurārum and Mišarum 47

mi-ša-ra-am a-na ma-tim iš-ku-nu).5 The peculiar chiastic arrangement of the

decree has consequences for this usage;6 §§3 and 4, which contain the general
provisions, contain the mišarum formula, but those sections of the decree which
include the points stated in §§3 and 4 remain without it. The generally formu-
lated §2 does, however, lack the reference to the king’s ordering the institution
of a mišarum act, while the mišarum formula is used in §§12, 14–16, and 19,
where we find the precise con­tents of §2 described. The formula is, however,
not used in §13, since this is a supplement to §12, or in §§17–18, which are
supplements to §16. In the final part of the decree, §§20 ff., there is a reference
to mišarum in §20, but not in §21, where §20 is modified. §22 does not have
the mišarum reference even though this article is an independent part of the
decree. Finkelstein suggests that the reason for this circumstance is the fact that
the validity of §22 is not confined to the period in which the mišarum decree
became valid.7 In fact, this falls outside the scope of the decree, since it is a
provision laid down for an indefinite period. The text does have some affinity
with Codex Hammurabi (CH ) §34.8
� of Ammiùaduqa,
�
In the Edict we find other technical terms relevant to this
study: ùimdat šarrim, ‘the king’s deci­sion’, and andurāram šakānum, ‘to estab-
lish freedom’. The ùimdat šarrim in this decree is used only in §5: ‘The man who
does not abide by the king’s decision shall die’,9 and andurāram šakānum appears
exclusively in connection with the manu­mission of slaves, §§20–21.10 The fact
that the mišarum act really does annul debts and duties is expressed by the refer-
ence to the smashing of the tablet or document containing the items of debt.11
In addition to the Edict of Ammiùaduqa, some fragments of a similar decree,
edited by Hammurabi’s successor, Samsuiluna (1749–1712bce), have been
�
brought to light by F. R. Kraus.12 Only two articles of this second decree, which
is about a century earlier than Ammiùaduqa’s decree, are still legible: the first,

5. See here Kraus, Edikt, 183ff.; see also R. Hentsch­ke, ‘Erwägungen zur israelitischen
Rechtsgeschichte’, Theolo­gia Viatorum 10 (1965–6), 117ff., from an Old Testament
scholar’s point of view. Some of Hentschke’s theses as regards apodic­tically formulated
provisions versus casuistical­ly formulated in this edict are excluded by the recent publica-
tion of the introduction to the decree. See, however, Finkelstein’s study, ‘Ammiùaduqa’s
Edict and the Babylonian “Law Codes”’, JCS 15 (1961), 91–104, especially 100.
6. For the chiastic arrangement, compare §§2 and 3 to §§10–19; §4 to §§5–9; §2 to §§12–
19; and §3 to §§10–11.
7. Finkelstein, ANET, 3rd edn, 528 n. 9.
8. See Finkelstein, ‘Ammiùaduqa’s Edict and the Babylonian “Law Codes”’, 100.
9. Text C 44f.: ša a-na ùe-em-da-at šar-rum(!) / la uá-ta-ar-ru i-ma-at.
10. Text A v 34f.: an-d[u-ra-a]r-šu / [ša]-ki-[i]n, ‘his freedom has been established’; A vi 8f.:
[an]-du-ra-ar-[š]u / [ú-u]l iš-ša-a[k-k]a-an, ‘his freedom shall not be established’.
11. Text A i 13ff.: aš-šum šar-rum [mi-š]a-ra-am / a-na ma-tim iš-ku-nu / tup-pa-šu he-pí,
�
‘because the king has effectuated a mîshārum for the country, his tablet is smas­hed’;
C 54: aš-šum ka-ni-ik-šu uá-wa-uá ka-ni-[ik-šu ih-hepé], ‘since he has altered his docu-
� �
ment, his document shall be smashed’.
12. Kraus, ‘Ein Edikt des Königs Samsu-Iluna von Babylon’, Studies in Honour of Benno
Landsberger (AS 16; Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press, 1965), 225–31 (Museum
of Istanbul Si. 507, from Sippar).
48 Biblical studies and the failure of history

obv. 11–17, and the last, rev. 1–7. It is very interesting to note that both articles
corre­spond almost exactly to stipulations in Ammiùaduqa’s decree: obv. 11–17
to Ammiùaduqa’s §2 and rev. 1–7 to §21. This corre­spon­dence applies to the
actual wording as well as to the order of the wording within the decree. The sim-
ilarity also includes the technical terms andurā­rum and mišarum. Andurārum
is used as an expression for the manumission of slaves (there remains only the
parallel to the nega­tive part of the slave stipulations in Ammiùaduqa’s decree).13
In the parallel to Ammiùaduqa’s edict in §2, we find reference to ‘because the
king has established a mišarum’.14

Mišarum

The two technical terms andurārum and mišarum are extremely impor­tant for the
subject of this study. Nonetheless, we may omit consideration of the references
to ùimdat šarrim, which is supposed to have been the designation of the royal
decree itself as an official proclamation,15 though in the Edict of Ammiùaduqa
it is only used in §5. According to M. de J. Ellis, the use of ùimdatum was not,
however, confined to social decrees, but had a wider juridical appli­cation, since
ùimdatum could also be understood as a designa­tion for a juridical corpus, as,
for instance, in the Code of Hammurabi.16 Thus, ùimdat šarrim is, indeed, used
in other texts to announce a �king’s implementa­tion of provisions purported to
be of the same social purpose as the Edict of Ammiùaduqa; but examples of the
use of ùimdat šarrim in this specific context are not found later than the end of
the first Babylonian Dynasty at the beginning of the sixteenth century bce. The
decrees, themselves, seem nevertheless to have preferred mišarum to ùimdatum,
presumably because of the social ideology inherent in the word mišarum, which
means ‘justice’ (from the verb ešērum). The Edict of Ammiùaduqa also uses
mišarum several times, and the only example of ùimdatum, in §5, certainly does
not refer to the decree itself, but to some other specific royal decision or general
legal custom authorized by the king.17 In using mišarum, the Amorite kings of

13. Si. 507 obv. 6f.: an-du-ra-ar-šu / ú-ul iš-ša-ka-a[n], compare with the Edict of
Ammiùaduqa A vi 8f. (see note 8 above).
14. Si. 507 obv. 13f.: aš-šum LUGAL mi-[ša-ra-am] / iš-ku-nu. This formula is not used in
the Edict of Ammiùaduqa §2, which speaks against the proposal made by Hentschke,
Theolo­gia Viatorum 10, 120, to see a special connection between the use of mišaram
šakānum and the articles in the apodictic style of the decree of Ammiùaduqa (§§3, 4,
12, 15, 16, 19, and 20). On the other hand, it is possible to argue so far as it can be read
from the decree itself that it was necessary for the validity of the decree that the mišaram
šakānum formula be used once in connection with each provision, whether in the general
part or in the more detailed description of its con­tents following later in the edict.
15. For literature to ùimdatum, see: CAD 17, S, 194ff.; B. Landsberger, Symbolae Koschaker
(SD, 2; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1938), 219–34 and recently M. de J. Ellis, ‘úimdatu in the Old
Babylonian Sources’, JCS 24 (1972), 74–82.
16. Ellis, ‘úimdatu’, 82.
17. Ibid, 78. Ellis mentions that it may have been either a written or an unwritten rule.
 Andurārum and Mišarum 49

Babylon established connections dating back via the traditions from Isin, where
an Amorite dynasty had ruled between 2000 and 1800bce, to the Third Dynasty
of Ur (Sumerian), c.2100–2000bce.18
The particular use of the Sumerian term níg.si.sá, which is equiva­lent to
Akkadian mišarum, used to express the pro­mulgation of royal reforms, is first
found in sources concerning Ur-nammu of the Third Dynasty of Ur (2113–2096
bce). Lipit-Ištar of Isin (1934–1924bce) adopted this usage.19 Apart from the doc-
uments of Lipit-Ištar, other references are known dating from the period of the
Dynasty of Isin, which apply to similar occasions (e.g. a year date from the reign
of Irra-Imitti, 1869–1862bce).20 In Babylon, the kings Sumulael, Hammurabi,
� for their
Samsuiluna and Ammiùaduqa made use of mišarum as a designation
acts of reform. At Ešnunna, in the eighteenth century, mišarum was also used.21
Other examples come from the Kingdom of H ana, with its administrati­ve cen-
tre at Terqa, the former provincial capital of� the Kingdom of Mari. This evi-
dence dates from the end of the Old Babylonian period.­22­ Thereafter we have
no evidence of mišarum used in the special sense of royal decree, but only in
a general one, ‘justice’ or ‘equi­ty’, without refer­ence to a specific occasion.
The only exception could have been a Neo-Babylonian dating from the reign
of Neriglassar (559–555bce), the fourth king of the Chaldean dynasty: mi-ša-ri
i-na ma-tim aš-ta-ak-ka-an / ni-ši-ia ra-ap-ša-a-tim i-na šu-ul-mi ar-ta-né-e’-e:
‘I permanently established mišarum for the country (and) I let graze perma-
nently in peace my far-extended people.’23 This re­ference to a mišarum act is
unique in the Neo-Babyloni­an period, and it is hardly more than an expression
of the ‘re­naissance’ tenden­cies which played a prominent part at the time in the

18. Apparently mišarum was not used as a technical term by the Amorite dynasty of Larsa,
c.2025–1760bce.
19. Ur-Nammu: see H. de Genouillac, Textes religieux sumé­riens du Louvre (TCL, vol 15;
Paris: P. Geuthner, 1930), no 12, l.38 (pl. 35), ed. and trans. by G. Castellino, ‘Urnammu:
Three Religious Texts’, ZA 53 (1959), 106–32; see especially 119 and 122. Refer also
to the Codex Ur-Nammu; see S. N. Kramer, ‘Ur-Nammu Law Code’, Orientalia n.s. 23
(1954), 40–51, II. 112–13: [níg.si].sá … mu.ni.gar. Lipit-Ishtar: see Kraus, Edikt, 198
n. 4: mu dli-pí-it-ištar lugal.e níg.si.­sá ki.en.gi ki.uri.a mu.ni.in.gar, ‘the year in which
the king Lipit-Ištar established equality (níg.si.­sá) in Sumer and Akkad’. Refer to Kraus,
Edikt, 198, for other examples from the reign of Lipit-Ištar.
20. Kraus, Edikt, 200 n. 7. Kraus mentions another re­ference to mišarum / níg.si.sá from
Isin; see Ibid, 201 n. 9. He has published this in ‘Nippur und Isin nach alt­babylonischen
Rechtsurkunden’, JCS 3 (1951), 30f. Unfor­tunate­ly, it is not possible to decide precisely
who the king respon­sible for this document was.
21. Kraus, Edikt, 230ff., nos. 49, 50 and 52.
22. Ibid, 232f. The kings of Hana were contemporaries of Hammurabi of Babylon. See, in
� �
reference to Hana, J. R. Kupper in CAH, 3rd edn, vol 2, pt 1 (Cambridge: Cambridge
�
University Press, 1973), 29ff.
23. For text, see C. J. Gadd, Cuneiform Texts, vol. 36 (London, 1921), pl. 19, col. ii: 2, trans.
by S. Langdon, Die neubabylonischen Königsinschriften (VAB, vol 4; Leipzig: J. C.
Hinrichs, 1912), 216; see also C. Bezold, in E. Schraeder (ed.) Historische Texte des
neubabylonischen Reiches (KB, 3/2; Berlin: Reuther, 1892), 78f.
50 Biblical studies and the failure of history

whole Near East. There­fore this is not a reference to an actual reform, but is
a literary cliché taken over from earlier royal inscriptions as is the case of the
greater part of this document of Neriglissar. In addition, the Gtn verbal form
used in the section of the inscription cited also points to the same interpretation
of this document.
From the Middle Babylonian Period, the kings might title themselves šar
mišarim, ‘king of justice’, in the same manner Hammurabi had earlier.24 A king
could also desig­nate himself ‘the one who loves �justice’.25 Moreover, they might
say that mišarum pre­vails in the country and peri­ods might be called šanat
mišarim, ‘year of justice’, etc.26 In the documents from Alalah , we find a ‘month
of justice’, arah mišari, which could perhaps be under­stood� as a reference to
the issuance of �a mišarum act; but, of course, this example is rather ambiguous
since it does not furnish further information.27

24. Thus Nebuchadnezar I (1126–1105bce); see W. J. Hinke, A New Boundary Stone of

Nebuchadnezzar I from Nippur (BERes, vol. 4; Philadelphia, PA: Department of
Archeology, University of Pennsylvania, 1907), 146, col. ii: 22. See also a bi­lingual of
the same king published by F. M. T. de Liagre Böhl, ‘Eine zweisprachige Weihinschrift
Nebukadnezars I’, BiOr 7 (1950), 42–46, obv. 6 (lugal níg.si.sá; the Akkadian paral-
lel is missing). Assurbanipal: I. Kohler and A. Ungnad, Assyrische Rechtsurkunden
(Leipzig: Pfeiffer, 1913), no 15/6:3. Nebuchadnezar II: F. H. Weissbach, Die Inschriften
Nebuchadne­zars II im Wâdî Brîsâ und am Nahr el-Kelb (WVDOG, 5; Leipzig: J.
C. Hinrichs, 1906), pl. 37:26: dNÀ-ku-dúr-ri-ú-su-r[r] LUGAL mi-šá-ri a-na-ku,
‘I, Nebuchadnezar, am the king of justice.’ See also Langdon, Neubabylonische
Königsinschriften, 172. As late as the reign of Antiochus the Great, it was pos­sible
to write as follows: LUGAL-ú-tu mi-šá-ri, ‘kingdom of justice’; see T. G. Pin­ches,
Cuneiform Inscriptions of Western Asia, 5 (London: British Museum, 1884), pl. 66, no.
1:28, translated in F. H. Weissbach, Die Keilinschriften der Achämeniden (VAB, vol. 3;
Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1911, 132, Anhang II).
25. ‘Who loves justice’: thus Sennacherib; see D. D. Lucken­bill, The Annals of Sennacherib
(OIP 2; Chicago, IL: University Press, 1924), 23:4-5, na-sir kit-ti / ra-’i-im mi-šá-ri e-piš
ú-sa-a-ti / a-lik tap-pu-ut a-ki-i, ‘(he) who is the guardian of righteous­ness, who loves
justice, who gives support, who comes to support the cripple’.
26. ‘Justice in the country’: thus a Neo-Babylonian astro­logical text, R. C. Thompson, The
Reports of the Magicians and Astrologers of Niniveh and Babylon (London: Luzac,
1900), no 49, rev. 3: kit-ti u mi-šá-ri ina KUR GAL-ši, ‘there shall be right and justice in
the country’. ‘The year of justice’: see a document dating from the Middle Babylonian
period, H. V. Hil­precht, Old Babylonian Inscriptions Chiefly from Nippur (BERes, vol. 1;
Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania, Department of Archaeology, 1893), pl. 30,
no 31, from the reign of Enlilnadinapli (1104–1101bce). Some Neo-Babylonian evidence
is found in astrological texts; see C. Virolleaud, L’Astrologie chaldéenne (Paris: Librairie
P. Geuthner, 1908–12), Ishtar, no 2:20, mu míg.si.sá kur; see also 1:23: MU NíG.SI.SÁ
ina KUR GÁL.
27. Dating from the reign of Irkabtum (level VII, eighteenth century bce). See D. J. Wiseman,
The Alalakh Tablets (London: British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara, 1953), no.
33:27, [IT]U mi-ša-ri.
 Andurārum and Mišarum 51

Andurārum

We find the term andurārum (Sumerian ama.at.gi4 or ama.gi4) used as a techni-

cal designation in connection with royal acts, having social implications, from
Entemena (c.2450bce) to Esarhaddon (seventh century bce).28 Andurārum – the
root is drr (Arabic darra, ‘to move freely’, etc.)29 with the prefix an – is nor-
mally translated as ‘manumission’.
Until recently the earliest occurrence of ama.ar.gi4 was considered to be
the use of this term as part of the so-called reforms of Urukagina (c.2375bce),
which, among other things, included freedom for the inhabitants of Lagash.
The conclusion of this text runs (in Lambert’s translation): ‘Il fit laver les domi-
ciles des habitant de Lagash de l’usure, de l’accaparement, de la famine, du
vol, des attaques, (et) it fit instituer leur liberté (ama.gi4.bi e.gar). Urukagina
fit sceller par Ningirshu cette déclaration, qu’il ne livrait pas au riche la veuve
et l’orphelin.’30 The precise extent of Uru­kagina’s reforms is not clear to us
and is still much debated.31 Thus, Lambert says that ama.gi4 e.gar here only
implies the annul­ment of taxes. I am rather inclined to think that this designa-
tion includes the whole reform, since another text mentions the reforms in a
general way: ‘[Lorsque Urukagina] eut reçu [la roya]uté de Girsu, il fit instituer
la liberté’ (Lambert’s translation).32 Thus, ama.gi4 e.gar is used of the reform
by Urukagina in which he declares that before his own seizure of power, duties
were imposed upon the inhabitants of Lagash as if they were slaves.
In granting freedom for his people, Urukagina did not, however, act without
precedent. Recently, Lambert has edited a new inscrip­tion preceding by more
than fifty years Urukagina’s reform. In this text, a ruler of Lagash, Entemena,
also boasts of having liberated the inhabitants of Lagash, more explicitly
described as follows: ‘Il fit restituer à la mère son enfant; il fit reástituer à
l’enfant sa mère; il fit instituer la liberté des interèts’ (iii 10–iv 5, Lam­bert’s

28. The most important older inventory of the evidence is E. F. Weidner, ‘Ilushumas Zug
nach Babylonien’, ZA 43 (1936), 114–23. Now it is better to refer to CAD, A/2, 115ff.,
though I am not quite satisfied with the description of an­durārum. I think it is too simpli-
fied. In this connection I should like to draw attention to M. T. Larsen, The Old Assyrian
City-State and Its Colonies (Mesopotamia, vol. 4; Copenhagen: Akademisk Forlag,
1976), 63–80.
29. J. Lewy, ‘The Biblical Institution of Derôr in the Light of Akkadian Documents’, Eretz
Israel 5 (1958), 21, with references.
30. For text, see E. Sollberger, Corpus des inscriptions ‘royales’ présargoniques de Lagash
(Geneva: E. Droz, 1956), 48ff., edited and translated by Lambert, ‘Les ‘réformes’ d’Uru­
kagi­na’, RA 50 (1956), 169–84; see esp. cone B+C, 183. German translation by J. Klíma,
‘Urukagina, der große Reformer in mesopota­mischen Frühgeschichte’, Das Altertum 3
(1957), 72ff.
31. In addition to the titles mentioned in the previous note, we may refer to the reply by I.
M. Diakonoff. to Lambert in ‘Some Remarks on the “Reforms” of Urukagina’, RA 52
(1958), 1–15. See also C. J. Gadd in CAH, 3rd edn, vol. 1, pt. 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1971), 140ff.
32. Transcription and translation by Lambert, ‘Les “refor­mes”’, 182f. (cone A).
52 Biblical studies and the failure of history

translation).33 It is interesting that Entemena also claims to have granted free-

dom to the inhabitants in some cities which evi­dently were dependencies of
Lagash at that time: Uruk, Larsa and Bad-tibira (v 4–6). It is perhaps a literary
use of the term ama.gi4 e.gar which was taken up several times later in histo­ry.
The use of ama.gi4 in the inscriptions of Entemena also confirms the fact that
this technical term in Urukagina’s reform describes a social reform. It is very
instructive that Entemena comments on the issuance of the ama.gi4 with ‘Il fit
restituer à la mère son enfant’, since this is the real sense of the expression
ama.ar.gi4 as already noted by A. Falkenstein.34 Already Entemena’s ins­cription
seems, however, to point to an earlier development in the application of this
term since it is also used in descri­bing cancellation of interest (iv 4–5).35
In the Neo-Sumerian period (Ur III), ama.ar.gi4 was used as a technical term
for the manumission of individuals. Both manu­mis­sion by private persons and
by the palace administration are desig­nated by ama.ar.gi4.36 It is not unlikely that
we have here an original use of this term. A special case is noted by Gurney and
Kramer. Among several fragments of laws belonging, apparently, to the Code of
Ur-Nammu, one fragment mentions the setting free of a particular kind of slave.
This points to the fact that ama.ar.gi4 and its Akkadian equivalent, andurārum,
had a long tradition as part of the legal codes in Mesopotami­a.37
In the prologue to the Code of Lipit-Ištar, mentioned above, Lipit-Ištar of Isin
refers to the promulgation of a social act. This mention includes the following:

Verily, in those [days] I procured … the [fre]edom ([am]a.ar.gi4.­bi …

hé.bí.díb) of the [so]ns and daughters of [Nippur], the [so]ns and daughters
�

33. See Lambert, ‘L’Expansion de Lagash au temps d’Entémé­na’, RSO 47 (1972), 1–22. A
preliminary study of the text was given by the same author in ‘Une inscription nouvelle
d’Enté­ména prince de Lagash’, Revue de Louvre 21 (1971), 231–6; iii 10–iv 5: technical
term: ama.gi4 (lagaški) e.gar.
34. See Falkenstein’s translation, Die neusumerischen Ge­richtsurkunden (Bayerische
Akademie der Wissenschaften. Philosophisch-historische Klasse. Abhandlungen. Neue
Folge Heft), 39, 40 and 44. Veröffentlichungen der Kom­mission zur Erschließung
von Keilschrifttexten, Serie A/2. Stück, 1–3 Teil; Munich: Bayrische Akademie der
Wissenschaften, 1956–7), vol 3, 91: ‘Der zur Mutter zurückkehren’; ama.ar.gi4 =
andurārum; see CAD, A/2, 115.
35. ama.gi4 še.har.ka e.gar; see Lambert, ‘L’Expansion de Lagash’, 6.
�
36. See esp. Falkenstein, Neusumerischem Gerichtsurkunden, vol. 1, 92ff. In this con-
nection, it is important to distinguish between the terms ama.ar.gi4 and šu.bar during
the Ur III period; ama.ar.gi4 seems to be a specialized term for particular occasions of
manumission (from slavery because of debt?), whereas shu.bar (literally ‘to open the
hand’) is a common word for release and manumission in general. The use of shu.bar
is not confined to human beings but includes domestic animals as well as objects. See
examples cited by Sollberger, The Business and Administrative Correspondence under
the Kings of Ur (TCS, vol 1; Locust Valley, NY: J. J. Augustin, 1966); see glossary, 104,
s.v. šu.ba(r).
37. See below referring to the Code of Hammurabi §§117, 171, and 280. The fragments of
�
the Ur-Nammu Code were edited by O. R. Gurney and S. N. Kramer in ‘Two Fragments
of Sumerian Laws’ (AS 16; Chicago, IL, University of Chicago Press, 1965), 13–19; see
esp. 13, §1.
 Andurārum and Mišarum 53

of Ur, the sons and daugh­ters of [I]sin, the [so]ns and daughters of [Sum]er
(and) Akkad upon whom … slaveship … had been imposed ( … nam.arad
[hu.m]u.ni.íb.aka).’38
�
In this case, the direct connection between the use of ama.ar.gi4 and the men-
tion of slavery (nam.arad) is still re­tained, but the word ‘slavery’ is perhaps not
meant literally.39 This means that the pro­logue to the Code of Lipit-Ištar repre-
sents a stage between the use of ama.ar.gi4 as a designation for manu­mis­sion
and the general sense of a decree, issued to render assistance to the poorer part
of the population.
Turning from the Sumerian term ama.ar.gi4 to the Akkadian equivalent,
andurārum, we see that the proper connection between andurārum and manu-
mission is still present in the Hammurabi Code (§§117, 171, 280) and in the
�
Edicts of Samsui­luna and Ammi-úaduqa. In the last case, at any rate, andurāram
šakānum only con­cerns §§20–21 and is not used in a general sense as a designa-
tion for this social decree. However, one example is known and dates from the
reign of Samsuiluna, where andurārum is used rather generally of the promul-
gation of a royal decree in a date formula from year two: ‘The year in which he
established freedom for Sumer and Akkad.’40
On the other hand, Kraus’s no. 47 does fall outside the use of andurārum
hitherto mentioned, since it designates here a local intro­duction of exemptions
from taxes imposed upon the fruit of date palms. Unfortu­nately, it is not possible
to date this document more precisely than the first Babylonian Dynasty.41 We
may also include the so-called andu­rā­rum established by the king of Assyria,
Ilušuma (c.1930bce), as a favour to the Akkadi­ans42 and the decree of Irišum
I (c.1906–1867bce), con­cerning an andurārum applying to silver, gold, cop-
per, tin, etc.43 Among the documents from Mari, one example is known which

38. Thus, Kramer’s translation in ANET 3, 159; the Lipit-Ishtar Code, iii 56–70.
39. See further, É. Szlechter, ‘Le Code de Lipit-Ishtar (II)’, RA 51 (1957), 177–96, especially
178.
40. Kraus, Edikt, 227, no. 36, mu … ama.ar.gi4 ki.en.gi ki.uri in.ni.gar.ra.
41. Ibid., 230, no. 47; for text, see G. Dossin, Lettres de la première dynastie babylonienne
(TCL 17; Paris, 1933), no. 14, translated by E. Ebeling, Altbabylonische Briefe der
Louvre-Sammlung aus Larsa (MAOG, vol. 15, no. 1/2; Leipzig: Harrassowitz, 1942, 16;
(AO 6322), an-du-ra-ar ZÚ.LUM i-na KA.KA.SI.KI-ma / ša-ki-in i-na KÁ.DINGIR.
RA.KI / ú-ul ša-ki-in, ‘freedom for dates is established in KA.KA.SIki, but not estab-
lished in Babylon.’
42. See Weidner, ‘Ilushumas Zug’, pl. 7 (on 120), transcription, 115:49ff. and Kraus, Edikt,
233, no 58, a-du-ra-ar / a-ga-ti / ù ma-ri-šu-nu / aš-ku-un. M. T. Larsen, Old Assyrian
City-State, 78ff., most convincingly refutes the idea of seeing any reference to a ‘politi-
cal’ liberation in Ilushuma’s text (i.e. that Ilushuma conquered Babylonia). Ilushuma
allows the Akkadians to trade freely in Assur.
43. Kraus, Edikt, 233, no. 59; see O. Schroeder, Keilsch­riftexte aus Assur historisches
Inhalts, vol. 2 (WVDOG, vol. 37; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1922), no. 11, ed. and trans. by
Ebeling, B. Meissner and Weidner, Die Inschriften der altassyrischen Könige (AOB,
vol. 1; Leipzig: Quelle and Meyer, 1926), 12, no. 7:20–25.
54 Biblical studies and the failure of history

implies that a loan is not cancelled in case an andurā­rum should be enacted.44

From the Kingdom of H ana, referred to above, four references to andurārum
are known in con­nection� with transactions concerning land.45 In the four docu-
ments from H ana, a fixed formula is included which promises the pur­chaser
� ‘no claim or release’ has been imposed upon the house (or the
of the land that
field).46
In a text dated to the reign of King Ammirabih of H ana, perhaps the last
� � šakā­num seems to
of the kings of H ana known to us (c.1650bce), andurāram
�
correspond to the use of mišaram šakā­num in ana, which I referred to above.47
Thus, the evidence of andurārum dating from the first half of the second mil-
lennium bce shows different usages of the word. First, andurārum is used in
connection with manumission. Here it corresponds to the fundamental meaning
of the Sumer­ian term ama.ar.gi4. Second, by using andurārum, it is possible to
cancel debts and declare land transactions null and void. Third, andurārum is,
in some cases during this period, used generally of royal edicts of various con-
tents. The purpose of the edict may have been either to initiate a social reform
or to cancel various taxes. The interpretation of the scope of andurārum may
also have fluctuated in different places. The inscription of Entemena mentioned
above demonstrates that, as early as the Sumerians, the term ama.ar.gi4 was
used in a way that was not restricted to slavery because of debt or cancellation
of debt, but occasionally seems to have included cancellation of interest. Thus,
it is now impos­sible to decide which among the different usages of andurārum
should be consi­dered the original: manumission or the cancellation of taxes,
interest, etc. The general use of andurārum as a designation for a royal decree
seems, however, to have been rather restric­ted during this period, at least in
Babylonia proper, whereas people outside the central area – in Mari, Alalah,
�
H ana or Assyria – more willingly adopted this usage, though they may have
�
understood the extent of the andurārum differently. In Babylo­nia, the first and
so far unique example of andurārum, used as a designation for a royal decree,
comes from the reign of Samsui­luna (Kraus’s no. 36). Doubtless, this appli-
cation of andurārum is secondary and has its origin not in the usage of the
word in the Old Babylonian period, but in the Sumerian ama.ar.gi4, as used, for

44. ARM 8 33:13f.: KÙ.BABBAR šu-uá an-da-ra-ru-um / li-ša-ki-i[n]-ma ú-ul id-da-ra-ar,

‘this money shall not be released if a liberation should take place.’ This inscription dates
from the reign of Zimrilim (first half of the eighteenth century bce).
45. Lewy, ‘Biblical Institution of Derôr’, 23ff.
46. For text, see F. Thureau-Dangin, Lettres et contrats de l’époque de la première dynastie
babylonienne (TCL, 1; Paris: Paul Geuthner, 1910), no. 237 (AO 2673); transcription
in M. Schorr, Urkunden des altbabylonischen Zivil- und Prozeßrechts (VAB, vol. 5;
Leipzig: J. S. Hinrichs, 1913), 302f.; obv. 14ff.: É na-az-bu-um / ša la-a ba-aq-ri-im / ù
la an-du-ra-ri-im. Lewy’s three other examples replace bîtum by eqlum, ‘field’.
47. Kraus, Edikt, 233, no. 56, published by F. J. Stephens, ‘A Cuneiform Tablet from Dura-
Europas’, RA 34 (1937), 183–90, esp. here 184, rev. 14–16, MU am-mi-ra-bi-ih LUGAL
�
an-du-ra-ra i-na KUR-šu iš-ku-nu, ‘the year in which king Ammirabih established “free-
�
dom” in his country’.
 Andurārum and Mišarum 55

instance, in the inscription of Lipit-Ištar. In these inscriptions the use of ama.

ar.gi4 depended (presumably only in a literary sense) on its connection with
slavery.
Tracing the evidence for the use of andurārum in later times, one first has to
discuss examples from Nuzi. According to currently accepted opinion, šūdūtum
is normally used at Nuzi as the designation for the proclamation of a royal
decree which regu­lated real estate.48 Surely it can be seen from the evidence
offered by the documents from Nuzi that šūdūtum could be used as an exact
equivalent to an­durārum (or perhaps at Nuzi andurārum was also used as a
desig­nation for the šūdūtum acts). Thus, a document reads: ‘The tablet is written
after the šūdūtum, after the andurārum, at Nu­zi.’49 A whole series of documents
from Nuzi belongs to the cate­gory of the ñuppum … šatir agreements, including
the example just cited. These tablets stress in their conclusions the fact that they
were written down after the šūdūtum act (i.e. after the royal proclama­tion).50
One example is found where šūdūtum not only cor­responds to, but is replaced
by, an­durārum.51 Müller understands šūdūtum (= andurārum) at Nuzi as royal
social edicts in line with the Old Baby­lonian mišarum acts.52 Yet, nothing can be
found which definitely proves the šūdūtum and andurārum acts at Nuzi to have
had exactly the same extensive social implications as the Babyloni­an decrees.
First, all ñuppum … šatir stipulations are found in documents referring to real
estate transactions. Second, although šūdūtum does refer to a royal decree,
as can be seen in the following example: ‘The tablet is written after the new
šū­dūtum according to the royal com­mand, at Nuzi’;53 the three ‘official’ docu-
ments to which Müller draws atten­tion are of no significance in this connec­tion.
The first, for instance, is nothing but a so-called decree con­cerning the court and
the harem (Hof- und Haremser­laß) and only affects the slaves of the palace. For
that reason, if this docu­ment is a šūdūtum decree, it is impos­sible to conclude

48. In regard to the evidence from Nuzi/Arrapkha, see Mül­ler, I. H. Klengel (ed.) Beiträge zur
sozialen Struktur des alten Vorderasien: Schriften zur Geschichte und Kultur des alten
Orients, vol. 1 (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1971), 53–60. I have had no access to Müller’s
unpublished dissertation, Die Erlässe und Instruktio­nen aus dem Lande Arrapkha
(Leipzig, 1968). See also, referring to šūdūtum = ‘proclamation’, E. R. Lacheman,
‘The Word šudutu in the Nuzi Tablets’, in Trudy dvadzata pjatogo Mezdunarodnogo
Kongressa Vostokove­dov, vol. 1 (Moscow, 1962), 233–8.
49. R. H. Pfeiffer, The Archive of Shilwateshub Son of the Kings (HSS, vol 9; Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press, 1932), no. 102:30ff., tup-pu i-na EGIR.KI šu-du-ti / i-na
EGIR.KI an-du-ra-ri / i-na URU Nu-zi ša10-ti-ir.
50. The normal formula: ñup-pu i-na EGIR.KI šu-dû-ti (eš-ši) … ša10-ti-ir, ‘the tablet has
been written down after the (new) šūdūtum’.
51. E. Chiera, Texts of Varied Contents, Excavations at Nuzi (HSS vol 5; Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 1929), no 25:23ff., … ñuppu / ina EGIR an-du-ra-ri / i-na
ba-ab a-bu-ul-li / ša URU ma-ti-ha ša10-tir.
�
52. Müller, Beiträge zur sozialen Struktur, 58.
53. SMN 2684:47ff.: tup-pí arki šu-du-ti eš-ši ki-i-me qí-bi-i-ti ša šar-ri … a-na âli Nu-zi
ki

sa-te-er (!) (unpublished, but see Lacheman, Trud, 235).

56 Biblical studies and the failure of history

at this point that the establis­hment of a šūdū­tum at Nuzi depended on the Old
Babylonian decrees.54
Two documents from Nuzi mention the setting free of persons kept as pledg-
es.55 Perhaps these cases concern slaves (of debt?) manu­mit­ted according to
the execution of an andurā­rum/ šū­dūtum act.56 On the other hand, it is cer-
tainly not impos­sible that they owe their new state of ‘freedom’ to a separate
manumission.57
In Western Asia, evidence for andurārum appears in the docu­ments from
the second millennium, but so far only at Alalah and there, exclusively in the
� ), which chronologically cor-
documents from level VII (eighteenth century bce
responds to the Old Baby­lo­nian period in Mesopotamia. Yet, in these cases,
no proof has been found that they were more than separate manumis­sions.
There­fore, they cannot be explained as evidence for the promulga­tion of social
decrees of a more general charac­ter.58
As far as the last mentioned two references to andurā­rum/ šūdūtum at Nuzi
and the evidence from Alalah are concerned, it is not certain that ­manumission
originates in the issuance of �a royal decree of general validity on analogy with

54. R. H. Pfeiffer and E. A. Speiser, One Hundred New Selected Nuzi Texts (AASOR, vol.
16; New Haven, CT: American Schools of Oriental Research under the Jane Dows
Nies Public­­ation Fund, 1936), no 51. The document opens thus: ša-du-du an-nu-ú ša
awelutiMEŠ warad é­kallim­lim, ‘this is the decree concerning the slaves of the palace’. The
other documents to which Müller has drawn attention in this connection are Lacheman,
Miscel­laneous Texts from Nuzi, vol. 2 (HSS, vol. 14; Cambridge MA: Harvard University
Press, 1950), no. 9, and Chiera, Joint Expedition with the Iraq Museum at Nuzi, vol. 2
(Paris: Paul Geuthner, 1930), no. 195. See also A. Saarisalo, New Kirkuk Documents
Relating to Slaves (StOr Fennicae, 5/3; Helsingfors: Societas Orientalis Fennica, 1934),
49.
55. Lacheman, Economic and Social Documents (HSS, 16; Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press, 1958), no. 354:7 and Pfeiffer and Lacheman, Mis­cellaneous Texts from
Nuzi, vol. 1 (HSS, 13; Cambridge, MA; Harvard University Press, 1942), 149:34f. The
first one runs: (names) 5 SAL.MEŠ an-nu-tu4 i-na an-du-ra-ri i-te-lu (names) 8 SAL.
MEŠ an-nu-tu4 mi-du-ú, ‘these five women have been taken away because of a liberation
…; these eight women have died’. The other: i-na-an-na SAL i-na in(!)-du-ra-ri i-te-
e-li(!) ù ša-a-na-am-ma SAL.MEŠ mqa-i-te i-ri-iš-mi, ‘now the woman has been taken
away because of a liberation, and Qaite claims other women’.
56. Thus CAD, A/2, 116.
57. Müller and B. K. Ismail, ‘Einige bemerkenswerte Urkunden aus Tell al-Fakhkhâr zur
altmesopotami­schen Rechts-, Sozial- und Wirtschaftsgeschichte’, WO 9 (1977), 14–34.
They edit two new documents with references to šûdûtum. Both documents were exca-
vated at Tell al-Fakhkhar and belong to the same period and cultural environment as
the Nuzi evidence. The first (IM 70872; ibid, 15f.) concerns the redeeming of a former
freeman, now a slave, and the second (IM 70825; ibid, 26f.) deals with a case of a
pledge. Both documents refer to the fact that the documents were written after the
šūdūtum. Neither document, however, elucidates the actual form of the šūdūtum act and
its implications.
58. See Alalakh Tablets 65:6f., … i-na an-da-ra-ri-im / ú-ul i-na-an-da-ar see also CAD,
D, 109, and refer also to AT 29:9ff., KU.BABBAR ú-ul / us-sa-ab / ú-ul it-ta-ra-ar, and
nos 30:9; 31:9; 38:10; 42:6.
 Andurārum and Mišarum 57

Ammiùaduqa’s decree. I referred above to the fact that an­durārum in the Old
Babylonian period could be used of in­dividu­al manumission. It is applied in just
this manner, for instance, in the Hammurabi Code §117: ‘If a claim has “­caught”
� son, and daugh­ter or has been handed over to
a man, (and) he has sold his wife,
slavery, they shall serve for three years in the house of their purchaser or their
creditor, (but) in the fourth year their freedom shall be established.’59 Other
examples are known which have their origins in the Old Babylo­nian administra-
tion of justice: ‘Nin-šubur-tâjar is Apil-ilišu’s slave. Before Šamaš he set him
free.’60 In this case, as in some others, we find the contribution of the Sumerian
usage of ama.ar.gi4 (i.e. indi­vidual manumis­sions). From the Old Babylonian
period, another example is worth mentio­ning: ‘Ištar-rîti … is a slave of Wedum-
libur and Nin-utu-mu, his wife. Wedum-libur, her master, and Nin-utu-mu, her
mis­tress, set her free.’61
In this study, we must attach more importance to the fact that andurārum
was also used as a term describing royal decrees later than Old Babylonian
times.62 Thus, the Kassite King Kuri­gal­zu II (c.1345–1324bce) prides himself
on the title, ‘the one who estab­lished andurārum for the inhabitants of Babylon’,
though this may only be a literary cliché.63 In Neo-Assyrian times both Sargon
(II) and Esarhaddon boast of their promulgation of andurārum in favour of some
parts of their empire. For instance, Sargon in his great ‘ornamental inscrip­tion’
asserts: ‘I established freedom for Ur, Uruk, Eridu, Larsa, Kullab, Kisik (and)
Nimidlaguda, and their stolen deities I returned to their place.’64 More than once
Esar­haddon men­tions andurārum acts:

59. Col. iii: 54‑67. See also in the same sense §§171 and 280.
60. (From Nippur) mdNIN.ŠUBUR-ta-a-ar / ÍR ma-pil-ì-lí-šu / i-na ma-kha-ar dUTU a-du-
ra-ar-šu iš-ku-nu; C. F. Keiser and J. B. Nies, Historical, Religious and Economic
Texts and Anti­quities (BIN, vol. 2; New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1920), no.
76:4. The text has been translated in P. Koschaker and Ungnad, Hammurabi’s Gesetz, 6
(Leipzig: E. Pfeiffer, 1923), no. 1428.
61. mišdar-ri-i-ti … / gemé we-du-um-li-gar (!) / ù nin.dutu.mu nin.a.ni / mwe-du-um-li-bur
lugal.a.ni ù nin-­ditu.mu nin.a.ni / ama.ar.gi4 .a.ni / in.gar.re.eš, published in M. Çig, H.
Kizilyay, and F. R. Kraus, Altbabylonische Rechtsurkunden aus Nippur (Istanbul: Milli
E�itim Basimevi, 1952), no. 7; see also as the first V. Scheil, ‘Notules’, RA 14 (1917),
139–63, here 151, no. 30. The document has been translated in Koschaker and Ungnad,
Hammurabi’s Gesetz, 6, no. 1427.
62. See esp. Weidner, ‘Ilushumas Zug’, 120ff., with references, and Lewy, ‘Biblical Instit­
ution of Derôr’, 30ff.
63. See A. Boissier, ‘Document cassite’, RA 29 (1932): 96, obv. 13, ša-ki-in an-du-ra-ar ni-ši
KÁ.DINGIR.RA.KI.
64. For text, see H. Winckler, Die Keilschrifttexte Sargons, vol. 2 (Leipzig: E. Pfeiffer,
1889), pl. 35, no. 74: 136f., … pa-nu-uš-šú-un ša ŠEŠ.UNUG.KI UNUG.KI NUN.KI /
UD.UNUG.KI KUL.U­NUG.KI ki-sikKI URUni-mid-dla-gu-da áš-ku-na an-du-ra-ar-šú-un
ù DINGIR.MEŠ-šú-nu šal-lu-ti a-na ma-ha-zi-šú-nu ú-tir-ma, translated in E. Schrader,
�
Sammlung von assyrischen und babylonischen Texten (KB, vol 2; Berlin, 1890), 72, and
in Luckenbill, Ancient Records of Assyria and Babylonia (Chicago, IL: University of
Chicago Press, 1927), 35, §69.
58 Biblical studies and the failure of history

To improve the position of their šubaru much more than before I had in mind
and was my intention. Their tablets of freedom I wrote once more. More than
before, I made them great, important, exalted, and glorifi­ed. From the duties
on grain, on tenancy, on exploits, on the quay, and the passage in my country
I freed them, and I estab­lished their freedom.65

Compare:

Again I established freedom for the subdued Babylonians, for the privileged
per­sons (and) for the released ones of Anum and Enlil. People that have been
sold, who found themselves as slaves who were dis­tributed among the foreign
riffraff I gathered together, I looked upon the as Babylonians, (and) their sto-
len belongings I caused to be returned.66

This dates perhaps from the reign of Assurbanipal. Another andurārum is

referred to in the reports from a high official to the king: ‘The city (Babylon) be
in ruins … I got an order and its andurārum I establis­hed.’67 It must, however,
be stressed that in these Neo-Assyrian official examples, the actual content of
the decree is rather obscure. To some extent, the Neo-Assyri­an kings may have
adopted the old practice of cancelling various duties as in Ilušuma’s inscrip­
tion mentioned above, though still borrowing from the vocabu­lary of the royal
Babylo­nian decrees in the Old Babylonian period.
In Neo-Assyrian private documents, we find some references to andurārum
provisions mentioned as a possibility to be taken into con­sid­eration if an
Assyrian was going to make transac­tions dealing with real estate or slaves. In
some judicial contracts concerning these matters, a passage is included which
declares that the money paid will have to be returned, if the item bought (either
an estate or a slave) must be given up because of an andurārum act. Thus, in a
sales document from Nimrud: ‘If those people leave (their condition of slavery)
in an “amnesty”, Bel-âli will return the money to its owners’ (in Postgate’s

65. See R. Borger, Die Inschriften Asarhaddons Königs von Assyrien (AfO, Beih. 9; Graz:
Im Selbstverlage des Herausgebers, 1956), 3, II:42ff. (III:12f: … an-du-ra-ar-šú-nu /
a-áš-kun); see also J. N. Post­gate, Taxation and Conscription in the Assyrian Empire
(Studia Pohl, Ser. Maior, 3; Rome: Pontificium Institutum Biblicum, 1974), 132, §1.4.1.
66. Thus, Borger, Inscriften Asarhaddons, 25, episode 37:12ff. = VII: 12‑25 (ll. 16‑17:
an-du-ra-ar-šú-nu / eš-šiš a-áš-kun); see also Ibid, 94, ll. 34f. (Sammeltext): ‘[The
Babylonians] … I gathered together / … [to the naked (thus Borger)] I gave clothes
[and] I established their andurārum’: … ki-i iš-ten ú-pa-hir-ma / […u]-lab-biš an-du-
�
ra-ar-šú-nu áš-kun ….
67. R. F. Harper, Assyrian and Babylonian Letters, vol. 7 (London: Luzac, 1902), no. 702,
obv. 9f., from Zakir to Assurbanipal, c.650bce, URU he-pu-ú / [ … ] a-na-ku ul-te-šib u
�
du-ra-aár-šú al-ta-kan. The letter has been trans­cribed and translated in L. Waterman,
Royal Correspondence of the Assyrian Empire, vol. 1 (Ann Arbor, MI: University of
Michigan Press, 1930), 480f. Weidner, ‘Ilushu­mas Zug’, 122, dates this document to the
reign of Esarhaddon.
 Andurārum and Mišarum 59

translation).68 Also: ‘If a durāru is estab­lished Silim-aššur (the creditor) shall

see his money.’69

Conclusion

Besides mišarum and andurārum, several other terms occur which can be
summed up by the conception ‘royal grant of favour’.70 I have chosen to disre-
gard this evidence here, since it does not illuminate the connection between the
Old Babylonian edicts and the biblical laws of the Jubilee and Sabbath Year.
On the other hand, it is very important, when establishing relations between
the biblical evidence and the documents from Western Asia and Mesopotamia,
that only mišarum and andurā­rum are used as loanwords in Hebrew. This much
we may conclude: mišarum was not accepted as a term for the royal social edicts
later than the fall of the First Babylonian Dynasty, whereas the earliest evi-
dence for andurārum with this meaning presu­mably dates back to Samsuiluna,
c.1700bce, and the last known occurrence belongs, it seems, to the reign of
Assurbanipal, c.650bce. Since Hebrew mîšarîm is evidently a loanword from
Akkadian, this borrowing must have taken place several hundred years before
the Israelite immigration into Palestine, if it is to be understood as a desig-
nation of royal edicts in Palestine comparable to, for example, the Edict of
Ammiùaduqa. I think it is not worth the effort, however, to insist on this. It is
another matter with andurā­rum since this word has developed differently as
a desig­nation for royal decrees. The evidence from Nuzi includes the latest
occurrences from the second millennium of andurārum, no doubt referring to
a form of royal decree, the contents of which were to some extent comparable
to the mišarum acts. Thereafter, there is no evidence which conclusively points
to a continuation of a similar practice before the Neo-Assyrian Empire. When
Sargon, Esar­haddon or Assurbanipal, during the later history of this empire,
mention andurārum decrees or decrees including an­durārum provi­sions, they

68. See Postgate, The Governor’s Palace Archive (London: British School of Archaeology
in Iraq, 1973), 230f., no. 248 (ND 487/BM 13001) rev. 13á–16á (in Postgate’s tran-
scription): šúm-mu U[N].MEŠ ša-tu-nu ina du-ra-ri ú-su-ú / mEN.URU kás-pu a-na
EN.MEŠ-šú / ú-ta-a-ra. See also the broken text, cited in ibid., 38, no. 10 (ND 243/IM
56826), obv. 8áff., [šum-m]u LUGAL (!) an-dura-ru / [i]-ša-kan mla-mar-ia-a-nu … (rest
more or less broken).
69. šum-ma du-ra-ru šá-kin ms[i-lim-Aššur] / KU.BABBAR-šú i-da-gal; see C. H. W. Johns,
Assyrian Deeds and Documents, vol 1 (London: George Bell and Sons, 1898), no.
629, rev. 13f., translated in Kohler and Ungnad, Assyrische Rechtsurkunden (Leipzig:
E. Pfeiffer, 1913), no. 146; this document goes back to the reign of Esarhaddon
(c.680bce).
70. Here we may include zakûtum; see Kraus, in Symbolae M. David, 2 (Leiden: E. J. Brill,
1968), 9–40; šubarum, see Böhl, Der babylonische Fürstenspiegel (MAOG, 11, pt. 3;
Leipzig, 1937), 18; and see the note above concerning Sumerian šu.bar during the Ur III
period; awāt šarrim, uššurum, šuddunum, šasūm, see Kraus, Edikt, esp. 45ff. and passim.
60 Biblical studies and the failure of history

may have deliberately chosen to use the old term andurā­rum – perhaps only as
an expression of the ‘re­naissance’ during the seventh and sixth centuries bce.
Turning to the Old Testament evidence, Hebrew derôr is likely to be a loan-
word from Akkadian, since no independent West Semitic tra­dition of andurārum
can be traced and the only examples date from Alalah, from the eighteenth cen-
tury bce. The borrowing may have taken place in the� course of the first half of
the second millennium bce or in the seventh or sixth century bce. It is, however,
methodologically improper to date the borrowing according to the oldest evi­
dence alone, as J. Lewy does. Seemingly, this scholar confuses the principles
of the terminus a quo with the terminus ante quem. The con­clusive argument
in this case must be the terminus ante quem, which, according to the evidence
currently available, is 650bce.
The investigation of the evidence of the Old Testament makes it rather dif-
ficult to imagine that the laws of the Sabbatical Year and the Jubilee Year rely
on an early institution in Israel and Palestine. Everything points to the fact that
these laws depend on social theory which originated late in Israel, but which
also had its background in such very old laws as Exodus 21:2‑6 and 23:10‑11.71
The technical term for the Jubilee Year, derôr, is borrowed from Akkadian in the
Neo-Assyrian period (which may also be the correct explanation of the missing
prefix an- in the Hebrew word). The Edict of Zedekiah bears evidence to this
fact (Jer. 34:8). This is not exceptional, since the Assyrians used andurārum
(durārum) as a desig­nation for royal decrees at the same time as the kingdom of
Judah was a vassal of Assyria, and it was only a few years after the termination
of this period of vassalage that Zedekiah establis­hed his derôr.
Thus, it is wrong in a study of the Babylonian decrees to refer uncritically to
the so-called parallels in the Old Testament. Posi­tively, we can only stress the
ideological resemblance between the Babylonian social decrees and social laws
in the Old Testa­ment. Here we touch on a common characteristic of the ancient
Near Eastern view of the duties of kings.

71. See Chapter 2, this volume; and for the details of Exod. 21:2‑6, see Chapter 1, this
volume.
 4

The Greek ‘amphictyony’: could it be a prototype

for Israelite society in the Period of the Judges?
1976

Several recent studies have tried to invalidate M. Noth’s thesis of an Israelite

amphictyony in the Period of the Judges. However, most of them have ignored
Noth’s treatment of the Greek amphictyonies and their impact upon a supposed
Israelite league of twelve tribes. The purpose of this chapter is to correct this
omission. A closer examination of the Greek amphictyony shows, in the first
place, that there was only one amphictyony, that of Delphi; and, second, that
the technical term was only used at a later date by the Greek and Roman authors
to denote other leagues. After all, the Delphic amphictyony did not come into
existence until the eighth century bce and thus cannot be taken into account for
the study of Israel’s organization in the twelfth or eleventh century bce.
Martin Noth was not the first biblical scholar who pointed to paral­lels out-
side Israel as evidence of the existen­ce of an Israelite system of twelve tribes in
the Period of the Judges. Many years before Noth, Heinrich Ewald had argued
that analo­gies to the Israel­ite system might be found elsewhere.1 It ought to be
easy to find parallels among Israel’s neighbours, but the only references appear
in the Old Testament itself: in Genesis 22:20‑24 (J), twelve eponyms of the
Aramean tribes are listed. In Genesis 25:13‑16 (P), twelve eponyms belonging
to Ismae­lite tribes are given. In Genesis 36:10‑14 (J), twelve Edomite ones are
presented. We may also include the lists mentio­ning the six ‘sons of Ke­tura’ in
Genesis 25:2 (J) and Genesis 36:20‑28 (J) and that enumerat­ing Horite tribes
in the mountains of Se’ir.2 Noth emphasized that there must be some kind of
histori­cal reali­ty behind these lists and he denied that later Is­raelite com­pilers
should have had a special ideological inter­est in emphasizing the number twelve
or the number six in these cases. Ewald already had, however, pointed to the
fact that the material is not confined to the West Semitic cultural sphere. In the

1. H. E. Ewald, Geschichte des Volkes Israel, I. (3rd edn; Göttingen: Dieterichschen

Buchhandlung, 1864), 528ff.; see M. Noth, Das System der zwölf Stämme Israels
(BWANT, IV:I; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1930; 2nd edn, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche
Buchgesellschaft, 1966), 43 n. 1. Ewald’s results are, however, not accepted in detail by
Noth.
2. Gen. 36:20ff. enumerates seven tribes. Noth (System, 44 n. 1) found reason to suppose
that originally only six names were included in the list.
62 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Greco-Roman world, the number twelve also appears as an integral element of

tradition in connection with tribal leagu­es. Noth himself uses Ewald’s proposal
to show that it was in the classical world we find traditions, which might be used
as sources of information about the system of the twelve Israelite tribes.

Noth’s understanding of the Greek amphictyonies

According to Noth, the characteristics of the Greek amphic­tyonies were as fol-

lows: a fixed number of members – in­cluding six or twelve Greek states – chose
a central shrine, which also became the centre of the common ‘amphictyonic’
administration. Here, they came together once a year for a feast with each mem-
ber-state rep­resented by official delegates. The purpose of the amphictyony was
to look after common interests, inter­national laws, and the joint defence of the
central shrine.3
Thus, twelve Greek tribes established an amphictyony, the terminus techni-
cus in Greek for leagues of tribes. In this amphic­tyony, the shrine of Apollo at
Delphi ranked as the foremost centre. Among the other amphictyonies, Noth
mentions the Boeotian League and its centre at Onchestos (though the number
of partici­pants are unknown to us), the Calaurian amphictyony, consisting of
six mem­bers,4 Panio­nion in western Asia Minor, including twelve members,
and Mykale with a membership of six states. In Italy, we also find eviden­ce
of amphictyonies of twelve tribes among the Etruscans, the Bruttii, possibly
the Lucani and finally in Latium.5 There may also have been amphictyonies of
twelve tribes in Illyria.
As mentioned above, Noth stressed that the maintenance of the cult at the
central shrine and the protection of the integrity of the cultic place was a matter
of common interest for the members of the amphictyony. On the other hand, it
is a histor­ical fact that several of the central shrines were there before the estab-
lishment of the am­phic­tyonies around them. It must be stressed, therefore, that
the intention behind the organization of the tribes into an amphictyony was not
to create a new place of worship, common to all. It rather came into existence
as a natural consequence of the political events at the time. Noth’s thesis was
that behind the system of twelve tribes al­luded to in the Old Testament lies an
Israelite amphictyony, including institu­tions and functions which parallel the
Greco-Roman amphic­tyonies.6
According to Noth, some peculiarities attached to the Israelite ‘amphicty-
ony’ may be elucidated through our know­ledge of Greek amphictyonies. Just

3. Noth, System, 47ff.

4. The only source for Calauria, Strabo, mentions as many as seven members. Noth (System,
49–50) recon­structed an earlier list of seven member states, consisting of only six names.
In this, he was able to draw support from Ulrich von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff.
5. In this case, the number twelve depends also on a recon­struction, since the classical
sources all reckon with thirte­en.
6. Noth, System, 59–60.
 The Greek ‘amphictyony’ 63

as in Hellas we find amphictyonies con­sisting of either six or twelve tribes, and

just as the Delphic-Pylaean amphictyony shifted from one reli­gious centre to
another, from the shrine of Demeter in Pylae to the shrine of Apollo at Delphi,
we see an earlier Israelite amphictyony of six tribes converted to a league of
twelve tribes and, in connection with this, a change of reli­gion, when Yahweh
became the God of Israel. This is Noth’s explanation. The Yahwistic amphicty-
ony of twelve tribes was identical with Israel and the word ‘Israel’ meant exactly
that, no more and no less. However, the name of Israel seems to have been used
earlier, as a designation for the previous amphic­tyony con­sisting of the six tribes
of Leah.7 The question of the identity of the god of this previous institution was,
however, left unanswered by Noth.8
In connection with the central shrine, we must suppose, according to the clas-
sical prototype, the existence of an annual feast of wor­ship and the participation
at the feast of delegates from the twelve member-states. ‘Dem griechi­schen
“Hierom­nemon” entspricht das hebräische ‫’נשיא‬, says Noth unhesitating and the
assembly of ‫ נשיאים‬mentioned in the Bible (e.g. in Num. 1:1‑15) actually had its
‘Sitz im Leben’ within the framework of the amphic­tyony.9
There was an ‘Amphiktyonenrecht’ in connection with the central adminis-
tration of the amphictyony. This amphic­tyonic law code in Israel was transmit-
ted through the ‘Book of the Cove­nant,’ Exodus 21–23, or, in any case, through
part of it. Beside the written code, differing from it, but working together with
it, we must presuppose the existence of a common law, consisting of νόμοι
α῎ γραφοι. Both categories of laws were binding for the members of the amphic-
tyony. It is pre­cisely occasioned by a trans­gression of a νόμος α῎ γραφος that we
find the Israelite amphic­tyony coming into play. This was what took place after
the crime in Gibeah, which resulted in a war between the Israelite tribes and
the tribe of Ben­jamin in Judges 19–21.­10 The outrageous injustice done by the
citizens of Gibeah to the concubine of a Levite led to a holy war inflicted upon
the twelfth member of the amphictyony, Benjamin, by the other eleven, because
this tribe made common cause with the city of Gibeah. The holy war was an
amphictyonic institu­tion in Israel just as it was in Hellas.

The Greek amphictyony reconsidered

It goes without saying that it is a severe drawback in the discussion for or

against the existence of an Israelite amphic­tyony that no Old Testament scholar
has undertaken a more precise survey of the material from the Greco-Roman

7. This could be the explanation of ‘Israel’ at Mer-en-Ptah’s ‘Israel-stela’: ANET 3, 376ff.

8. Noth, System, 93. Referring to the theophorical element in Israel, it seems natural to
draw attention to the Canaanite deity El. Very often, El was identified with Yahweh in
the period of the judges and, after that, during the Is­raelite monar­chy. On the other hand,
the meaning of the first part of the name has still not been satisfactorily explained.
9. Ibid., 97. In Num. 1:1‑15, a list of this assembly might have been transmitted.
10. Ibid., 100ff. A transgression of this kind was termed ‫ ;נבלה בישראל‬see, 104–5.
64 Biblical studies and the failure of history

world, drawn on by Martin Noth.11 In this section, I shall try to give a short sum-
mary of what may be said about the Greek amphictyonies as far as it may be of
interest to Old Testament scholarship. I do not, however, claim to be exhausti­ve.
Αμφικτυονία is an often used designation for the sacral leagues between the
Greek states, and differs in its basic structure and purposes from other politi-
cal alliances, termed συμπολιτεία and συμμαχία. According to J. A. O. Larsen,
συμπολιτεία refers to a federal state built up on nominally inde­pendent city
states, and this political system has evolved from a more primitive and more
loosely organized tribal state.12 It is charac­teristic of a federation that all its
members belong to one of the Greek tribes.13 συμμαχία is, as the designation
indicates, an alliance of city states for military purposes. Allian­ces of such a kind
were very often agreed upon for longer peri­ods. As examples of symmachies,
the Pelopon­nesian, Delian League and Second Athenian Leagues might be men-
tioned, as well as the Hellenic League created by Philip II of Macedonia.14
Αμφικτυονία was used for the first time by Demosthenes (fourth century
bce) and, on that occasion, was used as a nomen proprius for the sacral league,
which had as its centre the shrine of Apollo at Delphi.15 The designation for the
individual members, α᾽ μφικτύονες, was, however, used already by Her­odotus
and Pindar (fifth century bce). Herodotus always uses this word to designate a

11. The literature concerning the amphictyonies in Greece is mostly confined to the stud-
ies used by Noth: G. Cauer, ‘Amph­iktyonia’, in Pauly-Wissowa, Realencyclopädie
der classi­schen Altertumswissenschaft, I, 2 (Stuttgart: J. B. Metzler, 1894), 1904–­35,
and G. Busolt, Griechische Staatskunde, 2, 3rd edn (ed. by H. Swoboda, Handbuch
zum Altertumswissenschaft, IV:i:1 (Munich: Beck, 1926), 1280–310. The most recent
critical studies on the question of the amphictyony in Israel do not alter the situation in
general; see G. W. Anderson, ‘Israel: Amphictyony: ‘am: Kāhāl: Edāh’, in Translating
and Understanding the Old Testament. Studies in Honour of H. G. May (Nashville,
TN: Abingdon, 1970), and C. H. J. de Geus, The Tribes of Israel (Assen: Van Gorcum,
1976). In his otherwise ex­cellent study, de Geus follows the views put forward by F. R.
Wüst, ‘Amphiktyo­nie, Eidgen­ossenschaft, Symmachie’, Histo­ria III (1954/5), 129–53.
According to Wüst, the Delphic amphictyony must have been founded in the sixteenth
century bce, and the name α᾽ μφικτυονία, with -υ- must have been the original, going
back to a possible tribal name. Wüst also considers the Delphic amphictyony to be an
organization at first established by a single tribe only. The attitude of the present writer
regarding Noth’s thesis of an Israelite amphictyony in the period of the judges is very
critical. See my book (in Danish) Israel i Dommertiden (Israel in the Period of the
Judges), Tekst og Tolkning 4 (Copenhagen: CEG Gad, 1972).
12. J. A. O. Larsen, Representative Government in Greek and Roman History (Berkeley, CA:
University of California Press 1955), 22–3. Continuity is secured since ε’΄θνος is used as
the designation for the members of both categories of leagues. Another point of view
has been put forward by Ida Calabi, Ricerche sui rapporti tra le poleis (Florence: Nuova
Italia, 1953), 11ff. She does not accept the strict discrimination between the religious and
the political alliances.
13. J. A. O. Larsen has given an excellent survey of the history and institution of this federa-
tion in his Greek Federal States (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968).
14. J. A. O. Larsen uses the term permanent alliances for these leagues. See his discussion
in Representative Govern­ment, 47ff.
15. Demosthenes XI:4; V:19.
 The Greek ‘amphictyony’ 65

member of the Delphian amphictyony; but in Pindar’s odes, it is found together

with περικτίονες, without this reservation.16 Not until a very late period does
α᾽ μφικτυονία come into use to designate other leagues than the Delphic. So,
Strabo (c.64/63bce to 21ce) mentions the Calaurian amphictyony, whose cen-
tral shrine was the temple of Poseidon at Calauria17 and the amphictyony at
Onchestos at the Lake of Copais, which also included a temple of Poseidon as
its centre.18 Pausanias (second century ce) possibly refers to an am­phic­tyony in
Ar­gos.19
Αμφικτυονία is normally considered as deriving from α᾽ μφί and κτίζω and the
meaning of the compound should be ‘dwel­ling around’ (i.e. around the common
shrine).20 It is, however, probable that the designation itself, Αμφικτυονία, was
at first used exclusive­ly to denote the Delphic League and was only secondar-
ily attached to other institutions analogous to the Delphic, but centred around
other shrines. The use of -υ- bears evidence of this. According to the legend,
the founder of the Delphic amphictyony was Αμφικτύων a son of Deucalion,
the Greek hero of the Flood, and his wife Pyrrha. Amphictyon was the ruler of
Thermo­pylae and founded there a league in which the neigh­bouring tribes were
partners. The first cen­tre of the league was the shrine of Demeter at Anthela.
The name of Αμφικτύων may be inter­preted either as a personification of
α᾽ μφικτυονία, in which case the tradition referring to him must be considered
an etymological legend – by far the most reasonable assumption – or we may
discern a ‘historical’ person behind the saga, possibly the heros epony­mos of
a certain tribe, without any etymo­logical connection to α᾽ μφικτίζω. In the latter
case the connection between the amphictyony and Amphiktyon must be con-
sidered secon­dary.21 If the former is correct, there must be a dialectal difference
between them (as implied by the explanation of -υ-).22
Originally the amphictyony had its centre at Thermopylae at the shrine
of Demeter in Anthela; but after the Crisean war (c.590bce), the centre was
moved to Delphi, since the city of Crisa (or Cirrha as some traditions name it)
was ­completely razed and its territory donated to Apollo at Delphi as a sacral

16. Herodotus VI:58, IX:11; Pindar Pyth IV:66, Nem VI:40, Isthm IV:8. See, referring to
περικτίονες, Nem XI:19, Isthm VIII:64, X:8‑9.
17. Strabo VIII:C374.
18. Strabo IX:C412.
19. Pausanias IV:5:2; see Calabi, Ricerche, 20f. Ne­verthe­less, it seems probable that the
passage in Pausanias refers to the Delphic amphictyony.
20. See, accordingly, Calabi, Ricerche, 13, and Liddell and Scott, Greek–English Lexicon
(9th edn; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1925), 92 s.v.
21. See Kleine Pauly Lexikon I, 311.
22. Busolt, Griech. Staatskunde, 1280 n. 1. Busolt is not able to put forward an etymo-
logical explanation of the form including the -υ-. Ernst Meyer proposes to understand
α᾽ μφικτυονία as an Attic (i.e. a literary form) and he calls α᾽ μφικτυονία for the original
but local form (evidently without any attestation in literature, though an example of the
derivation, α᾽ μφικτίονες, is known according to Liddell and Scott, s.v.); see Meyer’s
edition of Pausanias, Beschreibung Griechenlands (Stuttgart: Artemis Verlag,1954), 686
n. 486.
66 Biblical studies and the failure of history

domain.23 Until Roman times, there were twelve members of the amphictyony,
but the identity of the various partici­pants might alter according to political
events. The fact that the members are termed ε’΄θνη is very often enlisted as
proof of the antiquity of the league, since the designation πόλεις for the mem-
bers would have been more natural if the Delphic league had been a compara­
tively recent creation.24 J. A. O. Larsen, in his study on the subject, referred to
above, did draw attention to the use of ε’΄θνη as a designation for the individu­al
members of Greek federal states and also for their prede­ces­sors through most of
the classical period. The members of the Delphic amphictyony, called by their
tribal names (e.g. the Thes­salians, the Boeotians, the Dorians, the Ionians, etc.)
may have been federal states themselves. After his victory at Actium, Augustus
extended the mem­bership of the Delphic amphic­tyony to include Nicopolis,
the city recently founded by him; but, against all the rules, he gave it threefold
representation.
Normally, each member chose two delegates. ’ιερομνήμονες and the twenty-­
four ’ιερομνήμονες formed an assembly together, whose main purposes were to
supervise the sacral area at Delphi and arrange the Pythian games every four
years. On the other hand, we have no information of any ‘amphictyonic legisla-
tion’ admin­istered by the assembly of ’ιερομνήμονες; but one of their functions
was to manage the amphictyonic treasure and, if possible, to act as arbiters
between the member states. Another group of amphic­tyonic officers was the
πυλαγόροι, but no information has survi­ved as to their function. The exact
number of πυλαγόροι is unknown.25 Ιερομνήμονες, together with the πυλαγόροι,
formed the συνέδριον of the amphic­tyony. The duty imparted on the member
states was to protect the integrity of the central shrine and, if neces­sary, make
prepara­tions for retalia­tory measures – that is, holy war against trans­gressors
of the privileges of the shrine. Accordingly, in 356/355bce, the Phocians, the
tribe in whose territory Delphi was situated, seized the shrine by force but were
utterly defeated and, together with the Spar­tans, their allies, were expelled from
the amphic­tyonic as­sem­bly. The Phocian mandate was transferred to King
Philip II of Macedonia, the man who made the total defeat of the Phocians
possible.26 On the other hand, the amphictyony does not seem to have played
any part in the wars between the member states. Moreover, membership in the
Delphic amphictyony did not exclude hostilities between members. Neither was
it expected that the amphictyony should be the chief organizer of the common
defence against foreign invaders, such as, for instance, the Persians. In times of
distress, the shrine of Apollo was first of all the oracles to which people resorted
for comfort.

23. Strabo IX:C418; Pausanias C:37:5. This is the First Holy War.
24. Nobody thinks that the league should be more recent than the eighth century bce, and the
date for the foundation is normally fixed to the early eighth century bce.
25. See Busolt, Griech. Staatskunde, 1307.
26. Busolt, Griech. Staatskunde, 1296; see Diodorus Siculus XVI:60; Demosthenes
XIX:65.66.123.275.325; XVIII 36.42; Aeschines II:9; III:80.
 The Greek ‘amphictyony’ 67

Twice a year the assembly of ’ιερομνήμονες came together because of the

amphictyonic feasts, in the spring at Anthela and in the autumn at Delphi.27
As to the other amphictyonies, we know little more than their names and,
in most cases, the number of members. Nothing is known about the amphicty-
ony at Onchestos; but, in the case of Calauria, we are a little better off. In this
amphictyony, there were seven mem­bers, six of which lay around the Saronian
and the Argive bays, whereas the seventh, Orchomenos, was a city in Boeotia.
All the members of the Calaurian amphictyony were city-states (in contradis-
tinction to the Delphic amphictyo­ny).28 Some have tried to find evidence for yet
another amphictyony for which Corinth served as the centre, but no substantial
evidence seems to confirm this supposition.29
Noth referred, in Das System, to an amphictyony con­sisting of twelve tribes
in Western Asia Minor, the Πανιώνιον, a league of twelve Ionian cities on the
coast of Asia Minor, for which the temple of Poseidon at Cap Mykale served as
the central shrine.30 J. A. O. Larsen dismisses this inter­pretation of the Panionion
as an amphictyony. But he does argue that it was a loosely organized federal
state which had emerged from an original Ionian kingdom in Western Asia
Minor.31 The number twelve is perhaps not original in the case of Panionion.
According to a tradition mentioned by Vitru­vius, a Roman author from the time
of Augustus, the thirteenth member, Μελίτη (or Μέλιη), where the first central
shrine had been located, was annihilated and expelled from membership.32
In the case of the Dorian Pentapolis, we have a different situation, since only
five cities were participants. It was situated south of Panionion and its most
important shrine was the temple of Apollo at Cape Triopion. Original­ly that
league had six members, but one of them, Halicarnassus, had been expelled and
no substitute was elected.33
Among the Aeolians in the north-western part of Asia Minor a league of
eleven city states had come into existence; but a former twelfth member,
Smyrna, had shifted from the Aeolian sphere of influence to the Ionian. It is
a special feature of these leagues on the west coast of Asia Minor that when a
vacancy arose – whatever the reason – it was never filled, even if an application
for membership should be put forward by another city (as, for instance, Smyrna
to Panionion after Melite had been expelled).34

27. Strabo IX:C420.

28. Calauria is identical to a tiny island outside the port of Troizen, Pogon. See a reference
to Calauria in T. Kelly, ‘The Calaurian Amphictyony’, American Journal of Archaeology
70 (1966), 113–21. According to Kelly, the earliest possible date for the establishment of
the temple at Calauria is c.680bce.
29. Because of Pindar Nem VI:40–42; but see Isthm III:26; see also Cauer, in Pauly-Wissowa,
Realencyclopädie, 1906, and Calabi, Ricerche, 17.
30. System, 49f. See also Calabi, Ricerche, 26ff. Sources: first of all, Herodotus I:141–
3.148.170; VI:7.
31. Representative Government, 27ff.
32. Vitruvius IV:i:4; see also Busolt, Griech. Staatskun­de, 1282f.
33. Herodotus I:144.
34. Herodotus I:145.
68 Biblical studies and the failure of history

The Etruscan league of duodecim populi that encompassed the shrine of

Voltumna at Volsinii seems proved by referen­ces in Livy’s works.35 However,
Calabi may be correct in asser­ting that the account of this alliance of city-states
and also of the league between Rome and Latium, in which there were thirteen
partici­pants, was influenced by the famili­arity of Roman authors with the his-
tory and the insti­tutions of the Delphic–Pylaean amphictyony.36

Conclusion

Discussion among biblical scholars for or against the possibility of an Israelite

‘amphictyony’ in the Period of the Judges would un­doubted­ly gain by a more
precise defini­tion of the word α᾽ μφικτυονία in the classical world. I have tried,
in this chapter, to pave the way for a better under­standing of the so-called paral-
lels in Greece to the structure of Is­raelite society in the Period of the Judges.
The material for the leagues in Greece shows first of all that it is hardly pos-
sible to date the foundation of any amphic­tyony earlier than the eighth century
bce. Second, it must be stressed that the earliest reliable evidence for the term
α᾽ μφικτυονία appears rather late, in the fourth century bce, when it was used as
a proper name for the Delphic–Pylaean league. Not till Roman times did the use
of the term seem to have been extended to include other leagues, the organiza-
tion of which does not have to be absolutely related to the Delphic amphictyony,
except that they were characterized by having a sanctuary as their centre. The
third point which should be stressed – and until now the only point often drawn
into the discus­sion – is the fact that the number of participants alters from league
to league. Even if six or twelve members seem normal, it is not a conditio sine
qua non for a sacral league in the Greco-Roman world.
For these reasons, it is immaterial whether there is a word in Hebrew which
may be considered an adequate trans­lation of the Greek α᾽ μφικτυονία.37 It is
much more impor­tant that we make it clear that α᾽ μφικτυονία in Greek first of
all refers to the unique feature of the sacral league, cantered around the shrine
of Apollo at Delphi. However, we also have to take into consideration that even
that league did not come into existen­ce until several hundred years after the
conclusion of the Period of the Judges in Palesti­ne.38

35. Livy I:8.

36. Calabi, Ricerche, 22ff. On the alliances between Rome and Latium, see Diogenes from
Halicarnassus IV:25:3‑5; 26:1‑4; see also Livy I:45.
37. See Anderson in Translating and Understanding the OT, 135ff.
38. An attempt to see an amphictyony in the Philistine Pentapolis, as has been proposed by
B. D. Rahtjen, ‘Philistine and Hebrew Amphictyonies,’ JNES 24 (1965), 100–104, must
be rejected. First of all, the chronological difficulties are not eliminated by Rahtjen.
Second, Rahtjen seems to confuse the categories. The Philistine Pentapolis might be
termed a συμπολιτεία or maybe a συμμαχία, but hardly an α᾽ μφικτυονία.
 5

The chronology in the story of the Flood

1980

One of the most obvious starting points to a literary-critical analysis of sources

of the story of the Flood is chronology. The first point to stress is, of course, the
discrepancy between the information in Genesis 7:12 that the Flood prevailed
for 40 days, and 7:24, which says that the waters increased over the land for
150 days. The classic literary critics saw here a proof of the existence of two
completely different chron­ological systems and they wrote that these systems
had been combined by the redactor in order to obtain one coherent chronology.
This chapter seeks to present a new hypothesis as to the number of chrono-
logical systems preserved in the Flood story: not two but three dif­ferent chro-
nologies. But before I turn to the thesis I must briefly deal with the traditional
descrip­tion of the chronological systems of J and P respectively.

The chronological system of J

The fragmentary state of the J sections in Genesis 6–8 is well known and needs
no comment here. Below I shall mention some consequ­ences of the defective-
ness of the J version.
The dates in the fragments of J are:

• Genesis 7:4: seven-day interval to the coming of the Flood.

• Genesis 7:4: forty days as the duration of the Flood.
• Genesis 8:10: seven days from the first sending out of the dove to the
second.
• Genesis 8:12: seven-day interval between the second and the third
sending.

The fragments of J give a total of merely 61 days for the whole story.
Some scholars claim, however, that because J is only partially preserved,
the original chronology of J included a span of time much longer than that
indicated by the fragments left to us. Let me quote, for example, E. Nielsen,
who suggests a total other than the 61 days pre­served in J in Genesis 6:8.1 He

1. E. Nielsen, Oral Tradition (SBT 11; London: SCM, 1954), 93ff.

70 Biblical studies and the failure of history

suggests an original chronological system in an inde­pendent J tradition, accord-

ing to which the Flood spanned no less than 148 days. His argument is based on
an observation by U. Cassuto that the original J version must have included a
section dealing with the construction of the ark after Yahweh had disclosed the
coming of the Flood to Noah.2 Evidence of such a period (absent in J) is the date
in Genesis 7:11 – namely, 17.2.600: Noah’s 600th year, mentioned as the day
the Flood started. The date is exactly 47 days after Noah’s birth­day on 1.1.600.
The J date in Gen 7.4 accounts for seven days, but still forty days remain.
Cassuto, followed by Nielsen, argues that this was the period occupied by Noah
in construc­ting the ark. This is not impossible since almost every known Flood
story from this period includes a section dealing with the construction of the
saving ‘instrument’ – ark, ship, etc. An interval of forty days is also in general
accordance with the dates still in the J fragments: either periods of seven days
or forty days (Gen. 7:4; 8:10, 12).
We get another forty days, if the date in Genesis 8:6 is not just a repetition
of the information in Genesis 7:12 that the flood lasted for forty days. If this is
not the case, then the forty days in Genesis 8:6 refer to the interval after the rain
stopped (Gen. 8:2b) until the opening of the trap door.
Finally, Nielsen (with others) argues that we find evi­dence of another period
of seven days not included in the extant parts of J. Traces of this period are to be
seen in Genesis 8:10: ‘He [Noah] waited another seven days ….’ This ‘another’
(‘ôd), in connection with the interval between the first sending out of the dove
and the second, points to an analogous period between the opening of the trap
door and the sending of the dove the first time.3
The reconstructed J chronology now has a total of 148 days: after Noah
has been informed of the imminent coming of the flood, the follow­ing periods
occur:

• forty days for constructing the ark;

• seven days to the coming of the flood;
• forty days as the duration of the rain;
• forty days to the opening of the trap door;
• seven days from the opening of the trap door to the first sending of the
dove;
• seven days from the first to the second sending;
• seven days from the second to the third sending and Noah leaving the ark;
• the flood comes to an end.

2. Cf. U. Cassuto, La questione della Genesi (Florence: F. Le Monnier, 1934), 351 n. 2.

Cassuto, of course, is denying that more than one author is present in the story of the
Flood. Cf. also E. Nielsen, Oral Tradition, 97ff.
3. Nielsen, Oral Tradition, 100. Cf. also C. Westermann, Genesis (BKAT 1/1; Neukirchen:
Neukirchener Verlag, 1974), 596ff.
 The chronology in the story of the Flood 71

The chronological system of P

• Genesis 7:6: Noah is 600 years old.

• Genesis 7:11: the flood starts (7.2.600).
• Genesis 7:24: the waters increase (150 days).
• Genesis 8:4: the ark is grounded (17.7.600).
• Genesis 8:5: the tops of the mountains appear (1.10.600).
• Genesis 8:13: the flood ends, the earth is dry (1.1.601).
• Genesis 8:14: the earth is dry (27.2.601).

This system apparently presents a totally different chro­nol­ogy than that pre-
served in J. Only one period of time is expressly mentioned, in 7:24, according
to which the flood lasted not 40 days but also a rise of water that alone lasted
for as much as 150 days.4 Otherwise, P emphasizes the importance of placing
the individual events in the story on fixed dates of the year.

Attempts at a solution

Most scholars agree that we have two different chronological systems combined
by a redactor, who has tried – we suppose – to minimize the differences between
J and P without much success.5
Only a few favour another view of the chronological systems, includ­ing
Nielsen in his Oral Tradition. Nielsen tries to demon­strate the inner coherence
of all the dates preserved in Genesis 6–8. His starting point is the chronological
system of P, which, according to him, is not really a coherent system since it falls
apart in places. Evidence of this is the seeming lack of correspondence between
17.2.600 and 27.2.601. The explanation offered is that during the transmis­sion
of the text, a shift from a reckoning in lunar years to a reckoning in solar years
had taken place. This implies that the chronology of P was adjusted accord­ing to
the new reckoning in solar years. If so, Nielsen argues, then the interval between
17.2.600 and 17.7.600 described in Genesis 7:24 as a period of 150 days is, in
fact, according to the reckoning in lunar months, only 147 days (or, to be exact,
147.5 days, a lunar month being only 29.5 days). The 150 days must therefore
be understood as a round number, as proposed by Gunkel.6

4. Gen. 7:17 (in the style of P), claiming the Flood to have lasted only forty days, is a gloss
trying to harmonize the dif­ference between the chronologies of J and P. Cf. also We­ster­
mann, Genesis, 588, following J. Skinner, ICC (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1910), 165.
5. I have no intention of reviewing the various theses on the chronological system in the
Flood story. Nobody has achie­ved a coherent review and for very good reasons, since
most of the debate has been highly speculative and, strictly speaking, not very useful.
A list of relevant (and irrelevant) literature is given by Westermann, Genesis, 580–81,
and a short summary of some of the various theses may be found in S. McEvenue, The
Narrati­ve Style of the Priestly Writer (AnBi, 50; Rome: Pontefical Biblical Institute,
1971), 54ff.
6. H. Gunkel, Genesis (HCAT, 4. Aufl.; Göttingen, Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1917), 147.
72 Biblical studies and the failure of history

As to E. Nielsen’s argument, I must say that I doubt whether we are entitled

to be so certain of a shift in time reckoning from a lunar year to a solar year as
the reason for the variation of Genesis 8:14. The normal calculation suggests
that the span from 17.2.600 to 27.2.601, according to the reckoning of a lunar
­calendar, is only 354 days. If we now count according to the solar year (i.e. a
year of 365 days), then we have to add the difference, eleven days, to the date
17.2.600, and thus we find 27.2.601 as the last day in the story of the Flood.
However, why should it have been necessary to alter the date in the text? The
interval between 17.2.600 and 27.2.601 in a solar year is not 365 days but 376
days according to the Hebrew manner of reckoning; so the date 17.2.601 is, in
fact, more likely to have been used in solar year reckoning.
Turning Nielsen’s argument upside down, I would like to propose that the
original P was based on a reckoning in solar years. The final day originally given
as 17.2.601 would not be 365 days after the 17.2.600, once a shift from solar
year to lunar year had taken place, but only 354 days. Therefore, the difference
between the lunar and the solar year, eleven days, was added to 17.2.601, which
takes us to 27.2.601. The addition was made in order to preserve the span of
time by disregard­ing fixed dates!
Hence, the 150 days mentioned in Genesis 7:24 as the duration of the increase
of the waters are understood as five solar months each consisting of 30 days
(disregarding the differences between the individual months),7 and thus there is
no dis­cre­pan­cy between the 150 days and the dates 17.2.600 and 17.7.600 pro-
viding that 17.7.600 is both the turning point and the day the ark was grounded
on Mount Ararat, as maintained by Gunkel.8 Nielsen used his calculation as a
basis for his thesis that the chronological system of P is not to be isolated, but
can only be understood in connection with the dates in J. In fact, the P system
has been constructed with the J dates in mind.
The second part of Nielsen’s argument is based on his introduc­tion of the
idea of so-called anticipatory da­tes.9 He thus bridges the obvious discrepancy
between Genesis 7:24 (P), which states that the waters increased for 150 days,
and 8:2b, accor­ding to which the rain stopped after only 40 days. He evident­ly
does not want us to believe that the Semites think that 2 + 2 = 5; but he argues
that the 150 days are not calculations for the increase of the waters, but an
anticipatory date indica­ting the whole duration of the flood.
Another anticipatory date, Nielsen argues, turns up in Genesis 8:14:
27.2.601.10 This date stands apart from the narra­tive itself. The following sec-
tion dealing with sacrifice and promise is connected, not with 27.2.601, but
with the date in Genesis 8:13 as 1.1.601, the New Year’s Day. This suggestion,
however, does not really explain the interrelation between the dates in Genesis

7. The reason for the rather schematic time-reckoning of P is likely to be that the chronol-
ogy of P did not represent any cultic reality, but was only a theological construction. As
to the cultic dependence of J, see below.
8. Gunkel, Genesis, 145.
9. Nielsen, Oral Tradition, 99.
10. Ibid.
 The chronology in the story of the Flood 73

8:13 and 8:14; nor does it offer any reason why two sentences saying very much
the same thing could be allowed to stand.
The rest of Nielsen’s argument is more traditional in its methods.11 He makes
calculations on the period from the moment the mountains appear above the
waters, 1.10.600, to the date of the sending out of the dove the third time and
on the period going back from the 17.2.600 to the day of the appearance of God
to Noah:

1. From 1.10.600 to 1.12.600: sixty days:

(a) a period of forty days to the opening of the trap door;
(b) three intervals of seven days each between the opening of the trap
door and the individual sen­ding of the doves.
2. From 17.2.600 back to 1.1.600: forty-seven days:
(a) seven days respite, according to Genesis 7:4;
(b) forty days in which Noah builds the ark (J recon­structed).

Ultimately, he argues, it is possible to place all dates in the course of one year
presupposing that 1.1.600 is both Noah’s birthday and New Year’s Day. Then we
have to believe that the Flood story presup­poses that the old calendar, accord-
ing to which the New Year commenced in autumn, was still in use.12 Thus, the
Flood begins in the month of Decem­ber and lasts for the rest of that month and
also covers the whole of January (i.e. the two months receiving the heaviest
precipita­tion in Palestine).
Nielsen’s conclusions are threefold:

1. The author of the story of the Flood, Genesis 6–8, has tried to fit it into a
defini­te chronological scheme.
2. If this author is P, it appears that P was never an independent written
source, at least in the Flood narrative, since the coherence between J and
P demonstrates that the P dates cannot fully be under­stood except in cor-
relation with J dates.
3. P is not a tradi­tional redac­tor, but is virtually writing a new narrative.

I do not, however, find this solution satisfactory. First of all, and contrary to
his opinion, the P dates may be understood without recourse to the dates in
J, since they are not contra­dictory apart from the J dates as argued by Niel­
sen; I refer to his argument for an interval of 150 days between 17.2.600 and
17.7.600. Second, the cal­cula­tion from 1.10.600 to 1.12.600 is irrelevant, since
the last date is neither mentioned nor alluded to in the narrative; it is a scholarly
invention. Finally, I must stress that Nielsen does not recon­cile the difficulties
presen­ted by the conflicting dates in Genesis 8:13 (1.1.601) and 8:14 (27.2.601).
His supposition of an anticipatory date is gratuitous even though it might make

11. Ibid., 100.

12. Ibid., 101.
74 Biblical studies and the failure of history

sense when dealing with the differences between Genesis 7:24 (150 days) and
7:4 (40 days). Both dates, 1.1.601 and 27.2.601, are in P. No serious scholar
has ever disputed this. We therefore have to find another explanation for the
discrepancy.

A new solution: three chronological systems

Two different methods of dating are used in the story of the Flood, one of which
uses precise dates and the other periods of time. The first of these shows some
inconsistency since there seems to be two kinds of dates:

• 1.10.600 and 1.1.601; and

• 17.2.600, 28.2.601, duplicating 1.1.601.

The fundamental point is whether P would want to retain both dates in Genesis
8:13‑14. What kind of redactional principle lies behind the juxtaposition of
those dates?13
The solution must, in fact, reintroduce one of the main con­clusions of literary
criticism: that the story of the Flood is compiled by a redactor on the basis of
two inde­pendent written sources. In this context, we have to forget the ques-
tion of oral tradition. The kind of dating preserved in the story, e­specially in
P, clearly indicates written sources as the form of transmission. The redactor
worked in the style of P, which has made it difficult to demonstrate con­vincingly
which part of the story belongs to P and which belongs to the redactor. We may
provisionally designate the redactor as RJP. I find the presen­ce of this redactor
evident because of Genesis 8:13‑14, where both verses are written in the style
of P. Furthermore, the correla­tion between the dates 27.2.601 and 17.2.600 is
clearly presup­posed in Genesis 8:14. Yet, another date is dependent on 17.2.­600
– namely, 17.7.600, which is the result of a simple cal­culation: 17.2.600 + 150
days = 17.7.600. An inner coherence between 17.2.600, 17.7.600 and 27.2.601
seems obvious, but this alone does not indicate whether the three dates in ques-
tion owe their existen­ce to P or to RJP.

13. No scholar has ever succeeded in bringing forward a reasonable explana­tion of this
obvious duplicate. The nearest is perhaps Westermann, Genesis, 603–4, who argues that
the two dates duplicate each other. Accor­ding to We­stermann, the many, highly specula-
tive comments on these two verses owe their existence to the fact that the two verses
have been secondarily joined. Isolated from each other, they say exactly the same. The
two dates, claims We­stermann, depend on different layers in the school of P. However,
thereafter Westermann’s remarks on this problem leave us in the dark. How the normal
explanation works may be seen, for example, from a modern translation such as the New
English Bible: ‘And so it came about that, on the first month of his six hundred and first
year, the waters had dried up on the earth … the surface of the ground was dry. By the
twenty-seventh day of the second month the whole [sic!] earth was dry.’ This is simply
not a correct translation, but a crassly harmonizing interpretation.
 The chronology in the story of the Flood 75

What, then, is the reason for the strange date for the commencement of the
Flood: 17.2.600? One strand in the P material points to 1.1.601 as the last day
in the story. Accordingly, we would expect to find 1.1.600 as the starting point:
in fact, we have 17.2.600. In this case, the solution is obviously nearly the same
as that proposed by Cassuto. 17.2.600 de­pends on other dates in the story, one
preserved, one not. The one pre­served is the seven days of respite, Genesis 7:4;
the one lost is the forty days during which Noah constructed the ark: all in all,
forty-seven days. As mentioned above, both dates clearly belong to the J tradi-
tion and the conclusion must be that the date in P-style, 17.2.600 (Gen. 7:11),
is dependent on the presence of the J tradition (as pointed out by Nielsen). The
second conclusion is that all three dates, 17.2.600, 17.7.600 and 27.2.601, are
dependent on the presence of J (i.e. they all presuppose the joining of J and P).
Or, expressed otherwise, the three dates are the results of putting together J and
P and they represent the chronological system or framework of RJP.
As a control of this hypothesis, I point to the fact that we have dates in the
Flood story which do not presuppose the union of J and P (i.e. 1.10.600 and
1.1.601)! It is impossible to deduce 1.10.600 from the other dates in the rest
of the narrative. Instead of 1.10.600 (Gen. 8:5), we should, by analogy with
Genesis 8:4, expect 17.10.600. This date, however, is not present in the narra-
tive. To understand its absence we must refer again to the case of 17.2.600 and
17.7.600. 17.2.600 is dependent on the chronological system of J, now only
partially preserved. This means 17.7.600 owes its presence to 17.2.600, or rather
to the mention in Genesis 7:24 of the 150 days as the period in which the waters
increased. No infor­mation is given regarding the period between the groun­ding
of the ark and the appearance of the tops of the moun­tains except the fixed dates
of 17.7.600 and 1.10.600. No neces­sary connection exists which forces the date
1.10.600. There­fore, the redactor did not need to deal with such an interval. He
retained the date 1.10.600 because it was already in his source material.
We have three dates, therefore, which owe their existence to the union of
J and P: 17.2.600, 17.7.600 and 27.2.601. Inde­pendently, there is a third sys-
tem present in which the Flood ends on 1.1.601, after the moun­tains appeared
on 1.10.600. We have dealt with the preservation of the date in Genesis 8:5,
1.10.600, and now turn our attention to Genesis 8:13. The date 1.1.601 is obvi-
ously a variant of the one in Genesis 8:14 and is not connected in any way to
J’s chronology. We saw that the reason for keeping 1.10.600 was the redactor’s
intention of including the dates in his source material. I think the same reason-
ing is responsible for the presence of 1.1.601. The redactor preferred to keep
the information already in P. On the other hand, he tried (without real success)
to reconcile the intention of the chronological system of P with the J material.
In maintaining this, I draw attention to the fact that the flood takes place in one
year according to the present framing of the story, starting on 17.2.600 and com-
ing to an end on 27.2.601. This frame owes its existence to RJP. Alternatively,
we have another date for the last event in the story – namely, 1.1.601. That R
evidently wrote in the traditional style of P indicates that we should expect the
P Flood story also to have lasted one year. Since it comes to an end at 1.1.601,
it presumably started on 1.1.600, not on 17.2.600. Perhaps we must admit that
76 Biblical studies and the failure of history

the date 1.1.600 is missing altogether. If so, this date was not in the P source,
since the redactor does in­clude the other dates from his source, even when they
contra­dict his own system. There is, however, another possibility of finding the
missing date elsewhere in the narrative. I am hinting at the statement in Genesis
7:6: ‘He (Noah) was six hundred years old, when the waters of the flood came
upon the earth’ (P). The meaning could, of course, be simply that the Flood
started on a certain day during the 600th year of Noah’s life. However, this is
not likely. It is more reasonable to consider the date in Genesis 7:6 as suggesting
that the Flood started in 1.1.600. The chronological system of the P source may
therefore be recon­structed as follows:

• (1.1.600.) Noah is 600 years old. He is told to enter the ark. The Flood
starts.
• 150 days. The waters increase.
• (1.6.600.) The ark is grounded (this date might not have been present in
P, since it is not preserved).
• 1.10.600. The tops of the mountains appear.
• 1.1.601. The Flood ends, etc.

This reconstruction of the dating system of P differs funda­mentally from any

reconstruction of the J chrono­logy, whether it follows a minimum or a maxi-
mum estimate. The implication is that when RJP decided to include the Flood
narrative from his various sources in the primeval story, he made a deliberate
attempt to advance the fixed dates of P in the year. By doing so, he lost congru-
ity with the calendar year, but maintained a chronological period of the same
duration. The reconstruction of RJP may be described thus:

(1.1.600) – [47 days (from J)] – 17.2.600 – [150 days (from P)] –
17.7.60014 – (1.10.600 [from P] – 1.1.601 [from P]) – 27.2.601.15

This solution may also have implications for our under­standing of the chrono-
logical system in J. If we go back forty-seven days from 17.2.600, we reach
(in J) not the birth of Noah in year 600, but the cultic New Year (placed, with
Nielsen, in the autumn). Beginning with the New Year, the Flood events unfold
over the next 148 days, including – unlike P – the con­struction of the ark and
a period of seven days thereafter. It is impossible to stretch the dura­tion of the
Flood according to J in order to cover the period until the next New Year, but it
is more likely, as indicated by Nielsen.

14. As P (1.6.600?) + the difference of 47 days taken from J.

15. I.e. the date of P. 1.1.601 + the difference from J of 47 days + the 11 days added as a
result of the shift in reckoning the year.
 6

‘Hebrew’ as a national name for Israel

1979

In an article a few years ago I tried to place the first law of the ‘Book of the
Covenant’ (Exod. 21:2ff.) in a cultural and sociological setting, belonging to
the second half of the second millennium bce.1 The argument in that article
depended on the assumption that the sociological designation Hab/piru, known
�
from Near Eastern sources, is etymologically identical with Hebrew ‫עברי‬. This
assumption has often been contested on the basis of philological considerations
by a number of scholars (‘-p-,’ not ‘-b-’), most recently E. Lipińsky in a response
to my article. However, the arguments do not carry enough weight to alter the
fact that the evidence now favours the reading of the word as habiru, equally
with hapiru.2 I will therefore maintain the reading habiru and� strive to offer
� � most likely explanation
an adequate etymology for the term ‫עברי‬/habiru. The
�
rests, of course, on an association with ‫עבר‬, meaning ‘to transgress’ (a border or
the like). The etymology thus suits the modern view of the habiru as referring
� ­environ­mental
to fugitives, as proposed by, among others, M. Liverani.3 The
­setting of the law on the Hebrew slave, Exodus 21:2ff., is further­ suppor­ted
by the connection with the term ‫חפשי‬/hupšu. There is no doubt that ‫חפשי‬/hupšu
� group in Western Asia during the� Late
was a designation for a specific social

1. See Chapter 1 of this volume. This was followed up by two other articles, reprinted as
Chapters 2–3 of this volume.
2. Cf. E. Lipińsky, ‘L‘Esclave Hébreu’, VT 26 (1976), 120–23. Lipińsky seems to have
passed too lightly over my notes in VT 25, 138 [n. 41], referring to the argument of
Bottéro, in RLA IV, 14–27, especially §3, 22–3, in which he argues that the rendering
of the second syllable by -BI- is from an Assyriological point of view by far the most
probable. The identification of habiru and Hebrew is now also supported by H. Cazelles,
�
‘The Hebrews’, in D. J. Wiseman, Peoples of Old Testament Times (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1973), 1–28 [21ff.].
3. This implies, of course, that any consideration of a connotation with ‫‘ עפר‬dust’, as has
been recently repeated by M. C. Astour, in IDB supplemental vol (1976), 384, must
be ruled out. It will hardly be necessary to resort to any other equivalent, such as the
Hurrian ewri, epri or ibri (thus, Cazelles, in Wiseman, 19; cf. also J. Lewy, ‘Origin and
�
Signification of the Biblical Term “He­brew”‘, HUCA 28, 1957, 1–13, 8ff.). For habiru as
�
fugiti­ves, cf. M. Liverani, ‘Il fuoruscitismo in Siria nella Tarda età del Bronzo’, Rivista
Storica Italiana 77 (1965), 315–36, but cf. also the discussion in J. Bottéro, Le problème
des habiru (RAI IV; Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1954), 191ff.
�
78 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Bronze Age.4 The interesting point is that legislation, most likely originating
in the Canaanite world, has been adopted by the Old Testament and, as pre­
served in Exodus 21:2ff., in a nearly unchanged form. Similarly, we have clear
evidence that this law was accepted by the Israelite tradition during the seventh
or sixth century bce at the latest, since the law in Exodus 21:2ff. is cited and
has been interpreted elsewhere in the Old Testament, in Deu­teronomy 15 and
Jeremiah 34.5 The same law also most likely supports the law dealing with the
Jubilee Year in Leviticus 25,6 though it is noteworthy that in Leviticus 25 the
term ‘Hebrew’ is absent. We may ask whether the reason for this omission was
that ‘Hebrew’ was still not a generally accepted national self-designa­tion for the
Is­raelites at the time of the priest­ly redactor. If this is the case, we may assume
that the term ‘Hebrew’ is only mentioned in Deuteronomy 15 and Jeremiah 34,
because these passages quote Exodus 21:2ff. and not because the term had come
into widespread use as a national name by the time of King Zedeki­ah.
This preliminary treatment of the use of ‘Hebrew’ in the Old Testa­ment goes
to show that we are obliged to find other means if we are to define when and how
‘Hebrew’ became an Israelite national name in a more precise manner, if it is at
all possible to do so on the basis of the Old Testament material.

Habiru: A social term

�
There is no reason to continue probing the question of whether habiru is a socio-
� actual ­meaning
logical designation or not.7 It is clearly such a designation, but its
in Palestine during the Late Bronze Age is still much debated. In Western Asia,
habiru designated a para-social group on the border of the normal social system
�– if such people were allowed to live at all within the context of an estab­lished
society. They have often been understood as ‘outlaws’ by modern scholars, but

4. Cf. VT 25, 139ff. The criticism put forward by T. Willi, Die Freiheit Israels. Philologi­sche
Notizen zu den Wurzeln þpš, ’zb und drr, in Beiträge zur alttestament­lichen Theologie,
Festschrift W. Zimmerli (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1977), 531–46, 534 n.
13, surprises me a little. Willi’s argument is that my understanding of hupšu/þofšî ‘setzt
�
eine kaum zuläs­sige Gegenstellung israelitischer sozialer Verhält­nisse mit demjeni­gen
mesopotamischen Stadtstaaten [!] voraus …’. I am some­what confused as to Willi’s con-
ception of Mesopotamia since most of my evidence belongs to the Cana’anite/Amorite
world (primarily Ugarit, Alalah and El Amarna letters).
�
5. See Lemche, VT 26, 43ff., 51ff.
6. Ibid., 46ff.
7. See especially Bottéro, in RLA IV, 23ff. Further sources are mentioned in my article
in VT 25, primarily on 138–9. Apart from Bottéro’s contribution to the RLA, the best
general treatment of the problem may still be that of M. Weippert, Die Landnahme
der israelitischen Stämme (FRLANT 92; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1967),
66–102. Some interesting points of view have also been put forward by M. Rowton in
his series of articles on the subject of nomadism in the ancient Near East, especially:
‘The Topographical Factor in the abiru Problem’, AS 16 (1965), 375–87; ‘Dimorphic
Structure and the Problem of the ‘Apiru-‘Ibrîm’, JNES 35 (1976), 13–20; but also
‘Dimorphic Struc­ture and the Parasocial Element’, JNES 36 (1977), 181–98.
 ‘Hebrew’ as a national name for Israel 79

this is perhaps not precise, as they are at times under the sway of the law within
a state, not outside it.8 The designation ‘fugitive’ may be more correct since it
covers habiru, who live within the society, as well as habiru living as outlaws,
beyond�the control of the establishment. If we accept the� trans­lation ‘refugee’ as
the one which most satis­factorily describes the concept of habiru, it also points
� (i.e. an alien in the
to the fact that a habiru normally was of foreign extraction
�
state where he had found a place). Because of that status, his juridical posi-
tion differed from that of normal residents in the state in question.9 The law in
Exodus 21:2ff. may be an example of a method used by the Canaanite city-states
to reintegrate the foreign habiru within the social system of the state and thus
give them a better juridi­cal� position.10 When a habiru was manumitted from the
status of slave into the status of hupšu, he had� to some extent a better defined
� opened up a way to full integration within
place in society which may have
the society. I have argued elsewhere for under­standing hupšu/‫ חפשי‬as origi-
� the translation of
nally meaning ‘clients’.11 This does not imply, however, that
Hebrew ‫ חפשי‬with ‘free’, in other parts of the Old Testament other than Exodus
21:2ff., need be incorrect. There is much to be said in favour of the assertion that
during the first part of the first millennium bce the word had a more imprecise
meaning, since, after all, the specific social condi­tions of the Late Bronze Age
no longer existed.12
Turning again to the Near Eastern sources from the second millennium,
when Rib-Adda complains bitterly of the deception of his hupšu in his reports
to Egypt, there is implied, according to my interpretation,� a strike among the

8. Among others, Weippert, Landnahme, 62. As to habiru living under the law, we may
�
refer to texts from Alalah, Ugarit, Boghazköy and, especially, the contracts from Nuzi
�
(Bottéro, habiru, no. 49ff.).
�
9. See Liverani, ‘Il fuoruscitismo’, 317. Cf. also M. Heltzer, ‘Problems of the Social
History of Syria in the Late Bronze Age’, in Liverani, La Siria nel Tardo Bronzo (Rome:
Centro per le Antichità e la Storia dell’Arte del Vicino Oriente, 1969), 31–46, 34. Lewy,
in HUCA 27, 8ff., argues that the term denotes an alien – more specifically, a resident
alien. This is a far too narrow definition since, in many occurrences, the habiru was not
�
just a resident, but living outside the state territory, and a rendering like Lewy’s does not
pay due attention to the ideogrammatical rendering of the term as SA(G).GAZ and its
connotation with šaggašum, ‘murderer’, and habbātum, ‘rob­ber’.
�
10. This was my argument in VT 25, 129ff.
11. Ibid., 139ff., with documentation.
12. So far, I follow T. Willi in that þofšî at first denoted a special status of the ex-slave, but
I see no reason to accept the thesis that this term should have its ‘Sitz im Leben’ in the
‘Obligationsrechts’!, a theory which is not supported by the Old Testament evidence. It
is hardly necessary to presume any financial reason as the primary motive of the Hebrew,
who sold himself as a slave. More likely, it was prompted by a wish to obtain social
security. However, later on, þofšî evidently lost some of its original meaning, as may be
seen from the rather ‘neutral’ examples in, for example, Job 3:19; 39:5; Ps. 88:6 and Jes.
58:6. As already pointed out in my article in VT 26, 45, it was not a perfect situation for
a slave to be set free, if he was not provided with the means of self-support in connection
with such manumission. Amendments to this situation, which also testify to the later
neutral understanding of þofšî as ‘free’, are provided by the application of Exod. 21:2ff.
in Deut. 15:13, 18.
80 Biblical studies and the failure of history

c­ lients of the state who are in charge of the tillage of the public estates or, more
precisely, such clients had now decided to return to their former life as habiru.13
Because of this deception, the state and kingdom in casu Byblos are now � faced
with disaster. The propa­ganda offensive, which the kings of Amurru directed
against the habiru (including the members of this social group in Rib-Adda’s
�
own state), gives us a fairly good impression of the general conditions in Byblos
during the Amarna period.14 The habiru are seduced by the clarion call from
�
the kings of Amurru to run away again, and these kings also direct their activ-
ity against the former habiru, now called hupšu, whose status as clients to the
� persuaded to abandon
�
King of Byblos they are and, thus, revert to their former
position as habiru. It is possible to speak of a social revolt in Byblos against the
� although the revolutionary party was not yet an integrated part
local dynasty,
of society.
In accord with this, we now need to deal with current dis­cussions of the
supposed transition from a system of city-states during the Late Bronze Age in
Palestine to another quite different social pattern emerg­ing at the very beginning
of the Iron Age (i.e. the origin of Israel and, more specifi­cally, the role of habiru
�
in this process). It is well known that supporters of the so-called sociological
explana­tion of Israel’s settle­ment in Palestine assume that the process described
in the Old Testament was, in fact, an internal process, as an immigration of a
group originating outside Palestine lead to a radical transformation of the soci-
ety within Palestine.15 According to Mendenhall and other scho­lars, there might
have been only a single group from outsi­de the land, a ‘Moses group’. This
group, neverthe­less, was the foundation of the later Israelite understanding of
the nation’s origin.16 What actually happened during the ‘Israelite settlement’,
Mendenhall will explain, is an internal social revolt directed against oppression
in the city states in Palestine during the Late Bronze Age. The subdued peasants,
according to Mendenhall the habiru/Hebrews, reacted to oppression and created
a new kind of society, Israel, �which had as its basic ideology the ideas of liberty,
equality and fraternity, quite dif­ferent from the Canaanite states.17

13. EA 77, 36–7 (the context is rather broken); 81, 33 (if you accept Knudtzon’s reconstruc-
tion); 118, 23–4 (broken); 118, 37–8; 125, 27–8; but cf. also 85, 12 (LU.MEŠ hu-up-
�
ši-ja); 112, 12; 114, 57; 117, 90; 130, 42.
14. Cf. further M. Liverani, ‘Implicazioni sociali nella politica di Abdi-Ashirta di Amurru’,
RSO 60 (1965), 267–77, and P. Artzi, ‘“Vox Populi” in the El-Amarna Tablets’, RA 58
(1964), 159–66; cf. also H. Klengel, Geschichte Syriens im 2. Jahrtausend v.u.Z., II
(Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1969), 253ff., 276ff.
15. As originally put forward by G. E. Mendenhall, ‘The Hebrew Conquest of Palestine’,
BA 25 (1962), 66–87; cf. also BARe III (1970) 100–20; cf. also the same author’s The
Tenth Generation (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973), especially
ch. 5: ‘The ‘apiru Movements in the Late Bronze Age’, 122–41, and the lecture of N. K.
Gottwald in Edinburgh 1974, ‘Domain Assumptions and Societal Models in the Study
of Premonarchic Israel’, VT supplement 28 (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1975), 89–100.
16. BA 25, 73f.
17. BA 25, 79ff. The Tenth Generation, 127ff. As to the revolt as the peasants’ revolt, see BA
25, 73.
 ‘Hebrew’ as a national name for Israel 81

This is not the right place to deal with Mendenhall’s thesis in detail, but
I would like to stress some points. The idea of a peasant’s revolt, within the
context of the city-states of the Late Bronze Age, is highly questionable and evi-
dence of it can only be found in a few instances related to the development of the
society in the central highlands of Palestine.18 First and foremost a superficial
reading of the sources from the Late Bronze (i.e. the Amarna letters) and Early
Iron Ages or, better, the sources which deal with that period – namely, the Old
Testament’s historical books (including the books from Joshua to 2 Samuel) –
demonstrates that the same general system of city-states existed in the Iron Age
as in the Late Bronze Age and, by and large, the same social structures survived
in those city-states during the Iron Age.
Normally, these city-states were still ruled by kings, evidently supported by
an oligarchy consisting of well-to-do merchants and landow­ners.19 In Palestine
proper, some of the city-states which existed during the Iron Age came into
the hands of a new element of the population, without doubt the newly arrived
Sea Peoples, among whom the Philistines surely played a leading role. They
brought with them a new material culture, which is clearly discernible from an
archaeological point of view.20 In the beginning, the domain of the Sea Peoples
in Palestine seems to have been confined to the coastal plain, south of Mount
Carmel, but, during the so-called period of the judges, they established strong-
holds north of Mount Carmel and eastwards in Beth-Shean and the Jordan Valley.
In the end, they also tried to gain control of the central Palestinian ­highlands.21

18. Around Shechem, as referred to in ìR-Hepa’s letters from Jerusalem, EA 289, 21ff. But
�
this example of habiru movements may also be understood quite ordinarily as a descrip-
�
tion of para-social elements strangling a city, or of a city crumpling under the pressure
of para-social elements.
19. This holds good for the general situation on the plain. In the mountains, the situation
may have altered to some degree due to the establishment of an Israelite confederation.
Even in this part of Palestine, however, city-states known from the el-Amarna letters
continued their existence. First of all, of course, Jerusalem, which was only conquered
by David, but even Shechem during this period as it is reflected by Judges 9’s Abimelek
story, may be considered a Canaanite city-state ruled by a king. On the plain, many city-
states, as, for example, Lachish and Eglon (Josh. 10:5), seem to have been in existence
around 1200bce, as reflected by the Book of Joshua, though leaders are summed up in
v. 6 as ‘all the Amorite kings in the Mountains’ (‫)כל מלכי האמרי ישבו ההר‬. We may also
mention Gezer (Josh. 10:33) and, in regard to the situation in the North, we may refer
to Joshua 11: Hazor, even though the narrative in Josh. 10–11 is considered rather late
and consisting of various independent traditions, put together at a rather late date (cf. M.
Noth, Joshua, 60–61). Nevertheless, it shows that it was common knowledge among the
Israelites that the Canaanites were organized in a system of city-states ruled by kings.
20. I am, of course, hinting at the so-called Philistine pottery, even if this designation is
imprecise; cf. N. K. Sandars, The Sea Peoples (London: Thames and Hudson, 1978),
166ff.
21. For example, the general view, as put forward by M. Noth, Geschichte Israels (2nd edn;
Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1955), 150–51. This may be supported by the
fact that not much Philistine pottery has been found (as, e.g., at Beth-Shan). What is
actually found there is very late; see Sandars, The Sea Peoples, 172.
82 Biblical studies and the failure of history

This process has, of course, nothing to do with a sociological ­evolution or

revolu­tion as understood by Mendenhall and others. On the other hand, there
seems to be some reason, on the basis of the evidence in the Amarna letters
and Old Testament, to assume that groups of habiru in the central highlands, or
parts of it, established a new society: a kind �of tribal society called Israel. We
should not look for the reason for this tribal society in sociological conditions,
but rather in their topographical environ­ment.22 There is, however, no evidence
indicating a habiru domination of the plains.
What was� the origin of these habiru? What kind of people were they? If we
retain the definition of ‘fugitives’� or ‘refugees’ (as proposed above), it is logical
to assume that many of them were, in fact, people who had run away from the
city-states, including the cities on the plains to the west and north of the central
highlands. As has often been pointed out, this could also be the explanation
for the continuity in the cultural revolution during the transition from the Late
Bronze Age (if we leave out of account some sort of material decline).23 On the

22. In the mountains, topological conditions allowed the estab­lishment of only a few city-
states such as Jerusalem and Shechem. Even a small town must have at least some addi­
tional agricultural land to survive. In central Palestine, the mountains are interspersed
with several small valleys but only in a few instances does the terrain leave enough space
for bigger cities to grow up, as in the case of Shechem. The topological factor, on the
other hand, does not allow for larger city-states because of difficulties in communication.
We rather need to assume the existence of a territory known as habiru land around the
�
city-states in the mountains, but outside their control. So even if a city-state may claim
a large territory, in reality, it has control only over a part of it. The first entity to create a
large, coherent state in the central mountains was Israel, since it was not a city-state but
a ‘national state’, which differentiation G. Buccellati has done a lot to elucidate (Cities
and Nations of Ancient Syria; Studi Semitici 26; Rome: Istituto di Studi del Vicino
Oriente, 1967). Some of the most informative recent contribu­tions to under­standing the
importance of the topological factor have come from M. Rowton, in AS 16 (1965),
375ff., but cf. also ‘The Woodlands of Ancient Western Asia’, JNES 26 (1967), 261–77,
and ‘The Physical Environment and the Problem of the Nomads’, in J.-R. Kupper (ed.)
La Civilisation de Mari (RAI, 15; Paris: Société d’édition Les Belles lettres, 1967),
109–21. How the process of amalgamation of the different habiru elements into tribes
�
may have taken place can be illustrated by examples cited in Rowton, JNES 36, 183ff. It
is also very inter­esting to compare this with the rise of the medieval Arabic tribe Mawali,
cf. Rowton, JNES 36, 194.
23. The most recent summary of evidence may be by J. Maxwell Miller, in Hayes and Miller,
Israelite and Judaean History (London: SCM, 1977), 252–62. Cf. also K. M. Kenyon,
Archaeology in the Holy Land (3rd edn; London: Thomas Nelson, 1970), 209. She points
to the fact that a change in material culture occurs at the transition from LB I to LB
II rather than later in the shift from LB to EI; but, even so, it is still the same culture,
showing merely a ‘marked deterioration’. Cf. also R. Amiran, Ancient Pottery of the
Holy Land (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1969), 191f. She refers to the
fact that ‘from MB I onwards, the development of the material culture … is continuous,
gradual, and evolutionary until the end of the Iron Age or even later’, even as she also
points to a shift in fabrication techniques during the Early Iron Age and the formation
of a new ‘set of ceramic Ideas’ which she ascribes to the appearance of Israelites in
Palestine, but which might just as well be attributed to an evolutio­nary process of new
 ‘Hebrew’ as a national name for Israel 83

other hand, it is of no real conse­quence in this context whether the establish-

ment of the tribal system in the highland had as its back­ground a Mosaic or a
Yahwistic movement. It is, however, important to keep in mind that the system
had only a very limited extension and that it did not imply a fundamen­tal social
revolution in the rest of Palestine.24 The habiru/­He­brews gained control over the
city states on the plains only during the�reigns of David and Solomon.25
The conclusion to this section must therefore run along the following lines:
the Amarna letters tell us that gangs of habiru were very active in the area,
� known as Israel, a territory extend-
which, during the period of the judges, was
ing from modern Jenin in the north to Ramallah in the south (with possibly a
northern offshoot in the highlands of the northern Galilee).26 Some scholars
may stress the fact that the Amarna let­ters describe Shechem as a (the?) centre
of activity of the habiru, though this could be due to mere coincidence since the
� after all, limited, whereas Shechem also played an impor­tant
source material is,
role, according to the Old Testament, as a centre of the tribes in the mountains
– specifically, in the life of the tribes of Ephraim and Manas­seh.27 The Old
Testament, however, clearly demonstrates that the inhabitants of the mountains
described themselves as Israelites, not Hebrews (in every case, that is, where
tribal names were not used). We may now ask whether they also used the des-
ignation ‘Hebrew’ as a national name. An answer to this question can only be
found in the Old Testament.

Hebrew in the Old Testament

It is an extraordinary fact that the use of the term Hebrew in the Old Testament,
except for a few instances, is confined to a fraction of literary compositions. It
is not widespread in the historical sections in the Old Testament. We must deal
with the exceptions. The first is Genesis 14:13. Here Abraham is titled ‫העברי‬.
We may assume that the term is used here with a national significance, but the
section as a whole is undoubtedly very late, post-exilic and inappli­cable as a
source of historical information about conditions during the second millennium
bce.28 The second exception is Jonah 1:9. Here the prophet calls himself an ‫עברי‬.

techniques.
24. It was, of course, not an ‘amphictyony’, in the sense of M. Noth, as recent criticism
has clearly demonstrated. See, among others, A. D. H. Mayes, Israel in the Period of
the Judges (SBT SS, 29; London: SCM, 1974), and in Hayes and Miller, Israelite and
Judaean Histo­ry, 299–308. I have tried to demonstrate the impossi­bility of using the
Greek amphictyony as a prototype in Chapter 4, this volume.
25. As demonstrated by the inclusion of the Canaanite city-territories in Solomon’s admin-
istrative division of his king­dom in 1 Kings 4.
26. To cite only the references which doubtlessly deal with the situation in the mountains:
EA 246; 254; 272; 286–90.
27. We need only refer to the study of E. Nielsen, Shechem (Copenhagen: CEG Gad, 1955).
28. Cf. the recent review of the older discussion of the historicity and date of Gen. 14 by J. A.
Emerton, ‘Some False Clues in the Study of Genesis XIV’, VT 21 (1971), 403–39. Cf.
84 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Again, this bears a national meaning; but, once more, the evidence belongs to
the post-exilic period.29
I have already dealt with the first body of pre-exilic eviden­ce in Exodus
21:2ff., the law concerning the question of Hebrew slaves and the citations
from that law in Deuteronomy 15 and Jeremiah 34. In the first place, the term
Hebrew is used as a sociological designation and, in the other examples, the
word is dependent on Exodus 21:2ff. It is not, therefore, possible (on the basis
of these examples) to date a shift in the under­standing of the term Hebrew.
Finally, three groups of occur­ren­ces are discernible in the historical books of
the Old Testament. The first group belongs to the Joseph Story,30 the second to
the so-called ‘Paschal Le­gend’ of Exodus 1–1531 and the third is confined to the
first Book of Samuel.32

also the treatment of this chapter by T. L. Thompson, The Historicity of the Patriarchal
Narratives (BZAW 133; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1974), 187–95. and J. Van Seters,
Abraham in History and Tradi­tion (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1975),
196–308, both of whom consider the chapter a very late addition to the patriarchal nar-
ratives. C. We­stermann in his Die Verheißungen an die Väter (FRLANT 116; Göttingen:
Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1976), 60, points to an affinity to the proto-history, Gen.
1–11, rather than to the rest of the patriarchal narratives. Lewy, in HUCA 28 (1957),
6–7, seems to use Gen. 14:13 as a point of depar­ture or as the origin to the later Jewish
under­standing of ‘Hebrew’ because of the LXX translation: ο῾ περάτης. This holds true
as regards the main manuscripts, though some late Greek minuscles vary, but they are of
no consequence here. This indicates that even in the Hellenis­tic period it was not obvi-
ous that the term Hebrew was not an ethnic name, but an appellative noun. This opens
up the possibility of under­standing the term ‘Hebrew’ in Gen. 14:13 in line with other
occurrences, denoting ‘foreig­ners’. Abraham may have been called thus, because he was
a fugitive from Mesopotamia, foreign to the people of the land. We should not, however,
stress this point too far.
29. Jonah 1:9 ‫ ואנכי עברי‬is the only example in the Old Testament, where an Israelite (or
Judaean) calls himself a ‘Hebrew’. Even in this case, there is a hint of the ancient under-
standing of Hebrew as ‘fugitive’, since Jonah may declare himself a refugee from his
own country in accord with the fic­titious setting of the scene. Otherwise, K. Koch, ‘Die
Hebräer von Auszug aus Ägypten bis zum Großreich Davids’, VT 19 (1969), 37–81,
43–44. Koch thinks that Hebrew is used in Jonah 1:9 as a remi­niscence of the old
Philistine designation of the Israelite population in the mountains, as testified in the first
book of Samuel. However, he stretches the continuity in usage a bit too far when he sup-
poses that the sailors from Jaffa were Philisti­nes by descent and that the old tradition from
the great old days of the Philistine sway over most of Palestine was still alive. We must
note, however, that there is simply not enough evidence in the Old Testament to support
his thesis. To draw any conclusion on the basis of such scanty material is, at best, rash.
30. Gen. 39:14, 17; 40:15; 41:12; 43:32.
31. Exod. 1:15, 19; 2:7, 13; 3:18; 5:3; 7:16; 9:1, 13; 10:3. Cf. also Exod. 2:6.
32. 1 Sam 4.6, 9; 13.3, 7(?), 19; 14.11, 21; 29.3. An additional example is found in 1 Chron.
24:27, but as a personal name. This occurrence is of no use in this argument. The use
of the personification ‫ עבר‬for ‫( עברי‬as used in the genealogies of Genesis 10:21, 25,
normally ascribed to J; but cf. also Num. 24:24, evidently a ‘Zusatz’ to the Bileam texts)
is treated by Koch, in VT 19, especially in regard to Gen. 10:21, 71ff. However, these
genealogies should be let out of consideration from the start, since they cannot be taken
as evidence for real knowledge of the origin of the Semitic peoples, but only as expres-
 ‘Hebrew’ as a national name for Israel 85

It is striking that ‘He­brew’ in the Joseph Story is never used by the Israelites
as a description of themselves, either of a group characterized as the sons of
Jacob or of individual persons such as Joseph. Egyptians describe Joseph as a
Hebrew three times. In Genesis 39:14, 17, Potip­har’s wife applies the designa-
tion to Joseph, implying a clearly derogatory understanding of the term: a person
so base as a Hebrew has dared violate her. In Genesis 41:12, Pharaoh’s cupbearer
calls Joseph a ‫נער עברי‬. On the basis of these examples, we cannot decide with
any certainty whether Hebrew is used in a national (i.e. ethnic) or sociological
sense. If the three examples are isolated as single occurren­ces and placed in the
fictitious setting of the Joseph Story (i.e. Egypt) during the middle part of the
second millen­nium bce, there is no doubt that Hebrew is under­stood as a social
designation. The same argument is valid when we deal with the other examples
in the Joseph story. In Genesis 40:15, Joseph, who does not declare himself
a Hebrew, describes how he was kidnapped from the country of the Hebrews
‫ =( מארץ העברים‬Palestine, from an Egyptian perspective). Therefore, the com-
pound ‫ ארץ העברים‬is used only in a geo­graphical sense. It is not to be considered
a national name, but it may be a description of the area in question as a more or
less lawless territory, compared to Egypt.33 Finally, in Genesis 43:32, the reason
for Joseph’s reluctance to communicate on more friendly terms with his family
is presented in a general way as the normal Egyptian disapproval of intercourse
with Hebrews at table. The application of Hebrew in this context could be ethnic
as well as sociologi­cal, but it primarily speaks to Egyptian xenopho­bia.

sions of rather late compilers’ reflections on the problem of the relationship between
various Semitic peoples of only limited historical value. Altogether, the use of the name
‫ עברי‬in the Old Testament is not a clue to understan­ding ‫ עברי‬but, vice versa, the evolu-
tion of the concept ‫ עברי‬may be answerable for the introduction of the personification
‫ עברי‬and, for that reason, the best we can do is exclude the personification ‫ עברי‬from the
discus­sion.
33. Accordingly, it is possible to compare the use of ‫ ארץ־העברים‬in Gen. 40:15 with refer-
ences to habiru territories in the second millennium, even though evidence is scanty; cf.
�
Bottéro, habiru, no. 161 (RS 17238): … eqli (LÚ) SA.GAZ (il) šamši …. Cf. to this H.
�
Schmökel, Geschichte des alten Vorderasien (HO; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1957), 232–34,
and to the problem of the identification of the habiru territories Rowton, AS 16, 382ff.
�
Another view of Gen. 40:15 has been put forward by D. B. Redford, ‘The “Land of the
Hebrews” in Gen. XL 15’, VT 15 (1965), 529–32; see also the same author, The Biblical
Story of Joseph (VT supplement 20; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1970), 201ff. He compares Gen.
40:15 with very late Egyptian evidence (a demotic papyrus in Vienna), quoting the term
‘ybr’ to mean ‘(the land of the) He­brews’. Therefore, ‫ ארץ־העברים‬is simply an anachro-
nistic insertion into the context. Koch (VT 19, 51–2) uses the reference brought to light
by Redford without considering that this is, in fact, a very late first millennium datum,
which is hardly allowable to use as evidence for anything in the late second millennium.
This is a striking example of the type of histori­cal argu­mentation which mars Koch’s
otherwise excellent article, but which, on the other hand, demonstrates the difficul­ties
of equating biblical data with ancient Near Eastern documents. Evidently the ebr land
in the Egyptian text can only be used in support of a late dating of the Joseph Story, or
this part of it, not of an early date, and so far Redford’s own application of the datum is
correct from a methodologi­cal point of view.
86 Biblical studies and the failure of history

It seems that it is not possible, on the basis of the five occurrences of the
term Hebrew in the Joseph Story, to point to a single use which can definitely be
termed ‘national’. It is similarly very characteristic that the designation is only
used in the case of a confrontation with Joseph or the other sons of Jacob with
the Egyptians in order to describe these people from the Egyptians’ perspective
or as the name by which they are known to the Egyptians. It is interesting that
it is possible to reach a provi­sional conclusion of this kind without recourse to a
discussion on the subject of dating the Joseph Story or of establishing a division
of sources within the story. If we were to suppose that the fictitious setting of the
Joseph Story in the middle of the second millennium bce was correct, the appli-
cation of the term ‘Hebrew’ does not differ much from the use of habiru/‘pr.w
�
in ‘contemporary’ Egyptian sour­ces.34 If it is, however, more reasonable to date
the story to the time of David or Solomon,35 or even later (e.g. the exilic or
late pre-exilic period),36 we cannot draw a con­clusion regarding the ‘national’
application or ‘sociolo­gical’ understanding on the basis of material in the Joseph
Story. On the other hand, there does not seem to be any reasonable possibili­ty
of a solution to the question of a correct dating by using the traditional analyses
of literary criticism, which trace the presence of the traditional Pentateuchal
sources J, E and P in the Joseph Story, since this would imply that both J (Gen.
39:14, 17; 43:32) and E (Gen. 40:15; 41:12) made use of the term Hebrew.37
In the second composition, dealing with the sojourn of the Israelites in Egypt,
the so-called ‘Paschal Legend’ in Exodus 1–15, it is possible to discern three
­different applications of the designation ‘Hebrew’.38 In Exodus 1:15, 19; 2:7 we

34. Bottéro, habiru, no. 181–93. The oldest reference dates from the beginning of the fif-
�
teenth century bce. Cf. also the survey of the evidence by S. Herrmann, Israels Aufenhalt
in Ägypten (SBS, 40; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1970), 55ff. To some degree,
Herrmann puts his questions to the evidence a little differently since he, correctly, notes
that it is an astonishing fact that, apart from Gen. 14:13 and Exod. 21:2, all references to
the Hebrews in Genesis and Exodus apply to Israelites in Egypt. He disregards, however,
the fact that all evidence is collected in two separate narratives: the ‘Joseph Story’ and
the ‘Paschal Le­gend’ and is not distributed here and there in the Tetrateuch, where we
find references to the Israelite sojourn in Egypt.
35. Among other scholars, G. von Rad, ‘Josephgeschichte und ältere Chokma’, VT supple-
ment 1 (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1953), 120–27, and Das erste Buch Mose. Genesis (ATD, 2/4,
9th edn: Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1972), 359f.
36. This is the argument in Redford’s study in VT supplement 20. Redford stresses the point
that no remini­scen­ce of the Egyptian society in the second millennium is extant in the
Joseph Story, but what there is dates from the Saitic period or even later and, therefore,
the termini for the composition of the story are between the conclusion of the seventh
century and the third quarter of the fifth century bce (242).
37. Cf. also the conclusion of Redford’s study on the Joseph story. Redford claims the exist-
ence of different layers in the Joseph story, a ‘Reuben-version’ and a ‘Judah-version’, but
none of them are comparable to the traditional Pentateuchal sources, J, and E, and they
are only present in the Joseph story (252).
38. I am not going to involve myself in the discussion of the coherence of Exodus 1–15.
As to the designation of Exodus 1–15, see J. Pedersen, ‘Passahfest und Passahlegende’,
ZAW 52 (1934), 161–75 (cf. also Noth, Überlieferungsge­schichte des Pentateuch,
 ‘Hebrew’ as a national name for Israel 87

find a collective mention of ‘He­brew women’, ‫העברית‬, and in 2:6 of ‘Hebrew

children’, ‫ילדי העברים‬. The second usage is only discernible in one instance,
Exodus 2:13, accord­ing to which Moses tries to reconcile two Hebrews who
are quarrelling. Final­ly, the third usage consists of the designation of Yahweh
as ‘The God of the Hebrews’, ‫יהוה אלהי העברים‬, Exodus 3:18; 5:3; 7:16, 19; 9:1,
13; 10:30.
Should any example of Hebrew be considered ‘national’ as an Israelite self-
determination, we may look upon this third application in Exodus 1–15 as the
most likely candidate. Yet even in this case it is not so much the Israelites who
are called Hebrews as Yahweh, their God, who is designated.39 When ­examining
this formula, we should note that all examples are collected in pericopae deal-
ing with the ten plagues of Egypt, all are literarily identical and all consist of
Yahweh’s words to Moses, telling him how to intro­duce Yahweh to Pharaoh as,
for example, in Exodus 3:18: ‫ואמרתם אליו אלהי העברים‬. As to the other usages
in this part of Exodus, all examples of ‘Hebrew women’40 and ‘childre­n’ have
been put into the mouths of Egyptians and never into the mouths of Israelites.
Likewise, when, in Exodus 2:13, Moses is confronted with two Hebrews, he
acts as a high-ranking Egyptian and not as an Israelite. This implies that even

Stuttgart: Kohlhammer,1948, 71ff.). We find criticism from a literary point of view in,
for example, G. Fohrer, Überlieferung und Geschich­te des Exodus (BZAW 91; Berlin:
Walter de Gruyter, 1964); see also Fohrer, in Sellin and Fohrer, Einleitung in das Alte
Testament (Heidelberg: Quelle and Meyer, 1965), 128–9. He ascribes the references
to Passover, the Massot festi­val and the ‘Weihung’ of the first-born in Exod. 12:1‑20,
24‑27a; 13:3‑16 to the presence of the sources D and P.
39. I do not think that this designation has anything to do with the reference to ‘the gods
of the habiru’ in the Near Eastern sources, in this case mostly from the archives of
�
Boghazköy (Bottéro, habiru, no. 75–86). Cf. also the dis­cussion in Bottéro, habiru, 81ff.
� �
It is evident that the ‫אלהי העברים‬, even if it is formally a parallel to the DINGIR.MES
SA.GAZ = DINGIR MEŠ habi-re-e-eš, is only a presentation of Yahweh as the God of
�
Israel, known to the Egyptians as the God of the Hebrews. Compare with the sequence
in Exod. 5:1ff. Moses presents Yahweh to the Egyptians as the God of Israel, leading
to the question from Pharaoh: ‘Who is that Yahweh’ and then we get the definition of
Yahweh as the ‘God of the Hebrews’. Other scholars including Koch, VT 19, 53, attribute
the different titles of Yahweh to the presence of different sources so that Yahweh, the
God of the Hebrews, is used exclusively by J, whereas E uses other designations. While
this is a generally accepted argument in Pentateuchal criticism, as such, the case may
nevertheless be otherwise if one reckons with a coherent strain of traditions, collected
in the more or less independent work of the ‘Paschal Legend’. Therefore, there may be
good reasons for interpreting the use of ‘God of the Hebrews’ versus ‘God of Israel’,
etc., on line with the usage of different designations, Israel and Hebrews, in 1 Samuel
(see below). If the composition of J can be fixed to the time of the united monarchy, J has
probably preser­ved or kept in mind an old designation for Yahweh, even if that cannot be
proven. If J or the so-called J , to quote H. H. Schmid, Der sogenannte Jahwist (Zürich:
TVZ Verlag, 1976) on this section of Exodus, 44ff., belongs to the seventh century bce or
even later it is still possible to suppose the preservation of old usage, but after all much
more likely that the difference of usages is due to the compi­ler’s deliberate literary work.
40. ‫העברי‬. The feminine is in the Old Testament only used in Exod. 1–2 and in Jer. 34:9, in
the reflection on the law from Exod. 21:2ff., cited in Jer. 34:14.
88 Biblical studies and the failure of history

though we may consider this an example of a Hebrew meeting Hebrews, it

does not, after all, explain much since Moses’s role, in this case, reflects an
Egyptian’s.
Accordingly, we find the same characteristics inherent in the use of ‘Hebrew’
in Exodus 1–15 as in the Joseph Story. The Hebrews are always also Israelites
– whether individuals or in a collective. In each case, Israelites are confronted
with Egyptians and the term is not used of Israelites in other contexts. For this
reason, it is also interesting to note that the framing story of Exodus 1–15, as
prefaced by Exodus 1:1 (P) ‫ואלה שמות בני ישראל‬, never uses ‘Hebrews’ except
where Israelites are placed in relation to Egyptians.
Still, the designation Hebrew in the ‘Paschal Legend’ must also have some
kind of national significance. Except for the single example in Exodus 2:13,
which deals with individuals, all examples are collective, describ­ing how Israel,
according to the Old Testament, lived in exile in Egypt for several generations.
The definition of Yahweh as ‘the God of the Hebrews’, which corresponds here
to ‘Yah­weh, the God of Israel’ is also used in the ‘Paschal Legend’ (e.g. in
Exodus 5:1) or as ‘the God of the fathers, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob’, Exodus
3:16; 4:5, etc., also points to a national application of Hebrew.41 Even though
the use of the designation in Exodus 1–15 must therefore be termed ‘na­tional’,
it does not also imply that the designation was used as a national title of honour
since, after all, traits of the sociological under­standing during earlier periods
would still influence usage. In all of these exam­ples the Israelites are Hebrews
because they are con­fronted by the Egyptians among whom they lived as fugiti­
ves (foreign­ers) and were treated as slaves, two fixed ideas in the later Israelite
understanding of the origin of the nation.42 Thus, in the ‘Paschal Legend’ we
are con­fronted with Hebrew in a transitory meaning. On the one hand, this is
a national designation; on the other, it is a national designation still influ­enced
by the ­sociological under­standing of the term during the second millennium.
On the basis of only the ‘Paschal Legend’ it is not possible to date a shift of
emphasis from a sociological desig­nation to a national one, but it might provide
us with a clue to determining a termi­nus ante quem.43

41. Accordingly, a naive comparison with habiru gods (see note 39) is ruled out. The desig-
�
nation of Yahweh in this section at times varies – for example, in Exod. 3:15: ‫יהוה אלהי‬
‫אבתיכם‬, whereas in 5:15 ‫יהוה אלהי ישראל‬, both places are traditionally ascribed to E; but
see note 39.
42. As reflected in the so-called ‘Kleine Credo’ of Deut. 26:5ff. and elsewhere in the his-
torical and prophetic literature as in Deut. 5:15, Jer. 34:13, etc. It should be noted that
‘Hebrew’ is not used in any of these connections with Egypt, not even in Jer. 34:13.
43. Depending on the date of this section of Exodus. Nevertheless, this is a much debated
question. The dating of the composition of the Pentateuchal sources varies from the tra-
ditional tenth to ninth century bce (the perhaps latest investigation leading to this result
is that of P. Weimar, Untersuchungen zur Redaktionsgeschichte des Pentateuch, BZAW,
146; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1977, especially 164), to the seventh century bce (H. H.
Schmid, Der sogenannte Jahwist) or even later. I am not going to engage this discussion
here, but the un­cer­tainty shows that it is risky to decide on an absolute date of an ethnic
 ‘Hebrew’ as a national name for Israel 89

In many respects the use of Hebrew in the first Book of Samuel demonstrates
a striking similarity to the use in the Joseph Story and the ‘Paschal Legend’.
As opponents of Israel, the Philistines have the same role as the Egyptians. In
1 Samuel 4, the introduction to the Ark narrative, Hebrew is used twice to des-
ignate the enemies of the Philistines (1 Sam. 4:6, 9) in quoting Philisti­ne refer-
ences to their adversaries. Precisely the same usage also appears in 1 Samuel
13–14. In these chapters, as well, Hebrew is used in opposition to the Philistines,
13:3(?), 19; 14:11, 21. On the other hand, we have clear evidence that these
adversaries of the Philistines called themselves either Israel or Israelites. Thus,
1 Samuel, without doubt, points to an identification of the terms Israel and
Hebrew by the Philistines.44 The problem is whether they used the designation
in a national sense rather than Israel and as something different from Israel, or
whether the designation still had some sociological meaning.
Some references are what we may characterize as neutral appli­cations, which
tell us nothing that will enable us to solve the problem of distinguishing an
ethnic from a sociologically based designation. This applies to 1 Samuel 4:6,
where the Phi­listines call the camp of their opponents ‫מחנה העברים‬. Another
passage in this group of neutral usages is 1 Samuel 13:19. In Israel, weapons
are in short supply because the Philistines would not consent to allow smiths
to deliver them to the Hebrews. Again, in 1 Samuel 14:11, a Philistine out-
post identifies ­individual foes coming against it as Hebrews. In each instance,
1 Samuel proceeds to inform us that all such Hebrews are, in fact, Israelites.
Thus, in 1 Samuel 4:1‑5, the Israelite camp is just the same as the one called

understanding of Hebrew from the material in Exodus 1–15. The possibilities confine us
to the period of the Israelite monarchy. It is also dangerous to rely on so-called historical
remembrance in these sections even if the resemblances to Egyptian sources mentioning
‘aprw are striking. On the other hand, it is impos­sible to accept the remarks put forward
by Koch, VT 19, 63, that the Egypti­an use of ‘aprw during the nineteenth dynasty altered
very much from older Egyptian usage. As his only really positive argument, Koch men-
tions an interval of 130 years. This is not very convincing, since among the very different
Near Eastern sources dealing with the habiru, the designation seems to vary very little
�
during a period of nearly 1000 years and the term seems to be used as a description of
essentially the same phenomenon, independent of place or time.
44. J. Weingreen (‘Saul and the habiru’, IV WCJS, 1967, 63–6) tries to separate the terms
�
Hebrew and Israelites. The Hebrews are foreigners, trying to help Israel to defeat the
Philistine onslaught. Possibly they were used as mercenaries or professional soldiers
by Saul. Weingreen’s point of departure is 1 Sam. 13:7: ‫ְו ִע ְבִרים ָע ְברוּ ֶאת ֵהֵיְּרֵדּן‬, but only
after a small textual correction, which is quite likely (supported, e.g., by H. J. Stoebe,
Das erste Buch Samue­lis, KAT, VIII/1; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Gerd Mohn,
1973, 255); but, nonetheless, he builds his thesis on insecure ground. No other example
in 1 Sam supports this thesis since, in all other examples, it is more reasonable to look
on the Hebrews as properly Israelite. Weingreen did not acknowledge the special use of
‘Hebrew’ in the Old Testament’s historical parts, as used by foreigners of Israel and not
by the Israelites themselves (regarding 1 Sam. 13:3; cf. note 45 below). In conclusion of
the argument, it needs to be asked why David should be called a Hebrew in 1 Sam. 29:3.
Even if Judean by birth, he, nevertheless, represents Israel as a fugitive from Saul, the
King of Israel.
90 Biblical studies and the failure of history

by the Philistines ‘the camp of the Hebrews’. In the same manner, in 1 Samuel
4:9‑10, the Hebrews, beaten at Aphek, are Israelites. The problems of 1 Samuel
13:3-4 are, however, much more intricate. If we follow older commen­taries and
translations and adopt the Masoretic Text: ‫וישמעו פלשתים ושאול תקע בשופר לאמר‬
‫ישמעו העברים‬, it should be amended to ‫וישמעו פלשתים פשעו העברים ושאול תקע‬
‫בשופר בכל־הארץ ולאמר‬, partly on the basis of the Septuagint.45 According to
the Masoretic version, Saul addresses the Hebrews, urging them to support
the uprising against the Philistines, but in the verse immediately following 1
Samuel 13:4, such Hebrews are termed ‫כל ישראל‬. We have the same phenom-
enon in 1 Samuel 13:3‑4 as in 1 Samuel 4:1‑5 and 4:9‑10, even though some
scholars assume that ‫ כל ישראל‬in 1 Samuel 13:4 must be added to the reference
to Hebrews in v. 3. I find it impossible to agree with Koch that 1 Samuel 13:3‑4
proves that the designations Hebrews and Israeli­tes are not used to refer to the
same political entity in 1 Samuel.46 Finally, the problem of the correct reading
of 1 Samuel 13:3 remains, and, for that reason alone, we should not build too
many hypotheses on the basis of this single ver­se.47
There still seems to be other occurrences in 1 Samuel, which give us better
information for solving this problem. According to 1 Samuel 4:9, the Philistines
pulled themselves together before the battle, thanks to the admonition that they
not become slaves to Hebrews, much as the Hebrews had been formerly slaves
to Philistines ‫פן תעברו לעבדים כאשר עבדו לכם‬. It is, however, not entirely certain
that the designa­tion is a socio­logical expression, since it could refer to a former
Israelite state of dependence on Philistines. Additionally, we need to reckon
with the possibility that the wording of v. 9 could be dependent on v. 8, refer-
ring to wonders achieved by God in Egypt for the sake of Israel (with the tacit
implication that Israelites were slaves there). On the other hand, it is more likely
that v. 8 is, in fact, redactional and a reason for its inclusion in this may be the
reference to the Ark of the Covenant and the God of Israel in v. 6-7.48 In this

45. See J. Wellhausen, Der Text der Bücher Samuelis (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht,
1871), 80–81, and the older commentaries by K. Budde, Die Bücher Samuel (KHCAT,
VIII; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1902), 84f., W. Caspari, Die Samuelbücher
(KAT, VII; Leipzig: Deichertsche, 1926), 154, and S. R. Driver, Notes on the Hebrew
Text and the Topography of the Books of Samuel (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1913), 98.
The actual emendation may alter from author to author; but, essentially, all come to the
same result.
46. See Koch, VT 19, 46–7.
47. As stressed by the older commentators (cf. note 45). The Masoretic Text tradition seems
rather stable. The MT is further­more supported by the targum, and the Vulgate, and to
some extent also by the Peshitta, though the Peshitta places both ‫ העברים‬and ‫כל ישראל‬
on a line making both subjects to the verb ‫ישמעו‬, and leaving out ‫ שמעו לאמר‬in v. 4. It
is still problematic to explain the Greek η
῾ θετήκασιν as a mere scribal corruption of an
originally Hebrew ‫ ישמעו‬and to some extent the lectio difficilior. Whether the Greek
text represents an independent Hebrew tradition as its ‘Vorlage’ or is dependent on a
corrupted Hebrew version is not clear.
48. Cf. also H. Timm, ‘Die Ladeerzählung (1 Sam. 4‑6; 2 Sam. 6) und das Kerygma des
deuterono­misti­schen Geschichtswerks’, EvTH 26 (1966), 509–26, 521.
 ‘Hebrew’ as a national name for Israel 91

connection, 1 Samuel 14:21 offers better information. Hebrews and Philistines

are not in direct confrontation, but this is a marginal note (not necessarily a
gloss) referring to the desertion of Hebrews in Philistine service to Israel. It
is natural to compare this phenome­non with the complaints of Rib-Adda to
Pharaoh on the subject of the desertion of his habiru to Amurru in an Amarna
letter.49 On the basis of this instance, we should� probably understand Hebrew in
1 Samuel 14:21 as a sociolo­gical designation in a cultural setting corre­sponding
to conditions of the Late Bronze Age.50 But since it is, of course, impossible to
isolate this single example from the other applications of Hebrew in 1 Samuel,
we cannot with absolute certainty make any decision as to the precise meaning
of the designation Hebrew during this period on the basis of 1 Samuel 14:21.51
The same reservations apply to the last reference to Hebrews in the first
book of Samuel, 1 Samuel 29:3. In this section, the Phi­listines denote David
and his fellows as Hebrews, even though the latter are ready to oppose Saul
of Israel in the company of the Philistines. At first glance, the designation
seems to define David and his men as renegades who have deser­ted Saul, their
king, as is bluntly stated in the following sec­tion.52 But the designation could
still be inter­preted as ‘national’. David is a Hebrew to the Philisti­nes because
he is an Israelite or a former subject of the Is­raelite king.53 And with that we

49. Cf. the references in note 14 above.

50. See, for example, Stoebe, Das erste Buch Samuelis, 264ff., as well as (of course)
Weingreen, ‘Saul and the habiru’, 64–5, neither of whom identify Hebrews with
�
Israelites: Stoebe because of philological arguments put forward by R. Borger, ‘Das
Problem der “apîru” (“abiru”)’, ZDPV 74 (1958), 121–32, 129. Cf. also Stoebe’s
somewhat confusing represen­tation of the habiru problem, which concludes in the
�
state­ment that the designation ‘habiru’ ‘die semitischen Beduinen (!) der verschiedenen
�
Wanderungs­wellen (!) bezeichnet’ (249).
51. A. Alt, ‘Die Ursprünge des israelitischen Rechts’, KS, I (1953), 278–332, 292 n. 3,
considers these Hebrews slaves because of debt on a line with his interpretation of the
law of Exod. 21:2ff. But cf. Koch (VT 19, 48), who rightly contests Alt’s view. We
must keep in mind that, first, we have no information in 1 Sam. 14:21 as to the motives
the Hebrews may have had for serving under the Philistines; and, second, the law in
Exod. 21:2ff. does not deal with slavery because of debt at all. Seemingly, Alt has been
influenced by the claimed parallel with the Codex Hammurabi §117, which clearly deals
�
with debt slavery.
52. On the other hand, we may compare the description in 1 Sam. 22:2 of David as a leader
of the desperate elements in the country; but it is noteworthy that the term ‘Hebrew’ is
not used there, whereas the phenomenon described does compare well with the view
generally accepted of Hebrew/habiru as outlaws or fugitives.
�
53. Koch (VT 19, 45) contests this identification because King Achish of Gath does not
use the name of ‘Hebrew’ but calls Saul ‘King of Israel’. Nor does he acknowledge the
possibi­lity that the narrator has put another term in the mouth of Achish because of this
Philistine king’s later, special associ­ation with David and Israel, which marks him as
different from other philistines. This passage in 1 Sam. 29:1ff. and 1 Sam. 27:12, where
Achish also uses ‘Israel’, is redactional and part of the composite work, ‘The Story of
David’s Rise’. It merely demonstrates that the author of this work normally does not use
‘Hebrew’, not even as a Philistine designation for Israelites. Compare this with 2 Sam.
5:17 and even more explicitly 1 Sam. 17:10. Evidently, Koch over-stresses his point
92 Biblical studies and the failure of history

come to an end to this very preliminary dis­cussion of the designation in the Old
Testament.

Conclusion

According to an overwhelming number of Old Testament exam­ples, ‘Hebrew’

is not used by Israelites as a designation for themselves, not even in a national
sense. A single group of texts stands out against the general application – namely,
examples from the tale of the ten plagues of Egypt, which defines Yahweh as the
God of the Hebrews. However, Yahweh is given this epithet only in addres­ses
to Pharaoh. There­fore, not even this narrative disturbs the general impression.
In fact, we are faced with a strange kind of duplicity when we look at the use
of the term Hebrew in the Old Testament. On the one hand, it is not illegitimate
to argue that all the allusions to ‘Hebrews’ in the Old Testament can be inter­
preted in a sociological sense, if only the singular references were torn out of
their context. On the other hand, that very context forces us to stress that, in
every instance, ‘Hebrews’ are Israelites (with the possible exception of Exodus
21:2ff.). This doubtless implies that there is a correspondence between the two
desig­na­tions within the biblical tradition. It is, therefore, possible to argue that
Israelites themselves acknow­ledged that non-Israelites (i.e. Phi­listines and
Egyptians) described them as ‘Hebrews’. However, why should a tradition have
survived in the later Israelite literature that their neighbours, or some of them,
used to call them Hebrews when they hardly ever used such a designation them­
selves? It is not possible to point to a single unambiguous evidence of such
usage, though it is possible to assume that even as ‘Hebrew’ in, for example, 1
Samuel was used in a national sense, it is only because this designation has been
attached to Israel as a national entity in the Old Testament tradition. According
to the Old Testament, the society called Israel is defined by others as a ‘Hebrew’
society. For that reason, there is no basis in the Old Testament for the assump­
tion that the designations ‘Hebrew’ and Israelite refer to different entities, with
the sense that Hebrews should signify a different, more comprehensive group
than Israel. It is quite another problem whether habiru of the Late Bronze Age
� We do not find a clear answer
in Palestine were historical predecessors of Israel.
to that question in the Old Testament.
The following may be concluded from the evidence in the Old Testament.
There must have been a historical remembrance in later Israel that their own
society, during the first days of its existen­ce, had been interpreted by its neigh-
bours or its opponents as a society of habiru. This does not, however, imply with
any certainty that the origin of Israel� was, in fact, from a habiru society, even
�
though the Old Testament could apparently be used to support, for example,
the thesis of G. E. Mendenhall and others concern­ing the beginning of Israel. It
is necessary to compare the application in 1 Samuel with other sources for the

when he uses 1 Sam. 29:3 as an example of a Philistine differentiation between Israel

and ‘Hebrews’.
 ‘Hebrew’ as a national name for Israel 93

history of Israel during the period of the judges, both biblical and extra-biblical.
The extra-biblical material consists, first and foremost, of the stele of Merenptah
dating from the very beginning of the so-called period of the judges (or perhaps
from the last days of the period of the sett­lement).54 However, evidence from
the Amarna letters from the Late Bronze Age should also be included. I have
made some use of that evidence above. I simply note here that in 1 Samuel
the Philistines define the inhabi­tants of the central Palestinian mountains as
Hebrews. This must be consi­dered both a sociological and a national designa-
tion because these in­habitants of the mountains had an identi­ty coherent enough
to allow them to present themselves as a society with its own name, Israel. The
stele of Merenptah seems to confirm this view. Accord­ing to the inscription on
the stele, Israel is reckoned among the enemies of Pharaoh and it is the name
of the society which is used, not the designation habiru-­land or the like. In this
� of Seti I from Beth-Shean.
connection, we may compare it with the earlier stele
In that inscrip­tion, the Egyptians do not make use of the name Israel, but the
possibility exists that it was already a political reality. On the other hand, the
inscription speaks of a punitive expedition directed against groups of habiru in
� either
Palestine. Without further proof, we cannot identify these habiru with
�
Israel or the predecessors of Israel, even if they perhaps did inhabit the same
area, or part of it, as the Is­raelites did in later days, since we still have to reckon
with the possibility of changes in the composition of the population during the
interval of almost eighty years between the erection of the stele of Seti I and
Merenptah’s inscription. The stele of Seti I may bear evidence of alterations
in the population because it tells us of some tribal entities no longer extant in
Old Testament days.55 The stele of Merenptah also seems to testify to the fact
that Israel had a society different from the city states on the plain because the
inscription uses the foreign people determina­tive for Israel and not, as in the
other cases in this section of the stele, the foreign nation determinative.56 Com­
pared with 1 Samuel, it demonstrates that the Phi­listines did not see Israel as
a regular state, but rather considered it another and more loosely organized
kind of society different from their own. Therefore the designation ‘Hebrews’
is used of the Israelites, although it is not certain that Israel at its origin was a
regular society of habiru. We should emphasize, however, that, as it appeared
�
to foreigners, the designation was comparable to the habiru who played a very
active role during the Amarna age in Palestine in the� same area as later Israel.
This territorial coincidence could be the reason for the designation ‘Hebrew’
being attached to Israel by neigh­bouring peoples such as the Philistines. What
kind of society Israel actually was is unknown, but it was not an amphictyony

54. ANET 3, 376–8.

55. Ibid., 255; but see W. F. Albright, ‘The Smaller Beth-Shan Stele of Sethos I (1309–1290
bc)’, BASOR 125 (1952), 24–32. ‘‘apiru of Mount Yarumtu’, most likely a territory in
the vicinity of Beth-Shan, possibly identical with biblical ‫יתמד ען תמד‬, Josh. 19:21; cf.
Albright, BASOR 125, 28.
56. Note, however, the reservations by J. A. Wilson in ANET 3, 278 no. 18.
94 Biblical studies and the failure of history

consisting of twelve tribes, as once proposed by M. Noth.57 Nevertheless, there

is clear evidence that as early as the Early Iron Age, Israel was the name gen-
erally used for at least those tribes inhabiting the central Palestinian highland
between the Valley of Jezreel to the north and the city-state of Jerusalem to the
south, as demonstrated by the books of Judges and 1 and 2 Samuel. The appli-
cation of this name may be compared with the use of the name of Israel on the
stele of Merenptah, which must be considered the terminus a quo for a ‘national’
identi­ty of Israel.
Finally, we must conclude that the self-attribution of ‘Hebrew’ as a national
name for the Israelites belongs to a development that is later than the periods of
the judges and early monarchy. It may be that the designation was not used as a
national name at all during the time Israel was an independent state. The use in
Jonah may be the earliest use of the term as a national reference by an Israelite;
therefore, the development of ‘Hebrew’ as an honorific national name belongs
to the post-exilic period.

57. M. Noth, System der Zwölf Stämme Israels (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1930). As to the
present writer’s views, see the résumé of my book in Danish, Israel i Dommertiden
(Copenhagen: CEG Gad, 1972), in O. Bächli, Amphik­tyonie im Alten Testament
(TZ Sonderband VI; Basel: Friedrich Reinhardt Verlag, 1977), 4f. and passim.
 7

Rachel and Leah: on the survival of outdated

paradigms in the study of the origin of Israel
1987

My recent monograph, Early Israel, includes a short excursus de­voted to ‘the

Study of Israelite History from J. Wellhausen to A. Alt’.1 This chapter, which
was originally conceived as part of that mono­graph, offers material for the
judgement of scholars such as Julius Wellhausen, Eduard Meyer and Hugo
Gressmann, to name but a few.
The ten scholars, whose works on early Israelite history are evalu­ated below,
have something to contribute to the modern dis­cussion of early Israel, or, bet-
ter, their influence has never ceased. Perhaps their results are no longer very
important; but the impact of the intensive study of early Israelite history around
the turn of this century is still heavily felt in many newer histories, even in
such a major work as Herbert Donner’s Geschichte des Volkes Is­rael und seiner
Nachbarn in Grundzügen (yet in a much lesser de­gree in J. Alberto Soggin’s A
History of Israel).2 I return to this topic in the final part of this chapter and try to
offer some ex­amples of such continuity regarding a topic, which was apparently
created by the appearance of Albrecht Alt’s studies on the Israelite settlement
and state formation.
The works of Alt, and later of his student Martin Noth, mark the summit of
the classical tradition of biblical scholarship; but, at the same time, they have
contributed to the downfall of this scholarly tradition. It is my intention to
demonstrate that although Alt, in his inves­tigation of the Israelite settlement
process, which was followed as it was by the mas­sive historical analyses of
Martin Noth, marked a break with pre­vious research, which, however, was
never complete. In fact, many facets of the earlier scholarship lived on to dilute
the methodological stringency of Alt’s work. This classical sub­stratum of out-
dated opinions thereby contributed both to the dissolution of the reconstruc-
tions of Alt and Noth and to the development of the much more radical modern

1. N. P. Lemche, Early Israel Anthropologtcal and Historical Studies on the Is­raelite

Society Before the Monarchy (VT supplement, 37; Leiden: E. J. Brill 1985), 62–5.
2. H. Donner, Geschichte des Volkes Israel und seiner Nachbarn im Grunzü­gen, 1–2 (ATD.
Ergänzungsreihe, 4,1–2; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1984–6); J. A. Soggin,
A His­tory of Israel From the Beginning to the Bar Kochba Revolt, ad 135 (London: SCM,
1985).
96 Biblical studies and the failure of history

assessments of Israel’s early history, which, from a reli­gious point of view, are
generally very conservative.
Any review of previous scholarship must be selective and arbitrary if we
do not go back to Richard Simon or Jean Astruc. Nevertheless, the admittedly
arbitrary point of departure of 1878 and the publication of Julius Wellhausen’s
Prolegomena3 is motivated by the general acknowledgement that this work
initi­ated a new era in biblical studies, the repercus­sions of which are still acutely
felt. Of course, earlier scholars of the calibre of Heinrich Ewald and Abraham
Kuenen must be left out of consideration, since they have only little to contrib-
ute to the on-going debate on the origin of Israel and, I may add, have had hardly
any serious influence on this discussion during the last fifty years.4

Julius Wellhausen

For some generations, it has been commonplace to disclaim the importance

Wellhausen had because of his ac­knowl­edged Hegelian philosophy of history.
Wellhausen was under the spell of Hegel to such a degree that it was assumed
that his own understanding of the development of ancient Israel and its his­tory
was determined by a philosophy which was – thereafter – largely abandoned.
Accordingly, we generally do not find serious disagree­ment in the evaluation
of Wellhausen’s work in Anglo-Saxon, German or even Scandinavian surveys,
al­though Wellhausen’s impact upon biblical scholarship is gener­ally not under­
rated.5 The study of the relationship between Wilhelm Vatke and Well­hausen by

3. Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels. Originally published as Geschichte Is­raels 1

(Berlin: Georg Reimer, 1878). The edition used here is the English translation edited
with an introduction by W. Robertson Smith (Edinburgh: Adam and Charles Black,
1885; reprinted New York: Meridian Books, 1965).
4. To be honest, it is sometimes said that the most important contribution of Ewald was
that he introduced Wellhausen to the study of the Old Testament in Göttingen during the
1860s. Metaphorically, Ewald has been swallowed up by his gifted pupil. On the other
hand, this was the destiny of most scholars in the Old Testament field between 1800
and 1878. Cf. the characterization by H.-J. Kraus of the im­pact of the appearance of
Prolegomena: ‘In diesem kristallklaren, methodisch bis in die letzte Fragestellung hinein
durchsichtigen und hinreißend geschriebenen Werk stieß die seit de Wette maßgebende
historisch-kritische Forschung sieg­reich vor.’ Cf. H.-J. Kraus, Geschichte der historisch-
kritischen Erforschung des Alten Testaments (2nd edn; Neukirchen: Neukirchener
Verlag, 1969), 260.
5. Only a few illustrative examples are mentioned here. In German lit­erature, the view
of Wellhausen as a Hegelian is pronounced in the first edition of Kraus’s Geschichte
der historisch-kritischen Erforschung des Alten Testament (Neukirchen: Neukirchener
Verlag, 1956). In the second edition, the treatment is rather different. As a pars pro toto
of the evaluation in most studies of American origin we may mention W. F. Albright,
From the Stone Age to Christianity (2nd edn; New York: Doubleday, 1957), 88, repeated
as late as in his Yahweh and the Gods of Canaan (London: Athlone Press, 1968), 1:
‘Wellhausen’s Hegelian View of Religious History …’ (cf., however, also the ­appendix
to 1 n. 3 on 430). The Scandinavian judgement is expressed by J. Pedersen, ‘Die
Auffassung vom Alten Testament’, ZAW 49 (1931), 161–81.
 Rachel and Leah 97

Lothar Perlitt, published in 1965, has, on the other hand, made it clear that this
traditional evaluation of Wellhausen’s roots in the philosophy of his own time
is totally miscon­ceived.6 Perlitt explains that Wellhausen was not a partisan of
the Hegelian philosophy. To the contrary, he was opposed to Hegel’s schematic
philosophy of history and, although Perlitt warns against a hasty identification
of Wellhausen as a romanticist, it is obvious that his place among scholars was
rather with such as Herder than among the adherents of the Enlightenment’s
optimistic view of history, an understanding which found its ultimate manifesta­
tion in the historical-philosophical writings of Hegel.7
A thorough assessment of the published works of Wellhausen on ancient
Israel and the Old Testament will likely show that Well­hausen was not continu-
ing a direction going back to the Enlightenment, with its optimistic idea of the
development of man. On the contrary, he ad­hered to the classical conception,
according to which man is originally placed in a golden era and later becomes
entangled in inferior situa­tions. It, of course, never interested Wellhausen to
write general works with a historical-philosophical content since he was ever
con­cerned with a particular culture – in this regard, Israelite culture and, oth-
erwise, Arab civilization. It was, however, characteristic of this great scholar
that he did not base his work in preconceived ideas of the development of the
Israelite nation without having a textual basis. Before the appearance of his
Prolegomena and his later Israelitische und jüdische Geschichte, he started with
extensive analyses of the history of the transmis­sion of the Old Testament text,
particularly the sources of the Hexateuch.8 If the more comprehensive charac-
ter of the work of Wellhausen is not acknowledged, it is impossible to reach a
proper assessment of his scien­tific importance.
Wellhausen subdivides the history of the Israelite tradition into three succes-
sive phases, which he defines respectively as the Jehovistic, Deuteronomistic

6. L. Perlitt, Vatke und Wellhausen (BZAW, 94; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1965). The study
of Per­litt forms the background of the changed view on Wellhausen in Kraus’s Hist
-Krit. Erforschung (2nd edn), although Kraus only reluctantly acknowledges the fact. It
is also Perlitt who is cited by Albright in Yahweh and the Gods, 230. Albright expresses
an opinion which, had he had the time, would have induced him to change his opinion
of Wellhausen’s philosophical standing.
7. Vatke und Wellhausen, 178. Here Perlitt presents the following pedigree of Wellhausen’s
understanding of the Israelite development: Lessing, Herder, Goe­the, Schleiermacher, the
Idealistic philosophy, de Wette and Ranke. He offers a circumstantial account of the rel-
evance of this list of names in the section de­voted to Wellhausen (Vatke und Wellhausen,
153–243, passim). His including Wellhausen among ‘die historischen Ro­mantiker’ is on
212ff. According to Perlitt, Wellhausen considered himself congenial to scholars such as
Theodor Mommsen and especially his personal friend Ulrich Wilamowitz-Moellendorf,
to whom he dedicated his Israelitische und jüdische Geschichte (Berlin: Georg Reimer,
1894; here cited after the 9th edn, Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1958).
8. Cf. Wellhausen, Die Composition des Hexateuchs und der historischen Büchern des
Alten Testaments (4th edn; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1963), which originally appeared
as a series of articles in 1876–7; cf. Composition, 1.
98 Biblical studies and the failure of history

and Priestly phases,9 a division which he sees reflecting a stratification of

the tradition’s material in a series of layers, which corresponded to the cul-
tural-historical develop­ment of ancient Israel. The Prolegomena is based on
this understand­ing of tradi­tion. On this foundation, Wellhausen evaluated the
descrip­tion of the Israelite cult in the various layers of tradition.10 In general,
he described a development from an individualis­tic to a collec­tivistic cult.11 An
example of this is the de­scription of the cult as decentralized in the Jehovistic
sources, whereas the Deuter­onomistic sources describe a centralized cult as the
goal of religious devel­opment. In the priestly source, however, the centralized
cult is an established fact and it is transposed to the earliest period of Israel’s
history. The priestly source also presupposes (in its legislation) that the cult is
centralized. Thus, the legislation is separated from its individualistic origin and
become armchair theory.12 This does not imply that because the priestly legis-
lation is obviously late and must be considered the final result of the juridical
speculation in the Old Testament, all laws in the Old Testament are equally late,
an objection which has often been raised against Wellhausen. Of course, he
ac­knowledges the existence of older Israelite legislation. This law was, how-
ever, in his view, transmitted orally.13
Wellhausen’s description of other aspects of Israelite religious life follows
the same line. When he discusses festivals and their place in the stratified tradi-
tion and development of the priesthood, he as­sumes that there was no priesthood
in most ancient Israel. A proper priest­hood only arose pari passu with the on-
going centrali­zation of the cult.14
Though we do not see a pronounced denial of the Mo­saic tradition, as such,
in Wellhausen’s works, he sees this tradition as developing along the same lines
as the cult. These remarks also apply to the monotheism of the Mosaic tradition.
Wellhausen does not think there was an early monotheistic Israel­ite faith. On the
other hand, he does not deny that Yahweh was the God of Israel from the very
first.15 Naturally, Wellhausen was not pre­pared to accept early Israelite religion

9. Prolegomena, 6–10. Jehovistic, i.e. in the terminology of Wellhausen the collection of

J and E, cf. Prolegomena, 8 n. 2.
10. Prolegomena, Part l, ‘History of Worship’, 17–167.
11. Cf. also Perlitt, Vatke und Wellhausen, 173–85, Part II ‘Geschichte und Entwicklung’,
and by Wellhausen the chapter devoted to the question of the cult, 17–51, ‘The Place of
Worship’, etc.
12. On the priestly legislation and its character, cf. Prolegomena, passim. An ex­ample of
this development: cf. Wellhausen’s treatment of the sabbatical legisla­tion, Prolegomena,
112–20. On the whole there is a very large degree of agreement between Wellhausen’s
evaluation of these laws (JE in the Book of Covenant, Exod. 21:2-6 and 23:10-11; D in
Deut. 15 and RQ in Lev. 25) and the one I present in Chapter 2, this volume. I was, alas,
not aware of this at the time.
13. Cf. Prolegomena, 392ff., Ch. X, ‘The Oral and the Written Torah’, §1 and 2.
14. On the sacrifices, Prolegomena, 52–82; on the on the festivals, 83–120; and on the
priests, 121–51.
15. Israelitische und jüdische Geschichte, 23. On the question of the Mosaic ‘monotheism’,
cf. the same work, 28ff.
 Rachel and Leah 99

as a very special religion, which was not comparable to others. The appear­ance
of Israelite monotheism was attributed rather to later develop­ments in Israel as
a whole, with special em­phasis on the imprint of the Exile.
I have no intention to comment on all of Wellhausen’s ideas. If we turn our
attention, however, to his description of Israel before the monarchy, we are in
for a surprise – if our starting point is with his analyses of the history of Israelite
literary tradi­tions and Israelite religion. Wellhausen’s reconstruction of the early
history of Israel is not at all revolutionary. For scholars, a century after the
appearance of his Prolegomena, it is rather dull and uninspiring. His historical
reconstruction does not try to deconstruct early Isra­elite history. Rather, his
description is best described as a critical or rationalistic paraphrase of the Old
Testament tradition, with occasional modifying remarks. Some­times, he touches
up some stories in a harmonizing fashion, much as may be found in homiletic
books. Wellhausen’s para­phrase of the episode of Abimelech offers an obvious
example.16 On the other hand, it is quite characteristic of his view of tradition
that he ac­cords no historical value to the patriarchal stories. He merely reckons
them to be the product of a much later period and transposed into the early days
of the nation.17 Nevertheless, the division of the tribes of Israel in the patriarchal
narratives still forms the basis of his historical reconstruction of the process of
settlement in his history in the period of the judges.18
According to Wellhausen, the origin of Israel as a nation preceded its settle-
ment in Palestine. Israel was the conglomer­ate of three different groups. The
first group consisted of Israelites who formerly lived in Goshen on the border
of Egypt. The other group inhabited the desert of Sinai in the environs of the so-
called place of revelation. These two groups integrated with each other before
meeting the third group, which had migrated to Transjor­dan many years before.19
Wellhausen considered all of them to be nomadic.20 Never­theless, he clearly
distinguished between them and, for example, the Midianites. The Midianites
were camel-nomads, true children of the desert, real predatory camel-nomads,
whereas the Israelites were small-cattle nomads.21 The conquest of Cisjordan,
according to Wellhausen, followed a course very much the same as is deline-
ated in later scholarly literature devoted to the settlement of Israel. Wellhausen
accounted for several attempts to conquer the area and followed the subdivision
of the Israelite tribes in the Old Testament into Leah and Rachel tribes, although
he also considered the existence of the so-called co-wives to be important as
indicators of other tribes in Palestine.22 However, only the conquest of Palestine
by the Rachel tribes under the com­mand of Joshua is consid­ered the proper

16. Ibid., 41–3.

17. Ibid., 10.
18. Ibid., 14.
19. Ibid., 13–14.
20. Ibid., 39; cf. also 10ff.
21. Ibid., 39.
22. Ibid., 14–15.
100 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Israelite occupation of Palestine. This occupation, however, was also partial,

since a greater part of Cisjordan was not affected by the entry of the Israel­ites.
Thus, the maritime regions and the great cities were not included in Israelite
territory. The subjugation of these areas occurred only later.23
As mentioned above, the description of the origin of Israel is not to be con-
sidered remarkable (at least not in our eyes). We may blame Well­hausen for
ignorance of the discovery of the great Near Eastern cultures in his own time,
but the reason for this is hardly impor­tant. The focus on only one entity, Israel,
was a de­liberate choice to escape oversimplifications. He expressly argues that
to write the history of a nation there must be a national entity, and that a culture
or a nation can only be understood on the basis of its own premises.24 That
Wellhausen was not totally wrong may be seen in the light of the later Babel-
Bibel discussion.
Comparative material of a social-anthropological character does not seem to
have played any role in Wellhausen’s studies of ancient Israel and such sources
are not cited in his Israelitische und jüdische Ge­schichte. This lack of interest
in such matters is deceptive. Scholars who attack Wellhausen for this should
be more cautious in light of his study of Arab civilization and history.25 I have
already suggested that Wellhausen distinguished between different types of
nomads, although he could hardly know that such division is dependent on the
question of the domestication of the camel and the historical appear­ance of a
camel-Bedouin type of no­madism.
His acquaintance with etymology is also evident in his de­scription of the
familial ties of the first Israelites in Israelitische und jüdische Geschichte and
his account of such links is not entirely anti­quated.26 In fact, Israelites were
not first and fore­most members of a people or nation – and this is one of the
differences be­tween Well­hausen and several modern exponents of sociological
methods in bib­lical studies; the Israelite understanding of the world was de­cided
by blood-ties and connections between the indi­vidual Israelite and his family,
his clan and his tribe. These ties of blood determined his horizon at every level,
and they formed the sys­tem according to which he arranged his world in order
to distinguish between friend and foe. The nation did not mean very much to
the Israelite except as the outer boundary of blood-ties. As I have indicated in

23. Ibid., 35f.

24. Ibid., 10: ‘Die Geschichte eines Volkes läßt sich nicht über das Volk selber hinausführen,
in eine Zeit, wo dasselbe noch gar nicht vorhanden ward.’
25. In this connection, it is necessary to remember that Wellhausen had already given up
his theological chair in 1882 because of the turmoil created by the ap­pearance of the
Prolegomena. For the remaining years of his academic career he taught Semitic phi-
lology at Göttingen. His main works on this topics are Reste arabischen Heidentums
(Berlin: Georg Reimer, 1887) and Das arabische Reich und sein Sturz (Berlin: Georg
Reimer, 1902).
26. Israelitische und Jüdische Geschichte, 20ff. Wellhausen’s description of the social and
religio-sociological conditions is generally – even without a proper sociological method
– much more valuable than his historical analyses.
 Rachel and Leah 101

my book Early Israel, this idea is not far from modern socio-anthropological
notions of ethnicity.27
Wellhausen was, however, wrong on one point – namely, that this system
of social organization was favourable to individualism. This is not the case; it
rather points to collectivism, though at a local level. The difference between
Wellhausen’s understanding of individu­alism and the modern discussion of col-
lectivism is, neverthe­less, not a fundamental one. It merely delimits the system
of social references among so-called primitive peoples. We may conclude that
Wellhausen was basically correct. Primitive cult is indi­vidualistic. However, it
is not the concern of a single person, but a group of peoples.

Bernhard Stade

Wellhausen’s Prolegomena was a monumental work. His book on the history of

Israel was not. The reason why he never wrote a ‘Geschichte Israels’ of the size
and quality of his Prolegomena may be that another scholar, Bernhard Stade,
had already published the first volume of a monumental his­tory of Israel in 1887
and Wellhausen by and large subscribed to these views.28 If we were to discuss
the history of Israel and its origin in the so-called Wellhausen school between
1878 and 1926, it would be enough to evaluate the work of Stade, especially
when compared to the work of Hermann Guthe.29 From the golden age of liter-
ary criticism, we might also mention Carl Steuernagel’s little study of the set­
tlement of the Israelite tribes in Canaan.30
In his Geschichte Israels, Martin Noth opens his reconstruction of Israelite
history with the Period of the Judges. In the school of Wellhausen, however,
it was normal to consider the Pe­riod of the Judges to be a prolegomena to the
monarchy. In concord with this view, Stade gives the im­pression that the history
of Israel did not begin before the in­troduction of the monarchy. The prehistory
and early history of Israel during the period of settlement and the judges is
placed under the head of a more comprehensive section called ‘Israel under the
monarchy’, with the sub­title ‘The history of the people of Israel from the begin-
ning of the monarchy to the destruction of Jeru­salem by the Babylonians’.31
This implies that Stade considered the Pe­riod of the Judges to be only a kind of

27. Cf. Lemche, Early Israel, 241–2.

28. B. Stade, Geschichte des Volkes Israel 1 (Berlin: Grote, 1887). This work appeared in
a series of instalments between 1881 and 1885. Cf. also Wellhausen’s recep­tion of the
first two instalments, in Deutsche Literaturzeitung 3 (1882), 681f., cited by H. Engel,
Die Vorfahren Israels in Ägypten (Frankfurter Theologische Studien, 27; Frankfurt a/M.:
Knecht, 1979), 44 n. 124.
29. H. Guthe, Geschichte des Volkes Israel (Tübingen and Leipzig: Mohr, 1899), here cited
after the 2nd edn (1904).
30. C. Steuernagel, Die Einwanderungen der israelitischen Stämme in Kanaan (Berlin:
C. A. Schwetschke und Sohn., 1901).
31. Stade, Geschichte des Volkes Israel 1, 45–703. Cf. the Frontispize, 45.
102 Biblical studies and the failure of history

idé fixee, which went back to the monarchy; but it is his intention to emphasize
(in accordance with Wellhausen) that Israel, as a national entity, was no older
than the monarchy. Therefore, the Old Testament picture of pre-monar­chical
Israel is not to be dated before the monarchy.32 No unity existed before that date,
especially no system of twelve tribes. Such a system has, according to Stade and
Wellhausen, played any prac­tical political role, as it is impossible to describe
any moment in Israel’s history where all twelve tribes existed simultaneously.33
I am not going to deal with Stade in extenso, and therefore I do not comment
on his second main work, his Old Testament theol­ogy,34 and shall confine my
remarks to his Geschichte des Volkes Israel. The general outlook of this exhaus-
tive work is easily appreci­ated since Stade accords, on most points, with the
views of Wellhausen and draws on the same corpus of sources as Wellhausen
had. Questions of detail are immaterial since most of his arguments are dated.
The fundamental disagreement between Stade and Wellhausen regarding the ori-
gin of Israel is that Stade speaks of a prolonged Israelite sojourn in Transjordan
before settlement in the Cisjordan. During their stay east of the Jordan, Israelites
changed occupations from nomads to farmers.35 Even such a difference of opin-
ion is apparent only because the brevity of Well­hausen’s description disguises
his proper sociologi­cal evaluation of the period.
Stade is, however, totally in agreement with Wellhausen when he argues that
the Israelites, or the Hebrews – as he also calls them, ­though without any idea of
the sense of this term (his history was published the year before the discovery of
the Amarna letters) – were originally nomads who wandered the steppe between
the desert and the sown.
More important is the difference of opinion between Stade and Wellhausen
in regard to the character of Israelite settlement in Cisjorda­n. Stade claimed
that Israelite settlement should not be viewed as a single mass invasion into
Cisjordan or even as a sequence of conquests, reflected by the existence of
such tribal groups as Leah and Rachel tribes. He is much more on the wave-
length of Albrecht Alt when he argued that we speak of a process of settlement
described as an in­filtration from Trans­jordan into Cisjordan, a process of long
dura­tion. Stade, however, did not con­sider these invaders to have been small-
cattle nomads. According to him, they were farmers or, better, surplus members
of the Trans­jordanian agricultural com­munity. Such surplus was the result of
an Israelite transition to ag­riculture, including the establishment of per­ma­nent
settlements in the Transjordan. Settlement in the Cisjordan was, accordingly, the
outcome of an emigration, provoked by a growing population, regulated by the
emigration of the surplus population.36

32. Ibid., 174.

33. Ibid., 145–8.
34. Biblische Theologie des Alten Testaments (Tübingen: Mohr, 1905). Cf. on this the survey
in Kraus, Historisch-kritische Erforschung, 283–8.
35. Stade, Geschichte des Volkes Israel I, 134–5.
36. Ibid.
 Rachel and Leah 103

Hermann Guthe

I have already described Hermann Guthe’s Geschichte des Volkes Israel as a

crude expression of Wellhausen’s view of the develop­ment of ancient Israel.
On the other hand, in Guthe’s Geschichte we see the immediate impact of the
dis­covery of the Amarna letters from Egypt. Guthe also drew heavily from
the extra-biblical ancient Near Eastern world than his predecessors. Although
Guthe’s Geschichte is, methodologically, a less stringent work than Stade’s,
it resembles, nevertheless, more than Wellhausen’s or Stade’s works do, what
we today are prepared to consider a proper history of Israel. Several aspects
of Wellhausen’s approach to Israel’s history are weak­ened by Guthe who is
prepared to accept a far larger role of the Mosaic tradition in history than
Wellhausen had. Another ex­pression of Guthe’s ‘optimistic’ view of biblical
sources was his belief that the patriarchal narratives are valuable sources, not
as narratives about individuals, but as indicators of a history of Israel­ite tribes.
Guthe inaugurates what can be seen in full bloom in Carl Steuernagel’s
research. We are met by the conviction that the patriarchal narratives are reflec-
tions of real historical condi­tions, on the one hand, not in a patriarchal period
as such, but within the historical Israel during the transition from settlement to
a Period of the Judges. On the other hand, a specific methodology is developed,
according to which Guthe and other scholars can extract historical information
from the patriarchal narratives. As a conse­quence, when a character belonging
to the pa­triarchal age acts as a father or as a grown up, he rep­resents the tribal
society as a whole, whereas women who appear in the narratives reflect the
existence of smaller tribal groups (for example, the Leah versus Rachel tribes).
A marriage may be interpreted as a fusion of tribes, either between tribes of
the same rank or, in the case of co-wives, between tribes of unequal rank, and
children mark subdivisions into new tribes.37 In this manner a grid was created
suitable to sources, supposedly pertinent to the origin of an historical Israel.
Guthe’s own description of the early history of Israel is rather com­monplace,
influenced as he was by knowledge of the Ara­b-Bedouin culture of his own
day.38 Hebrews or Israelites – it is not obvious whether Guthe identified the two
entities, though I am inclined to think he did so39 – were originally nomadic
shepherds, living in the desert regions south-east of Palestine’s agricultural
zone. They were close kin to the Arameans.40 The Israelite set­tlement must be
understood as an example of the penetration of such shepherds into the settled
regions. This pene­tration was not a one-day affair but must be subdivided into

37. Guthe, Geschichte des Volkes Israel, 4–6.

38. Guthe himself cites the two most important studies from the nineteenth century ad which
are devoted to the Bedouin culture: J. L. Burchhardt, Notes on the Bedouins and Wahabys
(London: H. Colburn and R. Bentley, 1831), and C. M. Doughty, Travels in Arabia
Deser­ta 1–2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1888), cf. Guthe, Geschichte des
Volkes Israel, 15.
39. Guthe, Geschichte des Volkes Israel, 20ff. See also 56ff.
40. Ibid., l5ff.
104 Biblical studies and the failure of history

several stages. Guthe was able to draw on information from the Amarna let-
ters and considered the He­brews mentioned there to be identical with the Leah
tribes. He placed the settlement of this tribal group just after the turn of the four-
teenth century bce. The decisive conquest occurred 100 years later, carried out
by the Rachel tribes or, more precisely, the tribe of Joseph under the command
of Moses and Joshua. The Joseph tribe penetrated the area from a point in the
Sinai Peninsula after having been converted to Yahwism at the ancient Yahweh
sanctuary at Kadesh.41
It is characteristic of Guthe that he tries to reconcile Wellhausen’s under-
standing of the development of Israel with information contained in the Old
Testament itself, and, in doing so, he weakens the ideas of Wellhausen be­cause
under the influence of the rapidly growing external evidence, he is inclined
to retain more and more of the Old Testament tradi­tion as historical. He was
thereby confronted with another problem: that he did not possess a satisfying
understanding which would enable him to distinguish between sources with
useful information and secondary sources. Consequently, Guthe’s approach to
his sources must necessarily be arbitrary. He chose texts which gave sense to
his theories and tacitly bypassed other passages in the Old Testament which did
not suit this picture of historical development. The re­sult is that he presented
a historical reconstruction of the early his­tory of Israel which does not derive
from either Wellhausen or the Old Testament. Guthe was trapped by a di­lemma
which made its impact upon all studies of the history of Is­rael from the begin-
ning of historical-critical scholarship (i.e. the dilemma of how to define criteria
for the source material for the investi­gation).

Carl Steuernagel

The name of Carl Steuernagel has already been mentioned in this survey. If we
look at the study of Steuernagel on the Is­raelite settlement,42 it is obvious that
we are presented with the literary-critical method in its purest form. On the one
hand, Steuernagel builds on previous literary-critical analyses, including his
own studies on the Pentateuch and the Book of Joshua, on the basis of which he
be­lieved it possible to distinguish Jahwistic and Elohistic sources.43 On the other
hand, his handling of these strata confor­ms to his era and he does not possess
any presupposi­tions which might enable him to evaluate the textual evidence as

41. §16–17 and 56–63, respectively, called ‘Der erste Angriff auf der Westjordanland’, and
‘der zweite Angriff auf das Westjordaniand’. On Moses and the place of revelation, cf.
§7: Moses (an Egyptian personal name), 27–30, and on the Si­nai event, which Guthe
placed at Kadesh Barnea, §9: ‘Bedeutung des Aufenhal­tes bei Kadesh’, 36.
42. Carl Steuernagel, Einwanderungen (1901).
43. These analyses were followed up in his commentaries Das Deuteronomium (HKAT,
1,3,1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1898; 2nd edn, 1923), and Das Buch
Joshua (HKAT, 1,3,2; 2nd edn, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1921). Cf.
also his account in his introduction, Lehrbuch der Einleitung in das Alte Testament
(Tübingen: Mohr, 1912).
 Rachel and Leah 105

historical sources. This is apparent in the first sec­tion of his study on the settle­
ment. Even though he admits that the tradition about the earliest Israel is legend,
he nevertheless argues that it is possible through critical analysis to distinguish
primary themes from secondary elaborations, and use the former as historical
information.44
Steuernagel began his investigation with an analysis of the genea­logical sys-
tem in the Old Testament. He presented a model for inter­pre­tation which has
been important to many scholars working on this theme since.45 Steuernagel
unhesitatingly postulates that the existence in the Pentateuch of three differ-
ent kinds of genealogical lists is to be taken as proof of the existence of three
different stages in Israel’s development.46 Dealing with the genealogies, he
also applied a model for his inter­pre­tation, borrowed from Guthe, according to
which he saw it pos­sible to combine the genealogical information in the form
of a trustworthy history. He began with the existence of four tribes, named after
the four apical mothers: Leah, Rachel, Bilha and Zilpa. The names of these
represented more than merely four main groups of tribes; they were also the
names of four primary Israelite tribes, from which twelve tribes sprang after the
settlement.47 It was, however, not these four primary tribes, but a fifth, the tribe
of Ja­cob, which was the real tradent of the tradition. The tribe of Jacob alone had
been in Egypt and had fled from Egypt under the command of Moses, later to be
united with other tribes living in the Sinai – namely, the Rachel and Leah tribes.
The centre of this union was Kadesh Barnea. Later, the tribe of Leah left the
other tribes. As time passed, the tribes of Rachel and Jacob fused and left Sinai
to travel to Mesopotamia via the Transjordan. They were eventually forced by
Arameans to leave Mesopotamia and return first to northern Gilead and later to
the Cisjordan.48 Meanwhile, Leah’s tribe penetrated the country from the south
after its departure from Jacob and Rachel.49
Steuernagel offers an exact date for these events. In do­ing so, he refers to
Egyptian sources, especially the Amarna letters and Merenptah’s ‘Israel-stele’,

44. Steuernagel, Einwanderungen, 1.

45. Ibid., 1–11.
46. System I (i.e. 1st stage): Reuben, Simeon, Levi, Juda, Issachar, Zebulon, Di­nah, Naphtali,
Gad, Asser, Joseph. System II: Reuben, Simeon, Juda, Issachar, Zebulon, Dan, Naphtali,
Gad, Asser, Joseph, Benjamin. System III: Reuben, Simeon, Juda, Issachar, Zebulon,
Dan, Naphtali, Gad, Asser, Ephraim, Manasse, Benjamin. Cf. ibid., 3. This tripartite
system is still present in G. Foh­rer, Geschichte Israels (Heidelberg, 1977), 46f., cf. also
Fohrer, ‘Altes Te­stament – “Amphiktyonie” und “Bund”?’, ThLZ 91 (1966), 801–16,
894–904, repr. in his Studien zur alttestamentiichen Theologie und Geschichte (BZAW
115; Berlin, 1969), 84–119, 100f.
47. On the primary tribes, cf. Steuernagel, Einwanderungen, §§11–21: Lea; 21–28: Rachel,
and 28–31: Bilha and Silpa.
48. On the Jacob tribe, Einwanderungen, §6, 35–41, and further §9, 56–65. On Jacob in
Egypt, 100.
49. Ibid., third section. On the Amarna Letters, §16, 115ff. Steuerna­gel was only able to
dispose of a few proof sheets of Knudtzon’s edition of these letters, cf. ibid., 116. On the
‘Israel-stela’, cf. ibid., 113.
106 Biblical studies and the failure of history

which had been discovered and translated only a few years before the appear-
ance of Steuernagel’s study.50 The Exodus must, he suggested, be placed in
the second half of the fifteenth century bce. The settlement of the Leah tribe
took place at the begin­ning of the fourteenth century bce, coinciding with the
de­parture of the Jacob–Rachel tribe for Mesopotamia. The united Ra­chel–Jacob
tribe was again in Transjordan about 1860 to 1360 and crossed the Jordan River
circa 1340bce.51
There is no reason to detail the incredible amount of information in
Steuernagel’s historical reconstruction. He goes into the smallest detail in his
description of the prehistory of Israelite tribes. I have mentioned a few points of
his method but will not forget the importance of his conviction that the twelve
tribes did not emerge before the Israelite settlement in Pales­tine.52 More relevant
to us is his view on the relation be­tween the patriar­chal traditions and the set-
tlement narrative in Joshua. Steuernagel wrote his study during a period which
was not yet influenced by the firm conviction that the patriarchs belonged to a
period earlier than the Late Bronze Age. Therefore, accord­ing to Steuernagel,
who considered the patriarchal narratives legends, they must reflect conditions
no earlier than the Late Bronze Age and tell us the same story as the tradi­tions
in Joshua, though the wording is dif­ferent, and it is possible to extract informa-
tion from each stratum.53 The Jahwist was unaware of the later settlement of
the Rachel–Jacob tribe in central and northern Palestine, and only in­forms us
of the condi­tions – his is only a fragmentary report – of the settlement of the
Leah tribe in the southern part of the country.54 On the other hand, the narra-
tives in the Book of Joshua relate the settlement of the Jacob–Rachel tribe, and
Steuernagel considered this corpus of narra­tives – as most scholars then did –
Elohistic. Even in the Pentateuch, the Elohist only refers to the Jacob–Rachel
settlement.55 Accord­ingly, Steuernagel tried to harmonize the differences
between the conquest stories in Joshua and the Jacob traditions in Genesis.56
I see no reason to evaluate all of Steuernagel’s theo­ries about the settlement.
They are mostly dated, though some of his central ideas, such as the division

50. Cf. W. Spiegelberg, ‘Der Siegeshymnus des Merenptah auf der Flinders Petrie-Stele’,
ZÄS 34 (1896), 1–25.
51. Steuernagel, Einwanderungen, §16, 123–5.
52. Ibid., 7f.
53. In reality, Steuernagel is only interested in the Jacob tradition. Only occa­sionally does
he direct a few remarks to Abraham con­necting him with traditions which belong to the
southern part of Palestine. On the possibility of a historical identity between the events
contained in the Jacob tradi­tion and conquest stories in Joshua, cf. ibid., 86ff.
54. Ibid., §11: ‘Die Erzählung des Jahwisten’, 70–83.
55. Ibid., §12: ‘Die elohistischen Überlieferung im Buche Joshua’, 83–98, §13: ‘Die elohi-
stische Überlieferung im Buche Numeri’, 98–111.
56. The problem is the direction of the immigrants. Jacob came from the north, crossed the
Jordan at Adamiye, travelled on to Shechem and thereafter to Bethel. Joshua came from
the south, crossed Jordan at Jericho and travelled via Bethel to Shechem. On the other
hand, Steuernagel maintains that Josh. 3 con­tains remnants of an old tradition, according
to which Joshua had crossed the Jordan at Adamiye, cf. ibid., 88.
 Rachel and Leah 107

between a Leah and a Rachel group of tribes, are still very much in vogue,
as is his understanding of the temporal sequence of the stages of settlement.
Steuernagel’s study is perhaps the very best example of how a seemingly excel-
lent and logical reconstruction of the early history of Israel, based on extant
source material, tam­pers with the data and becomes thereby an exponent of the
arbitrary and wanton biblical research at the turn of this cen­tury. On the one
hand, we have a scrupulous endeavour to extract histori­cal information from
Old Testament sources; but, on the other, we have these same sources brutally
dismissed whenever they vary with the governing theory of the investigator.
It is without doubt possible to demonstrate that, in this case, the outline of
Steuernagel’s settle­ment must have been conceived before his analysis of the
source material.57 The result is that a strange fis­sure appears as Steuernagel stub-
bornly retains a historical nu­cleus of biblical narratives including the Bible’s
chronology,58 while trying to describe a development which cannot be recon-
ciled with the Old Testament picture of the origin of Israel.
It must be stressed, finally – and it is necessary to say this bluntly – that this
kind of approach owes its existence to his particular methodology, a very rigid
literary-critical analysis, con­ducted in a mechanical way. This method has never
been able to exert relevant his­torical information from the sources because
it was never constructed to do so. It is not a historical method, but a literary
approach. Another point is – and here Steuer­nagel and his contempo­raries are
not to be blamed – the confused knowl­edge of the sociologi­cal groups which
may have been active when Israel came into being.
There is one instance in which Steuernagel becomes uncertain, when he is
confronted with the problem of the habiru; but here he is able to refer to the
� Amarna let­ters in his possession.59
incomplete state of the edition of the He
seems to consider habiru to be simply nomads and he identi­fies habiru of the
Amarna letters with� the Leah tribe. It goes without saying that he considered
� the
mention of the habiru in the Amarna letters as evidence of the settlement of the
� days of Amenophis IV.60 He was very traditional in his view of
Leah tribe in the
the role of nomads in the Near East, and, as a result, he manipulated the various
nomadic tribes – which may never have ex­isted apart from in his own mind – as
if they were chess pieces. He never demonstrated any under­standing of the life
and culture of no­madic societies.

57. A couple of examples: Leah is secondary in comparison with Rachel in con­nection with
Jacob. For that reason, the tribes of Leah were never amalgamated with the Jacob tribe
as the Rachel tribes had been. This reconstruction pays homage to the fact than Rachel
was Jacob’s favourite spouse, but at the same time it for­gets that Leah was Jacob’s first
wife! Second, in the evaluation of the Jacob tradition in Genesis 31–33 and 35, all the
passages about Esau are considered ‘freie Dichtungen’; Steuernagel, Einwanderungen,
57. Third, the geographical information in Exodus 1 has no value at all; ibid., 114.
58. Ibid., 124. Steuernagel stresses that the 480 years be­tween the temple of Solomon and
the Exodus are historically correct, and not only 12 × 40 years.
59. Ibid., 116.
60. Ibid., 116ff.
108 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Eduard Meyer

Just as persistent in the use of the information contained in the genealogi­cal

systems in the Old Testament was Eduard Meyer in his Die Israeliten und
ihre Nach­barstämme.61 The methodology of Meyer and the results obtained
in his work are, however, extremely different from the viewpoint ex­pressed by
Steuernagel. Meyer does not endeavour to reconcile information in the genea-
logical lists with the narrative sections in the Old Testament, which concern the
prehistory of Israel. The immense scope of Meyer’s vision enabled him to write
a well-known history of the ancient Near East that is still worth reading today.
We are unlikely to meet such a self-conscious approach to ancient historical
sources elsewhere. This remark is valid whether we consider earlier schol­arship
or the state of the discipline today. As a rule, Meyer considered the historical
value of the Old Testament sources to be unexceptional, except for genealogical
information. When he turned to that, he generally presented a much more varied
evaluation of them than, for example, the awkward conclusions of Steuernagel,
although both scholars used the same source material. Whereas Steuernagel and
others seem inclined to consider the information in the genealogical systems to
be very old, Meyer ostensibly argued for an understanding of the kinship infor-
mation, which suggests that the lists tell us as much about the period in which
they were compiled as about the past. Meyer thus stressed that the genealogi-
cal lists are rather fragile sources on which to build a prehistory of Israel. On
the other hand, it is obvious he considers the genealogies the best source we
possess.
In his approach to Old Testament source material, Meyer built upon the results
of classical literary criticism. The results of this method were acknowledged
by him as beyond dispute, but not necessarily in its mechanical shape. Meyer
understood the Hexa­teuch to be stratified into the usual layers of Jahwistic and
Elo­histic tradition, followed by a Deuteronomistic usurpation of the Book of
Joshua and the addition of Deuteronomy and finally concluded by the Priestly
redaction of what was left after the Deuteronomists had severed Joshua from the
Hexateuch. He also considered it likely that both the Jahwistic and the Elohistic
layers should be subdivided into more than one stratum. He did not, however,
subscribe to the ideal solution of classi­cal literary criticism, but argued in favour
of a variant explanation, according to which the basic outline of the Hexateuch

61. E. Meyer, Die Israeliten und ihre Nachbarstämme (Halle: Max Niemeyer, 1906;
repr. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1967), including a contribution
by B. Luther (especially on the Jahwist). The presentation in the second volume of
Meyer, Geschichte des Altertums II 2 (Stuttgart: J. G. Cotta, 1931; repr. Darmstadt:
Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1965), is mainly a short resume of the content of
Die Israeliten, but here the conclusions are perhaps more pointed. This implies that the
appearance of Alt’s study on the settlement in 1925 had no consequence for Meyer’s
historical reconstructions. Perhaps it is fairer to suppose that he did not have the time to
adopt his own account to the new viewpoint.
 Rachel and Leah 109

was formed by the Jahwist. The Jahwist was not inter­laced at a later stage by
a redactional process with a corresponding volume of Elo­histic material. The
Elohist was more likely a redactor of the Jahwistic corpus. Thus, Meyer under-
scores the idea that the Elohist, in every respect, presupposes the existence
of the Jahwist, but also that the Elohist sometimes supplements the Jahwistic
stratum with its own reformulation of the Jahwistic tradition, and, at times, with
tradi­tions of his own. Finally, in order to appreciate Meyer’s evaluation, it is
important to notice that he con­sidered the Elohist of Israelite origin (c.800bce),
whereas the Jahwist, in his eyes, was a Judean (c.900bce).62
As already mentioned, Meyer’s starting point was the genealogical informa-
tion in the Old Testament in toto and not merely in the three different ver­sions
of the twelve tribe lists. He did not, however, consider this sys­tem of the twelve
tribes to be valuable historical information. He claimed that the lists of tribal
eponyms were not earlier than the He­brew Kingdom. He also disclaimed the
possibility of any relations of the tribal lists to historical realities which might
have triggered the appearance of the various systems. Thus, the so-called Dinah
tribe is fictitious. Dinah, the daughter of Jacob, is nothing but a literary device
invented by the author of the narrative in Genesis 34.63 In the same fash­ion he
denied that the tribal system in the lists of the twelve tribes is a source of very
old historical facts. This was partly due to the fact that it is impossible to name
a period in the history of Israel when all twelve tribes existed at the same time,
and partly because sys­tematization in accord­ with the four apical mothers is a
product of art. It should not be har­monized to agree with his­torical information
about the prehistory of various tribes.
It is possible, though, because of various genealogical data (which are dis-
persed throughout the Old Testament, but especially frequent in Genesis) to
describe the general cultural situation of Israelite tribes and their relations to
neighbouring tribal entities. The central sec­tions in the study of Meyer are
devoted to this kind of investigation and we expressly draw attention to the
chapter devoted to the ‘southern tribes’, which is very brief.64 At the same time,
Meyer is not naively arguing that the information contained in the sources is
very old and he does not disregard the importance of the lit­erary context or the
age of this context, which is important in dating the particular information. Only
on this basis does he draw conclusions about the history of the tribes.

62. The dates of J and E are clearly marked out in Meyer, Geschichte, 200. On the question
of E’s dependence on J or on the possibility that E was, in fact, trying to amend J, cf.
several dispersed remarks in Meyer, Die Israeliten: e.g., 17, on Exodus 3–4, 43, on the
Israelites in Egypt, and cf. especially B. Luther, Die Israeliten, 169. See also Meyer,
Geschichte, 200, where the whole problem is clearly expressed.
63. Meyer, Die Israeliten, 422f. Meyer does not attribute any historical value to the narrative
in Gen. 34. Should there be a historical nucleus, this is hardly anything but a reflection
of Abimelech’s dealing with Shechem in Judges 9. Genesis 34 is also at variance with
Genesis 35, where Jacob is depicted as living peacefully at Shechem; cf. Die Israeliten,
419.
64. Ibid., 299–471.
110 Biblical studies and the failure of history

On the basis of his meticulous analytical approach, Meyer presents us with

a detailed picture of Judah and the tribes which formed the Judean group. One
important point is that it is not possible to demonstrate any political or cultural
relationship be­tween southern and northern tribes before the early history of the
monarchy around 1000bce.65 Although the tribe of Judah originally settled the
mountainous region to the south of Jerusalem and the north-western part of the
Negeb,66 from a historian’s point of view, this tribe was comprised of several
smaller tribal entities of non-Judean origin. Meyer distinguishes between three
categories of tribes incorporated within greater Judah. The first category con-
sisted of Simeonite groups, but even though the tribe of Simeon had fused with
Judah in the historical period, it survived as a member of the ficti­tious system of
twelve tribes in its own right and was considered a true son of Jacob.67 The sec-
ond category enclosed small tribes such as Caleb, Jerahmeel and Othniel. From
a genealogical point of view, these tribes were considered to be of Edomite ori-
gin or they were counted among the other tribes in the south and not among the
Ju­deans, even as, from a political point of view, they belonged to a Judean tribal
system.68 The third category comprised the tribe of Levi. Levi was the name of
a class of priests in the historical period. Meyer, however, with Steuernagel,
considered the Levite priests to be scattered rem­nants of a Levite clan or group
which in the past had lived around Kadesh.69 Judah, itself, penetrated the coun-
try to the south, perhaps during the twelfth century bce, as the vanguard of a
greater in­vasion, in which several tribal groups took part. Hence, all of the
above-mentioned tribes settled in the south along with Edomites.70 In the Old
Testament, we have no im­portant sources pertain­ing to this settlement of Judah.
Among the settlement narratives in the Old Testament, there is not one which
tells of the arrival of Judah.71
That there are no demonstrated relations between the southern and north-
ern tribes before the reign of King Saul must have consequences for our
­understanding of how the system of twelve tribes was drafted on the basis of api-
cal mothers. This system must be fictitious because the Leah tribes are divided
between northern and southern tribes. Meyer’s explanation of the ­settlement of

65. Ibid., 40; cf. Meyer, Geschichte, 215.

66. Meyer, Die Israeliten, 437; Geschichte, 236.
67. On Simeon, Meyer, Die Israeliten, 409–428.
68. On the acceptance of foreign elements in Judah, ibid., 444f.
69. On Levi, ibid., 424ff. Meyer considered the relationship between Simeon and Levi
(Genesis 34; 49:7b) to be very old. He points to a settle­ment in the most southern part of
Palestine. Simeon and Levi was the original and true tribes of Leah (Levi is nothing but
an ethnicon formed on the basis of the PN Lea; ibid., 426). On the connection between
Levi and Kadesh, cf. ibid., 424; cf. also ibid., 446ff.; on Moses and his connection with
Kadesh and Levi (theories based on the analysis of the Mo­saic tradition, ibid., 1–103; cf.
also Meyer, Geschichte, 206ff.)
70. Meyer, Die Israeliten, 446.
71. Perhaps better formulated: in the Old Testament, there was no historical narrative which
has any value whatsoever as a source of information about Israelite settle­ment; cf.
Meyer, Geschichte, 213.
 Rachel and Leah 111

the northern tribes must therefore depart from the tradi­tional one based on the
dividing line between the Rachel and Leah tribes. According to Meyer, it is an
indisput­able fact that no northern tribe arose except in Palestine. The north­ern
tribes did not exist prior to the settlement itself.72
Only one tribe took part in the settlement: the tribe of Is­rael.73 The original
area of settlement of this tribe was the mountain­ous region in central Palestine
or, to be more precise, the Mountain of Ephraim. This area was the centre of
the centrifugal process during which the tribe of Israel or Joseph (Meyer was,
indeed, rather irresolute as to the true name of this tribe) dispersed to the north
and to the south, but also to the east to Transjordan. This process called the
various tribes into being; but the process itself never materialized in the estab-
lishment of a rigid system of tribes be­fore the monarchy. The situation was
always fluid and none of the tribes stopped their formative processes. Fis­sion
and fusion were common features of all of the tribes during the Period of the
Judges.74 The proc­ess was near its end as the Song of Deborah was composed,
although not totally closed. This is a reasonable argument in favour of a date
for the settlement itself far back in the history of Palestine. Ac­cording to Meyer,
the Song of Deborah belonged to the twelfth century bce and the settlement of
the Israelites must be placed several centu­ries earlier.75 As a matter of fact, the
description in the Amarna letters of troublesome political conditions in central
Palestine during the fourteenth century bce bears evidence of the beginning of
this Israelite settle­ment.76
The socio-political condition of the pre-monarchical period was considered
by Meyer as heroic. Israel was ruled by a tribal aristocracy and thus it appears
in the sources until the emergence of the monarchy. Consequently, Meyer con-
sidered the social structure of the Israelite tribal society to have been highly
stratified. Society was governed by rich landowners, a natural result of the grad-
ual process of settlement, which in the case of Israel was closed rather early.77
To the south, Judah was still half nomadic in the Period of the Judges.78 This
social structure created problems for political coher­ence in an Israelite tribe
and especially in the higher levels in the hi­erarchy. It influenced the relation-
ship between neighbouring tribes. A common political authority was normal in

72. Meyer, Die Israeliten, 506.

73. Ibid.; cf. also Meyer, Geschichte, 217: ‘Die Israeliten sind in Palaestina einge­drungen als
ein kriegerischer Wanderstamm mit fester millitärischer Organiza­tion’.
74. Meyer, Die Israeliten, 287ff., on the process which led to the fission of the House of
Joseph. Joseph himself was the cause of much problem for Meyer, as he ac­knowledged
himself in ibid., 293. On the individual Israelite tribes, cf. ibid., 510–42.
75. The date of the Song of Deborah, cf. ibid., 496.
76. Ibid. Meyer was even prepared to maintain that the original Israelite ‘Bedouins’ settled
already at the end of the fifteenth century bce. Cf. further Meyer, Geschichte, 214. The
identity between the habiru and the Hebrews was also commonplace for Meyer, and he
�
considered the habiru to have been nomads; Meyer, Die Israeliten, 225.
�
77. On the daily life of the Israelites after the settlement, cf. Meyer, Die Israeliten, 475. His
description of the hierarchical social structure, cf. ibid., 504.
78. Ibid., 475.
112 Biblical studies and the failure of history

a tribe, although its importance was curtailed. However, between the various
tribes, there were no permanent political relations but only small-scale leagues
or provisional alliances.79
Meyer admitted that, at least in theory, the amount of historical information
in the Old Testament about the origin of Israel was rather scanty; but, in his
recon­struction of early history, he refused to draw on the so-called historical
narratives in the Old Testament. At any rate, the value of these histori­cal nar-
ratives is slight or non-existent and basing a reconstruction of Israel on such
material was illusory.80 These sources express retrospectively an idea of the
emergence of Israel as a na­tional entity which belonged to a much later period
(i.e. to the early period of the monarchy).
This evaluation is also valid for the traditions about the patriarchs. In these
narratives, source material of a very different kind is included, even demytholo-
gizations of pre-Israelite heroic narratives about per­sons who might once have
been gods (e.g. Jacob, Joseph, Isaac and Esau).81 The literary context of the nar-
ratives about the patriarchs which are placed at the beginning of the national his-
tory, before the settlement of Israel under Joshua, forced the later history writers
– in casu J – to move the patriarchs out of Palestine again. For that ­rea­son, J
composed the Joseph history. This story is literary fiction and nothing else, and
it draws heavily on motifs borrowed from Egyp­tian fairy tales.82
A similar evaluation is presented concerning the narratives about the Israel­ites
in Egypt and the Exodus, as well as the settlement. The set­tlement nar­ratives are
nothing but a late writer’s (E) collection of tra­ditions which originally belonged
to the same milieu as the heroic narratives in the present Book of Judges. As
historical sources for the Israelite settlement, they have no value at all, or so
Meyer thought.83 The real problem is that the narratives are much later than the
events which form their themes. Although this is generally ac­knowledged, we

79. Cf. ibid., 507f. The changes in this system began with the rise of the monarchy.
80. Cf. ibid., 226. The earlier historical sources in the Old Testament concern events of the
late twelfth century bce. The oldest source is the Song of Deborah. In this connection,
it is important to notice that Meyer was prepared to accept that there are traces of an
old history book, but he is very imprecise here and never de­fines clearly what was the
importance, the content or the extent of this work. It is reasonable to think that he only
described traditions about the Period of the Judges, among which Meyer includes the
Abimelech narrative in Judg. 9, the original version of the narrative about Gideon’s
election to be king, Judg. 8:22ff. and the report on the migration of the Danites, Judg.
17. Cf. also Meyer, Die Israeliten, 226, on Abimelech and Gideon, and cf. ibid., 478f.
81. Cf. ibid., 472: ‘Hinter den abgeblaßten Gestalten des Esau, Jakob, Laban erkennen wir
die aus Göttern hervorgegangenen riesigen Heroen der Urzeit.’ The main treatment of
this subject is ibid., 249ff.
82. As concerns the story of Joseph, Meyer refers to the analysis of Luther in ibid., 141ff.
On the Egyptian motives which are used in this story, cf. ibid., 151. On the purpose of
the Joseph Story, cf. ibid., 229.
83. This opinion is most pregnantIy expressed in Meyer, Geschichte, 213: ‘Diese ganze
Darstellung [the conquest narrative in the Book of Joshua] steht in kras­sen Widerspruch
zu den zustanden, die wir beim Einsetzen wirklich geschichtli­cher Kunde überall finden,
und ist historisch völlig wertlos.’
 Rachel and Leah 113

must stress the fact that this implies that they are of no use as historical sources
without a critical pruning. Meyer, how­ever, argues that this procedure is, indeed,
unscholarly; it is merely an arbi­trary rationalization.84
Meyer’s approach is very important even today, especially when we try to
extract historical information from the source material in the Old Testament,
although his warnings against the tendency (Meyer himself says fashion) of
rationalization land on stony ground. The majority of Old Testament scholars
have, since his day, continued in the very practice he denounced. This does
not mean that his methods were infallible. A case in point is his use of the
genealogies (although reasonable in itself and demon­strating an awareness of
the fundamental problems involved) to produce a rational reconstruction of the
earliest history of Israel. In his ap­plication of the genealogical material, Meyer
was not very different from his contemporaries, because his evaluation of these
sources was determined by his preconception of the different sociological stages
of humanity and of the theory of development from one stage to the next. Meyer
was just as convinced of the no­madic prehistory of Israel, as Wellhausen and
Stade had been, not to speak of Steuer­nagel. His reconstruction is determined
by the old-fashioned classical interpretation of the Semites as nomads who were
always on the point of settling down in the civilized country in order to reach the
supposed higher status of agriculture. If this general view of the social develop-
ment is wrong, Meyer’s analyses, which are based on the genea­logical informa-
tion in the Old Testament, must be corrected, but this does not imply that they
are totally without value.

Franz Böhl

That Meyer’s evaluation of the sources is relevant for our discussion is demon-
strated by other contemporary reconstructions of the early history of Israel. The
general impression is, however, that scholars of this period tried to incorporate
the growing pile of sources from the ancient Near East as direct or indirect
information about the origin of Israel. It was hardly possible that the evalua-
tion and application of such sources were correct. Experience tells us that new
evidence only finds its proper reception over time. This is also true for evidence
for early Israel.
A fine demonstration of this postulate is Franz Böhl’s study Kana­anäer und
Hebräer of 1911.85 From a methodological point of view, this monograph was
a model study and counted as such by most scholars. Yet, a modern scholar will

84. Meyer returns to this problem at several occasions, most pointedly in Die Is­raeliten,
50. Cf. also 421 on his evaluation of the understanding of Genesis 34 among his con-
temporaries, and his contemptful remark on 424: ‘Überhaupt ziemte sich den im Alten
Testament überlieferten Sagen gegenuber eine viel großere Zurückhaltung, als sie gegen-
wartig von den theologischen Historikern geübt zu werden pflegt.’
85. F. Böhl, Kanaanäer und Hebräer. Untersuchungen zur Vorgeschichte des Volkstums und
der Religion Israels auf dem Boden Kanaans (BWAT 9; Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1911).
114 Biblical studies and the failure of history

soon recog­nize that nearly every conclusion or thesis is wrong, imprecise or

distorted. Many owe their existence to the fact that Böhl adhered to some now
dated assumption which he shared with most every scholar of the time – for
example, his uncritical acceptance of the classical theory of evolution and espe-
cially the idea of human races and their respective importance for determining
relationships be­tween peo­ples in or outside ancient Palestine. The main reason
for the apparent errors in Böhl’s study is, how­ever, that he was a pioneer in the
study of West Semitic peoples and among the first to sort out chaotic source
material in a systematic way.
Böhl presents a survey of the sources about the Canaan­ites, Hittites and
Amorites, respectively, and various other groups mentioned in the Old Testa­
ment. These are not cited in a haphazard way, but the sources are cited correctly
and arranged in proper categories, distinguishing citations from cu­neiform,
Egyptian, Phoenician and Greek documents (the last mentioned were still con-
sidered an important source around the turn of this century), as well as Old
Testament references.
The value of his conclusions varies widely. Böhl presents some relevant
observations concerning the Canaanites and the picture of Canaan in the Old
Testament, whereas his evaluation of Hittites has no value.86 Nor is his presenta-
tion of the Amorites of much value and the same must be said of his evaluation
of other peoples mentioned in the Old Testament, especially Hebrews, a term
he, like most scholars of his day, considered to refer to ethnicity.87 Accordingly,
he misunderstood the role of the Hebrews, which he at­tributed to a large tribe,
spread over a large area of the Near East.88 On the other hand, he was cau­tious
enough to argue that even though we are entitled to speak of a kind of identifica-
tion between Hebrews and Israelites, the two groups did not overlap. According
to the Old Testament, Hebrews were never totally identified with Israelites.89
His description of the Israelite settlement in the dec­ades just before the Amarna

86. On the Hittites, cf. ibid., 12–30. The main reason for his un­satisfactory treatment of
the Hittites is, of course, that in 1911 it was impossible to read Hittite inscriptions.
This explains why Böhl, for example, in Kanaanäer, 28, speaks about the presence of
a northern Arabian or south Palestinian tribe of the name Hatti, which should appear
�
in Neo-Assyrian documents. Böhl approaching the observation expressed in J. Van
Seters ar­ticle, ‘The Terms “Amorite” and “Hittite” in the Old Testament’, VT 22 (1972),
64–81; namely, that the Old Testament use of the terms ‘Amorite’ and ‘Hittite’ parallels
Neo-Assyrian usage, where Hatti is the name of the northern part of Syria west of the
�
Euphrates, whereas Amurru is the name of the southern part of Syria. Cf. also Böhl on
the designation Amurru, Kanaanäer.
87. Böhl, Kanaanäer, 73. Cf. also 89.
88. Ibid., 73.
89. Ibid., 67. Böhl anticipates the conclusions in M. Weip­pert’s excellent review of the
habiru in his Die Landnahme der israelitichen Stämme, (FRLANT 92; Göttingen:
�
Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1967), 102. As Weippert formulates it: ‘Hebräer ist ein
weiterer Begriff als Israeliten. Alle Israellten sind Hebräer, aber nicht alle Hebräer sind
Israeliten.’ In reality, it should have run thus: all He­brews are habiru, but not all habiru
� �
are Hebrews. Cf. also my Israel i Dommerti­den (Copenhagen: CEG. Gad, 1972), 118 n. 5.
 Rachel and Leah 115

Age should also be mentioned, understood as it was as a period of widespread

migration.90
In his evaluation of Israelite religion, finally, he stressed that it was very dif-
ferent from other religions in the Near East. Its origins, accordingly, must have
been special, go­ing back to Israel’s sojourn in the desert.91 He considered the
Old Testament account of Israel’s religious origins to be largely true, al­though
he placed the settlement of the tribes very early.

Hugo Gressmann

We find exactly the same pattern of explanations in other studies from this
period. It is not my intention to present a survey of every­thing written about
the origin of Israel. I will, however, mention some important studies to describe
what the general attitude was just before the appearance of Albrecht Alt’s 1925
study of Israelite settlement.
In this connection, it is useful to include one of the most im­portant studies
devoted to the Mosaic tradition and its historical basis. This work is an excellent
example of the methods used in the study of the pre-monarchical traditions in
the Old Testament, as classic literary-criti­cism was being supplemented by new
methods (especially form criti­cism). The work in question is Hugo Gressmann’s
Mose und seine Zeit, published in 1913.92
The first part of Gressmann’s study is devoted to a detailed survey of the
Mosaic tradition in the Hexateuch. Thereafter, he directs his atten­tion to a
­thorough discussion of the principles which govern the in­corporation of these
traditions within historical reconstructions.93 By and large, Gressmann agrees
with his elder colleagues in the general evaluation of sources. They are all leg-
endary. On the other hand, he argues that it is possible, on the basis of a meth-
odological exploita­tion of legendary stud­ies, to arrive at a historical nucleus of
the leg­ends, which is applicable in a modern historical reconstruction, whose
purpose is to inform us about Israel’s origin. The first principle of such research
is – according to Gress­mann – the isolation of invariable elements in the ­various
tradi­tions. Such elements are not the narrative themes connected with the liter-
ary genre of legend, but are proper and place names, as well as information
about such persons and places. The second principle is to sort out parallel mate-
rial in the legends.94 It is thus typical of legends about Moses that they contain

90. Böhl, Kanaanäer, 92.

91. Ibid., 101–102.
92. H. Gressmann, Mose und seine Zeit. Ein Kommentar zu den Mose-Sagen, (FRLANT NF
I (=18); Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1913).
93. Ibid., 345–92, Part II: ‘Literargeschichtliche Ergebnisse’.
94. Ibid., 364ff. If so, we may also recognize that Gressmann never accepted it possible
to reach more than the demonstration of probabilities. It would, however, have been a
major step forward if the implications of this evaluation had been understood by his con-
temporaries (including himself). This is still valid for scholars today because in modern
times scholars put forward theses as if they were facts. This has been most forcefully
116 Biblical studies and the failure of history

several double traditions. The size and shape of a tradition may be wholly unim-
portant and secondary and does not permit historical conclusions; but if certain
traditions appear in different versions and include com­mon features, this would
indicate the presence of an older layer of tradition, which might be used in
historical reconstruction. This is but a preliminary introduc­tion to Gressmann’s
understanding of the legends as sources, but it is enough to show that he thought
the Mosaic tradition contained a historical nucleus and that a correct analysis
of this tradition enabled us to grasp the nucleus and use it as a historical source.
It was then reasonable to maintain that the identity of results demonstrated
the usefulness of the method in question and supplied us with unfailing clues
for our own investigations. The embarrassing fact is, however, that a compari-
son of the results obtained by scholars who used Gressmann’s approach or an
approach similar to his discloses a totally different situation when it came to the
central questions about the prehistory of Israel. Moreover, even though they fol-
lowed a generally sound method, scholars often put too much weight on the Old
Testament itself. Consequently, it is often rather difficult to distinguish be­tween
proper history writing and a paraphrase of Old Testament narra­tive.
Gressmann himself often reached bold results by combining the biblical
tradition with his own observations, especially in the final part of his mono-
graph about Moses.95 On the basis of the sources from the Near East, he drew
­conclusions about the gen­eral char­acter of the history of Palestine in the Late
Bronze Age. In his opinion, these sources tell us about a large migration in the
area during which the Hebrew tribes settled in Palestine around 1500bce. This
wave of newcomers submerged all of Canaan. During the thirteenth century
bce, on the other hand, we find evidence of a smaller and ‘zanftere’ invasion.
The patriarchs should be viewed in the light of this situation as semi-nomads
who arrived in the southern part of Pal­estine before Moses (to place them later
is impossible, Gress­mann argues).96 At a later date, the Israelite emigration to
Egypt followed, which he compared to descriptions of the arrival of Bedouin
groups in Egypt, known from contemporaneous Egyptian sources.97 Gresssnann
estimates Israelite population in Goshen (i.e. Wadi Tumelat) to have been
about 5000 individuals, an evalua­tion he based on censuses of the local popula-
tion at the end of the last century.98 Fi­nally, the mention of Israel on Pharaoh

criticized by B. J. Diebner, ‘Es laßt sich nicht beweisen, Tatsa­che aber ist … Sprachfigur
statt Methode in der kritischen Erforschung des AT’, DBAT 18 (1984), 138–46. We are
often met with emotional rather than scientific arguments, even homiletic formulations,
and the mass of words shall apparently cover rather scanty source material. Especially
R. Kittel’s Geschichte des Volkes Israel (cf. below) is ‘enriched’ by such argumentation.
95. Gressmann, Mose, 393–424, Part III: ‘Profangeschichtliche Ergebnisse’.
96. Cf. ibid., 396ff., on the patriarchs and 399 on the early settlement of the Hebrews, but
also on the second wave of settlers. Gressmann considered the habiru to be part of the
�
Aramean migrations, which he dated between 1500 and 1300bce.
97. Ibid., 403. The source cited here and elsewhere is always Pap. Anastasi VI. Cf. ANET 3,
258.
98. Gressmann, Mose, 402. Already at the beginning of the present century the living condi-
tions in the area had changed. On previously rich grazing ground, there now lived a
 Rachel and Leah 117

Merenptah’s ‘Israel stele’ shows that Israel was back in Palestine before the
time of Meren­ptah, and, accordingly, the Exodus should be placed in the reign
of Ramesses II, circa 1260bce.99
The invariable element in the Exodus tradition is the remembrance of a deliv-
ery from Egypt at the Sea of Reeds. But the geographical locus for the crossing
of the sea must be decided on the basis of a more comprehensive investigation
of the wanderings from the sea to Mount Sinai and the interpretation of the
events at Mount Sinai, during which a volcano seems to have been erupting.
The description of volcanic activity points towards the north-western part of the
Arabian Peninsula (Midian). Thus, the crossing of the Sea of Reeds did not take
place at the Red Sea or somewhere along the line drawn by the present Suez
Canal, but at the Gulf of Aqaba.100 The main station of the Israelites during their
wanderings in the des­ert was, however, Kadesh Barnea or, to be more precise,
the envi­ronment of present day ‘Ain Quderat. Gressmann believed the Israel­
ites to have stayed here for an entire gen­eration.101 From Kadesh, the Israelites
penetrated Palestine to the south, a settlement process dur­ing which Judeans,
but also Calebites, Simeonites and Kenites, played a role.102 However, the most
important part of the Israelite settlement did not take place before the main body
of Israelites crossed the Jordan into Cisjordan, around 1230bce.103
Gressmann then turned to describe the consequences of these events for the
history of Israelite religion, which was far more important to him than simple
historical facts. His first point seems to contradict his theory of a crossing at
Aqaba because he also argued that the Israelites never themselves approached
the Moun­tain of God in Midian.104 The mention of Sinai owes its existence
to an old recollection which derived from the fact that Moses did not himself
invent the Yahwistic religion. The Hebrew tribes to the south had already, before
Moses, made their acquaintance with Yahweh from Sinai.105 Yahweh himself
was of Midianite origin, but his priest, Jethro, had brought his most important
shrine, the Ark, to Moses and Israel during their sojourn at Kadesh. This initi-
ated the instalment of Yahweh (Gressmann almost calls it the enthronement of
Yahweh) as the God of Israel for all time. Israel adopted Yahweh because Israel
recognized Yahweh to be the God who had saved them from the hands of the
Egyptians at the Sea of Reeds.106

r­ apidly expanding agricultural population. This development did not, however, begin
before the second half of the nineteenth century ce. When Gress­mann estimates the num-
ber of Israelites, who may have lived in this region, he relied on information obtained
from geographers and travellers in the area around the middle of the last century.
99. Ibid., 404.
100. Ibid., 409ff.
101. Ibid., 419ff. On the duration of the sojourn, cf. 422.
102. Ibid., 423.
103. Ibid., 424.
104. Ibid., 438.
105. Ibid., 435.
106. Ibid., 443. In the text, I have bypassed Gressmann’s eulogy of the person­ality of Moses,
but it should not be forgotten because it provides us with a classi­cal example of the
118 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Rudolph Kittel

Let us for a moment direct our attention towards the most volumi­nous his-
tory of Israel in those days, the one by Rudolph Kittel. In his history, we find
the same conviction expressed – that it is possible to use the legendary litera-
ture in the Old Testament for historical reconstruction – as was already main-
tained by older scholars. His results were, however, some­what different from
Gressmann’s.107 Kittel began his reconstruction with an identification of habiru
�
with Hebrews, considering habiru to have been an eth­nic group. He spoke of
�
a migration of Hebrew tribes, which began already early in the second millen-
nium bce and which resulted in a settlement in Palestine be­tween 1570 and
1550bce,108 in which the Old Testament patriarchs took part. Al­though Kittel
believed that the patriarchs were originally historical persons (e.g. tribal chiefs
or the like), he also considered them to be representatives of whole tribes among
whom they were remembered as part of the history of the tribe.109 The sequence
of tribes who participated in this early settlement is the same as the sequence
of patriarchs in Genesis: first Abraham, then Isaac and fi­nally Jacob.110 During
this early sojourn of Israelite tribes in Ca­naan, eight new tribes were formed:
the Leah tribes (although, accord­ing to Kittel, Leah herself was originally of
the same tribe as Levi).111 The Rachel tribes existed at this early date, but they
lived in the most southern part of Palestine and later emigrated to Egypt with
Judah and Simeon.112
Kittel’s section on the Mosaic tradition is also straightforwardly presented.
After having emphasized that at least the general pattern of the tradition is true
from a historical point of view, Kittel retained much more than the general pat-
tern. His evaluation of the various events differed, however, to some degree
from Gressmann’s. He vehemently opposed that Mount Sinai was situated in

impact which the time of the individual scholar has upon his historical reconstructions.
In his survey of Moses’s character, Gressmann mentions the following remarkable fea-
tures: ‘Energie, Arbeitskraft, Klugheit, Gerechtig­keitssinn’, and ‘Liebe zu seinem Volk’.
Perhaps it is imperial Germany’s ideal of a public servant? Cf. ibid., 479–80.
107. R. Kittel, Geschichte des Volkes Israel, I (Gotha: Friedrich Andreas Perthes, 1888), here
quoted after the sixth edn (Gotha: Leopold Klotz, 1925).
108. Ibid., I, 291ff.
109. Ibid., I, 270ff., on the patriarchs as historical persons and tribal chiefs.
110. Ibid., I, 296.
111. Ibid., I, 301. Already at an earlier point in his history, Kittel explained why the system of
twelve tribes is secondary, but nevertheless contained re­membrances of the developmen-
tal history of the Israelite tribes, ibid., I, 297–8. Dinah was considered by some scholars
to be the leftover of an extinct tribe of that name. Kittel, however, justly opposed such an
idea; ibid., I, 297. On the other hand, he incorrectly used the narrative about the birth of
Ja­cob’s sons, Genesis 29–30, as a source of tribal history, especially of the sequence in
which the tribes came into being. This sequence is hardly anything but a literary device;
cf. my Israel i Dommertiden, 106f.
112. Kittel, Geschichte, I, 301ff.
 Rachel and Leah 119

Arabia and the Sea of Reeds at Aqaba.113 Mount Sinai is to be placed at Kadesh
and was one of ‘the stately mountains around Kadesh’.114 The tradition which
is connected with Sinai concerns events which took place at Kadesh. Hereafter,
it was easy for Kittel to retain the traditions in the Old Testament about Moses
and the origin of the Yahwistic faith in Israel.115 Kittel’s date for the Exodus was
classical: the Exodus itself took place during the reign of Merenptah, circa 1220
bce, and Moses died twenty years later, circa 1200bce.116
In Kittel’s reconstruction of the Israelite settlement in Canaan we see a
characteristic combination of bold hypotheses and banal paraphrases of large
sections of the Old Testament. He considered the set­tlement to have been a
compact event. Israelites crossed the Jordan under the command of Joshua as a
unity. After that, the tribes dispersed to their future tribal territories, which they
conquered and settled on their own.117 The Israelite conquest was also facilitated
by the presence in Canaan of Israelite tribes, who had lived there for centu-
ries.118 If we are going to summarize the analysis by Kit­tel of the Israelite set-
tlement, this would point to the presence in Pales­tine around 1200bce of three
groups or categories of Israel­ites: tribes which settled in the country from the
sixteenth century bce; tribes which penetrated to the south and living in south-
ern Palestine; and the House of Joseph, which crossed the Jordan in Joshua’s
day. The union between these three groups was marked by general acceptance
of all Israelites of a Yahwistic faith, which was the outcome of a direct inven-
tion of Joshua. Joshua invited the tribes to send representatives to a diet to be
held at Shechem. The result of this was an alliance of all Israelite tribes.119 A
proc­ess of canaanization followed, which, which had serious consequences for
the Israelite mode of life, but also for religion, especially among common men.
The maintenance of a pure Yahwistic faith was hereafter a matter of religious

113. Ibid., I, 343ff. Kittel stressed that the earlier sources mentioning the place of Yahweh
are all of north Israelite origin. They do not demonstrate any precise knowledge of the
geographical localities since they just use the geo­graphical names Seir and Edom in a
general way for the regions to the south of Palestine. On the other hand, Kittel points at
the fact, perhaps as the first, that the argument that the description of the revelation at
Sinai indicates the experience of a volcanic eruption is naive and faulty. Clearly this part
of the narrative alone owes its existence to later ideas of theophanies. There is hardly any
reason to invest much effort in the endeavour to find still active volcanoes in the region
to the south of Palestine or to the south-east in order to consider which volcano was the
place of revelation. Cf. ibid., I, 348.
114. Ibid., I, 346. This is a very revealing remark since it illustrates how important a firsthand
knowledge of topography is for a precise historical-topog­raphical conclusion. There are,
of course, no stately mountains around the oasis of Kadesh.
115. Cf. ibid., I, 346ff., §35: ‘Der geschichtliche Hergang. Aufzug und Wüstenzug’, and
378ff., §36: ‘Mose und seine Religion’.
116. Date of the Exodus: ibid., I, 370 (cf. also 395). The death of Moses: ibid., I, 395.
117. Ibid., I, 406. Kittel’s claim that the biblical concept of the conquest followed a precon-
ceived general plan is true (i.e. the conquest followed a scheme which followed the
occupation of individual tribal territo­ries).
118. Ibid., I, 422.
119. Ibid., I, 438.
120 Biblical studies and the failure of history

elite, which consisted of the priestly class living at religious centres, especially
the sanctuary of Shiloh.120

Ernst Sellin

The reconstruction of Israel’s prehistory in the second important his­tory of the

period, by Ernst Sellin, follows a path much the same as Kittel’s – though with
many minor differences.121 Sellin imagined an early Israelite settlement circa
1500bce and related this to habiru/Hebrews in line with many scholars of his
day, who reckoned them to� be of Aramean origin.122 Among these Hebrews
was also a tribe called Israel. This was, however, not identical with the later
Israelite nation since it was only a tribal group which was called by this name.123
The patri­archs are the representatives of this early Israelite group and, accord­
ingly, they must have been historical tribal leaders. Of these, popular tradition
made heroes and later demi-gods.124 This was common knowledge, but when it
came to a distinction be­tween Leah and Rachel tribes, Sellin departed from then
­common opinion. He denied that such schematization reflected historical condi-
tions. The tribal system was merely a secondary expression of the re­lationship
existing between various smaller tribes and the central tribe, Israel. Both
Abraham and Isaac, along with Jacob, were represen­tatives of tribes; Abraham
around Hebron, Isaac in the Negeb and Jacob in central Palestine.125 The second
Israelite settlement took place during twelfth century bce and forced previous
Israelite settlers in central Palestine to disperse. Sellin apparently follows the
earlier theory of Steuernagel that the tribes of Leah originally belonged to cen-
tral Palestine, only to be forced to leave this area and travel to the less central
regions after the arrival of a second wave of immigrants.126
Sellin has little to say about an Israelite sojourn in Egypt. From a cultural
historical perspective, such a sojourn is possible, but it is impossible to decide
whether Joseph was ever a his­torical person. Nevertheless, it is the easiest solu-
tion to maintain that the story is based on some historical facts.127 If we con­tinue
this survey of Sellin and mention his view on the Exodus and desert traditions,
we discover that he offers a third variant in contrast to both Gressmann and
Kittel. He asks why Moses should not have been attached to both Mount Sinai
and Kadesh.128 Sellin did not reckon the role of Moses to have been just as deci-
sive in the early history of Israel as had many of his col­leagues. The ­tradition

120. Ibid., II (fifth and sixth edn; Gotha: 1923), 55ff.

121. E. Sellin, Geschichte des Volkes Israel, I (Leipzig: Quelle and Meyer, 1924).
122. Ibid., I, 23ff.; on the Aramean connection, Geschichte, I, 27.
123. Ibid., I, 26.
124. Ibid., I, 29ff.
125. Ibid., I, 33–4.
126. Ibid., 1, 94ff.
127. Ibid., 54.
128. Ibid., 1, 67.
 Rachel and Leah 121

about Moses was embellished in many respects in the different sources. There
is nothing, in fact, which proves that Moses was origi­nally considered to have
been a Levite or priest. He was an ordinary shep­herd like the majority of his
kinsmen. Only the priestly source contains an expressed acknowledgement of
Moses as a member of the tribe of Levi. The first meeting between Moses and
the historical Levites took place at Kadesh, but this is not evidence for the
descent of Moses.129
Only one thing is certain concerning the early life of Moses, Sellin argues:
the flight to Midian.130 Although Moses introduced Yahweh to Israelite fugi-
tives from Egypt, he did not turn Yah­wism into the national religion of Israel.
Before he could achieve this, he was murdered by rebellious Israelites during
their sojourn in Transjordan, or so Sellin postulated.131 The honour of being a
true advocate of Yahweh is bestowed on Joshua, as is well recognized from
Joshua 24.132
The historical reconstruction of the settlement by Sellin is, on the other hand,
not very different from Kittel’s. Even Sellin talked about a greater united migra-
tion into central Palestine, followed by an expul­sion of the Israelite population
that had lived there for many years.133 Finally, Sellin presents us with fixed dates
for most of the events during this early period. Moses died circa 1200bce, and
Joshua circa 1190bce, while Deborah quickly conquered the Canaanite coalition
circa 1170bce and Gideon fought against the Midia­nites just twenty years later,
followed by the acts of Abimelech after another twenty years, etc.134 Kittel’s
descrip­tion of the Period of the Judges does not deviate in any ­important respect
from that presented by his contemporaries. Kittel also stressed the consequences
of Canaanite culture on the Isra­elites, the result of which was that Israelite folk
religion did not change in any important respect before the exile.135

C. F. Burney

I close this survey of the study of early Israelite history from 1878 to 1925
with a few remarks about the most important monograph on this subject by a
scholar who was not a member of the commu­nity of German biblical scholars

129. Ibid., I, 80. Also Sellin had his bet on the character of Moses. The older traditions are
supposed to tell about a man ‘von eisener Energie, Leiden­schaft, ja Jähzorn’, whereas
the younger have mollified this impression by show­ing Moses to be meek; Geschichte,
I, 79.
130. Ibid., I, 80.
131. Ibid., 1, 77–8. Cf. 94: ‘Die Ermordung ihres Führers wurde für die Moseschar das Signal,
die Gefilde bei Sittim zu verlassen’.
132. Ibid., I, 97ff.
133. Ibid., I, 96.
134. Ibid., I, 139ff. Sellin sometimes seems rather blood thirsty. He also ‘murders’ Gideon or,
to be precise, Jerubbaal, whom he considered Gideon’s elder brother; ibid., I, 110.
135. Ibid., I, 14.
122 Biblical studies and the failure of history

– namely, C. F. Burney’s Israel’s Settle­ment in Canaan.136 This analysis of the

biblical tradition fol­lows the general lines laid down by his German colleagues,
especially Gressmann and Kittel. In many ways, Burney was critically oriented
towards the biblical tradition and he doubted particularly the validity of the
biblical chronol­ogy and the sequence of personalities from Moses to David.137
Nevertheless, Burney managed to present a reconstruction, independent of the
biblical version. When he, however, departed from the biblical narrative, he
was just as speculative as were German scholars. A résumé of Burney’s view
of the origin of Israel shows that he, as well as, for example, Steuernagel, could
speak about an early Israelite wave of immigrants in Palestine, in which (in
Burney’s ver­sion) five of the later Leah tribes took part.138 The tribe of Jo­seph
then moved into Palestine from Egypt under the leadership of Moses and later
Joshua. This Joseph tribe invaded Palestine from the east. Before the arrival
of the Joseph tribe – or, at least, simultaneously – there was a gradual penetra­
tion into southern Palestine of clans of rather heterogeneous origin: Calebites,
Jerahmeelites, Kenites (from Kadesh), etc. All of them later became part of the
mixed tribe of Judah, to which also the Simeonites belonged. This tribal medley
lived practically isolated from other Israelite tribes during their ear­liest history
in Palestine.139
In the final section of his monograph, Burney considers the impor­tance of
‘external evidence’, although without drawing essentially new conclu­sions. The
only result of his discussion of the prob­lem of the habiru is that habiru was
the name of a tribe.140 On the other hand, he did not �think that this �designation
was very important in the Amarna letters since he believed that the logogram

136. C. F. Burney, Israel’s Settlement in Canaan: The Biblical Tradition and its Historical
Background (The Schweich Lectures, 1917; first edn, London: Oxford University Press,
1918; third edn, 1921).
137. Burney deals with the biblical chronology in Israel’s settlement, 4–5. The list runs:
Moses, Joshua, Othniel, Ehud, Barak, Gideon, Jephtah, Samson, Eli, Samuel, Saul,
David – in all, twelve names representing twelve generations, in accor­dance with the
notice in 1 Kgs 6:1 that the period from the Exodus to the temple of Solomon comprised
480 years (i.e. twelve generations of each forty years).
138. Burney, Israel’s Settlement, 52.
139. On the settlement and composition of Judah, cf. ibid., 30–31. The specific origin of Judah
and its prehistory also explains Judah’s and Simeon’s later isolation in comparison with
the northern tribes, reflected in the Song of Deborah, which does not contain any mention
of the southern tribes. In Burney’s time, this relationship was generally explained as the
result of the presence of a Canaanite enclave in central Palestine (Jerusalem, Beeroth
and Gibeon), which formed a barrier to the free communication between northern and
southern tribes. Only Sellin opposed the idea, in his Geschichte, I, 106. Sellin was right
– as seen from his own perspective. If the habiru were able to move freely around in
�
the whole area in the Amarna Age and if the habiru were nomads, a more than usually
�
determined effort was needed if the Canaanite city-states were to prevent the yearly
migrations of the nomads. This would also be valid in the case of Judah or Israel, if these
tribal groups were nomadic at the time. The argument is, however, invalid if the tribes
were already settled in the Period of the Judges.
140. Burney, Israel’s Settlement, 73.
 Rachel and Leah 123

SA.GAZ (which, by the way, shows up much more frequently in these letters
than the phonetic spelling habiru) did not concern the habiru. The SA.GAZ
�
should be phonetically spelled habbatum, ‘brigands’, or� so he believed.141 In
�
line with Ger­man scholars, he related the patriarchs to the Arameans – he even
spoke about a small Aramean tribe with the name Rebecca.142 Finally, Burney
dated the Exodus to the reign of Merenp­tah, identifying the ‘oppressor of Israel’
with Ramesses II.143

Rachel and Leah – today

It is possible to isolate five characteristic traits of the concept of Israelite history

around the turn of the century:

1. First and foremost we may stress the amount of very detailed ac­counts of
the earliest history of Israel which appeared in those days and which dwarf
most of what has appeared since then.144 We are immediately tempted to
ask whether it is possible to know as much as scholars claimed? There
are, however, other reasons for the size of, for example, Rudolph Kittel’s
Geschichte des Volkes Israel, to which I shall re­turn.
2. The extent of the discussion about the epistemological problems of histor-
ical research is negligible. Also negligible are references to such a discus-
sion in other disciplines, especially in gen­eral history. The consequence
is not any lack of methodological con­sidera­tions as to the correct usage of
the biblical sources (see also points 3 and 5), but a too uncritical accept-
ance of the biblical account in its main points. Nobody was – so to speak
– discouraged by the unique character of Israelite history.
3. The lack of methodological reflection has two consequences. First, schol-
ars tried to reproduce the biblical tradition as far as possible. The result
was a ‘rationalistic paraphrase’, to use an expression coined by Mario

141. Ibid., 66–7. His evidence is EA 299:26: LÙSA.GAZ.MEŠ-tum. This example can hardly
be valid for all other instances of SA.GAZ in the Amarna letters, where this -tum is
lacking. Cf. also J. Bottéro, Le problème des habiru à la 4e rencontre assyriologique
�
internationale (Cahiers de la Société asi­atique 12; Paris: Impremerie nationale, 1954),
110 n.
142. Burney, Israel’s Settlement, 85. It is tempting to cite E. Meyer’s scornful remark of how
grotesque such a naive usage of the tribal names is in the reconstruction of tribal history.
If we were supposed to do the same with the per­sonal names in the Homeric epic, Helena
might have been a tribe, which by force had been removed from its home territory by
the cruel tribe of Trojans, followed by a tribal war between local tribes provoked by this
event; cf. Meyer, Die Israeliten, 423.
143. Burney, Israel’s Settlement, 83.
144. It is true that R. de Vaux’s Histoire ancienne d’Israël (Paris: Lecoffre, 1971–3) was
planned to surpass all earlier histories of Israel in size and thoroughness, but this opus
was never finished. De Vaux reached only the Period of the Judges, and this far only
fragmentarily.
124 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Liv­erani in his char­ac­teri­zation of much study of ancient historical sourc-

es.145 Such rationalistic paraphrase was not just a repro­duction of biblical
narrative in other words, but an endeavour to harmonize the biblical nar-
rative with what is historically acceptable or even probable. Such a para-
phrasing technique usually recounts single narratives about the prehistory
of Israel; but it was also applied to the whole historical development of
Is­rael, including the biblical chronological scheme.
  Second, when Old Testament sources are silent, scholars are gen­erally
prone to produce what is best termed a speculative reconstruction of his-
torical events, and as such rely on the imaginative force of the scholar in
question and his ‘common sense’. Common sense is not criti­cized here;
but when it leads to argumentation such as ‘although nothing is sure, it is
a fact that …’,146 the result may not be very useful.
4. Between 1878 and 1925, ‘external evidence’ grew steadily. These sources
became extraordinarily important for the study of Israelite history because
scholars understood such sources to be of greatest importance. They
­presented primary evidence. Soon, scholars also acknowledged that it
could be difficult to reconcile infor­mation from the ancient Near East
with Old Testament evi­dence, especially if the subject is the pre-monar-
chic history of Is­rael. It is also true that such harmonizing tendency was
the goal of much historical research of the time. Old Testament scholars
­generally tried to arrange the ancient Near Eastern sources in such a way
that the bibli­cal history was largely unaffected. Although one was allowed
to criticize it on individual points, it is easy to understand from a psycho-
logical point of view why scholars preferred this solution to a di­lemma
of contradictions. Pan-Ugaritism, after the discovery of the Ras Shamra
tablets in 1929, or the massive interest in Mari prophecy, after the discov-
ery of its ar­chives, are only two examples of this tendency. Scholars are
now – at last – a little more cautious as a hesitant reception of the Ebla
texts suggests.
5. The missing theory of history may also be reflected by the use of the Old
Testament narrative and especially by the methods developed for the study
of the texts, not least by Hugo Gressmann. The methods were in­vented to
deduce historical information from biblical legen­ds. It might have been
better if scholars had paid more attention to the opinions of other folklor-
ists than Germans, and especially listened to scholars who were not so
convinced of a historical nucleus of legends and sagas as biblical scholars
have traditionally been. Among the better known of the stu­dents of leg-
ends at that time was the Dane Aksel Olrik, who wrote his laws for leg­
endary research in open opposition to the ‘German school’. He stressed
that the narrative con­tents of a legend are primary in ­comparison with the

145. Cf. especially his ‘Storiografla politica hittita – II: Telipinu, ovvero: della soli­darietà’,
OA 16 (1977), 105–31, especially 105–8. Cf. already M. Liverani, ‘Problemi e indirizzi
degli studi sul Vicino Oriente antico’, Cultura e Scuola 20 (1966), 72–9.
146. Cf. Diebner, ‘Es läßt sich nicht beweisen’, DBAT 18 (1984), 138ff.
 Rachel and Leah 125

peoples or places mentioned by the legend.147 This does not mean that the
narrative is his­tory, whereas the persons or places are not. In the patriar-
chal narratives, most of the locali­ties are, of course, historical facts, with
only a few exceptions, like Sodom or Gomorrah. We are, accordingly,
entitled to sup­pose that most localities were in existence when the narra-
tives were composed; but whether they also existed in the remote past, in
the so-called Patriarchal Period, is a different question. The connec­tion
between persons and places in a narrative is not a mat­ter of course; but the
relationship between the events, the persons and the localities is casual,
which means that we must not accept that such relations are an a priori
fact.148

In modern Old Testament scholarship, the honour must go to John Van Seters
for calling attention to Olrik’s now more than 75-year-old rule for legendary
research, not because the rules themselves are the final truth, but because they
represent an alternative to the rules for legendary research on which too much
study of Israelite history has blindly relied.149
The modern idea of the historical value of biblical tradition about the pre-
history of Israel may best be illustrated by a couple of citations relevant to the
­traditions of the Rachel and Leah tribes. The authors are Sigmund Mowinckel
and Martin Noth. I hereby by­pass the much more conservative accounts by
William F. Albright and his disciples.
In his Festschrift article for Otto Eissfeldt, Mowinckel concludes his study:

Eine Proto-israelitische Gruppenbildung: Rahelstämme und Lea-stämme

vor der Einwanderung hat es nie gegeben, wie auch die Unterscheidung von
Vollbrüdern und Halbbrüdern nur teilweise geschicht­liche Realität entspricht.
Praktisch-politische Bedeutung hat die Einteilung des Schemas nie gehabt,
wohl aber die ideologische, den Vorrang Judas zu begründen.150

In his Geschichte Israels, Martin Noth contrarily acknowl­edges that the

text’s relating of systematization into the Rachel and the Leah tribes has nothing
to do with the settlement of the Israelite tribes, since he ex­plains the exis­tence
of these groups of tribes on the basis of his amphictyonic hypothesis. According
to this theory, Leah tribes were the original members of an early league of six
tribes, which preceded the establishment of the Israelite amphictyony of twelve
tribes. On the other hand, the existence of two main groups of tribes also re­flects

147. The laws of Olrik were published in a German translation as ‘Epische Gesetze der
VoIksdichtung’, Zeitchiift für deutsche Altertum 51 (1909), 1–12. A short résumé in
English is present in J. Van Seters’s Abraham in History and Tradition (New Haven, CT:
Yale University Press, 1975), 160–61.
148. Cf. further my Early Israel, 379ff.
149. Van Seters, Abraham, 160–61, and passim.
150. S. Mowinckel, ‘“Rahelstamme” und “Leastamme”’, in Von Ugarit nach Qum­ran
(Festschrift Otto Eissfeldt; BZAW, 77; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1958), 129–50, cf. 150.
126 Biblical studies and the failure of history

a historical reality, or so Noth maintains: ‘Weder die Auswahl gerade dieser

zwölf Namen noch die Tatsache, daß das System in Zwei verschiedenen …
Formen überliefert ist … lassen sich erklären, wenn man das ganze System auf
eine mehr oder weniger freie Kom­bination zückführt.’151
But Noth does not link the system to the historical conquest of Palestine (in
his account of the settlement, he does not even men­tion the tribes of Leah or
Rachel), but with conditions in the tribal society in the Period of the Judges.
Nevertheless, the partition of the tribes accord­ing to the principle of the apical
mothers has not lost its Sitz im Leben in pre-monarchical Israel. Mowinckel is
basically of the same opinion, although he is only prepared to speak about a
historical reality based on the idea that the system had to give prominence to
the tribe of Judah.
Noth’s amphictyonic hypothesis determined a whole generation of Old
Testament scholars’ way of thinking. This remark is also true for the dis­ciples
of Noth, other European scholars and for the com­peting school of Albright.
Thus, John Bright (in the first edition of his A History of Israel) maintains that
the partition into Rachel and Leah tribes is not due to the history of the conquest,
but to conditions in the amphictyony in the Period of the Judges. Bright con-
cludes that it goes without saying that both elements of Rachel and Leah tribes
were in Egypt.152 A partition according to apical mothers should not, therefore,
be seen in the light of a separate history of settlement of two groups, but owes
its existence to conditions in pre-monarchical Israel in Palestine.
We find the same general idea of the early history of Israel in sev­eral
European histories of Israel, even outside Germany. It is clearly present in the
work of some newer Scandinavian historians (i.e. Eduard Nielsen and Benedikt
Otzen).153 The former wrote his account of the history of Israel totally under
the spell of the amphictyonic hypothesis, whereas the latter acknowledged the
fact that this thesis was proven invalid. Never­theless, in their reconstructions
of early history, both retain large sections of the old theories about the Israelite
conquest, irrespective of whether or not they mention the Rachel or Leah tribes
by name. The description of the two waves of invasions by Eduard Niel­sen
is domi­nated by the so-called ‘Spiegelbergian hypothesis’, whereas Benedikt
Otzen speaks of two waves of invasion, the one reflected by the patriar­chal nar-
ratives, the other by the conquest narratives in the Book of Joshua.154
At this point it may have been interest­ing to review a series of modern his-
tories of Israel in the same man­ner as we have surveyed earlier histories. It is,
on the other hand, hardly necessary, since the newer histories are ­presumably

151. M. Noth, Geschichte Israels (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1950), 85.
152. J. Bright, A History of Israel (London: SCM, 1960), 125–6.
153. E. Nielsen, Grundrids af Israels historie (2nd edn; Copenhagen: CEG Gad, 1960);
B. Otzen, Israeliterne i Palæstina (2nd edn; Copenhagen; CEG Gad, 1982).
154. Nielsen, Grundrids, 38–43. E. Nielsen, however, notices that the Spiegelbergian hypoth-
esis in its original form was too simplistic to account for the much more complicated
historical process of settlement; ibid., 42. Cf. fur­ther Otzen, Is­raeliterne, 75–95 (a chap-
ter with the heading ‘The Two Waves of Settlement’).
 Rachel and Leah 127

well known. Let us therefore mention only a few examples, concentrating on the
question of Rachel and Leah. Siegfried Herrmann pays no attention to the divi-
sion into Rachel and Leah tribes, and his evaluation of this question is very much
the same as Mowinckel’s. The partition has nothing to do with the conquest, but
reflects the areas in which the tribes settled in pre-monarchical Israel.155
Other scholars, however, still maintain the idea of two or more sepa­rate
Israelite settlements and think that this is reflected by the division of the land
according to apical mothers. Roland de Vaux endeavoured to connect the two
groups with two different exoduses from Egypt, but he has not been followed
in this. His theory is a vivid example of the level of rational paraphrase of his
Histoire ancienne.156 A more classic reconstruction of the process of settlement
is that of Georg Fohrer, since he, much as earlier scholars, speaks of Israel’s
four pri­mary tribes and their respective settlements. Fohrer also main­tains the
traditional idea, according to which the tribes of Levi and Simeon lived in cen-
tral Palestine only to be driven away by the arrival later of the Rachel tribes.157
Finally, Herbert Donner, in his new Geschichte des Volkes Israel and in spite
of many reservations, which try to explain the amount and purpose of the genea-
logical speculation in early Israel, argues in favour of view­points very much
the same as Fohrer’s. Therefore, Donner does not believe that a land division
according to apical mothers is merely a product of late speculation. In reality,
he operates with several waves of immigration.158
There is really no need to continue the specific theme of the Rachel and Leah
tribes. This subject was chosen as a single example among many of a general
problem. The problem is plainly that we want to know more than is possible. In
my Early Israel, I stressed two rather common-place axioms:

1. Our most impor­tant duty is to acknowledge our ignorance.

2. Once we have acknowledged that ignorance, we are in a position to
acknowl­edge what we really do know.159

These axioms originated in a despera­tion which had accumulated over years of

unsuccessful endeavours to reconcile the Old Testament description of Israel’s
past with our primary data from the second millennium bce. Because it is nearly
im­possible to harmonize even a single piece of specific information from the
second millennium bce with the Old Testament account in any reasonable way,

155. Cf. S. Herrmann’s excursus in his Geschichte Israels in alttestamentlicher Zeit (2nd ed.;
München: Chr. Kaiser, 1980), 137–39.
156. De Vaux, Histoire ancienne, I, 358. The most thorough and critical review of the Histoire
ancienne has been published by M. Liverani, in OA 15 (1976), 145–59. Liverani actually
stresses that the Histoire ancienne by de Vaux fails as a synthesis since it contains far too
much paraphrase and analytical argumenta­tion.
157. G. Fohrer, Geschichte Israels (Heidelberg: Quelle and Meyer, 1977), 52.
158. H. Donner, Geschichte des Volkes Israel und seiner Nachbarn in Grundzügen, I
(Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1984), 61.
159. Lemche, Early Israel, 414.
128 Biblical studies and the failure of history

I had to con­clude that there is no agreement to be reached and, accordingly,

since the docu­ments from the ancient Near East are primary sources containing
facts and because data cannot be in contradiction, there must necessarily exist
a different common denominator between biblical narra­tive and ancient Near
Eastern sources. There may be no denominator at all, at least not on the histori-
cal level.
Let us consider for a moment the five points mentioned above as characteris-
tic of older historical research from Wellhausen to Kittel in order to appreciate
how they survive among modern scholars today. Such a procedure may also
help us to understand why so much modern historical research sticks to posi-
tions which are clearly obsolete.
The first point was the extremely detailed account of the oldest his­tory of
Israel. Today, the situation has changed a bit. Generally understood histories
of Israel are today more synthetic than analytic in character. They are more
interested in the description of the general lines than in a paraphrase of the Old
Testament. Of course, there are exceptions as, for example, the solidly para-
phrastic His­toire ancienne by de Vaux or the similarly conservative paraphrases
of Exodus and desert traditions by Siegfried Herrmann.160 Of course, there also
exist rationalistic paraphrases in the shorter histo­ries of Israel, as in the vol-
umes by Georg Fohrer, Andre Lemaire and Hendrik Jagersma (brevity is no
guarantee against paraphrase), or in a full-scale history like the one by Herbert
Donner.161 Donner’s history also discloses another attitude since the consider-
able size of his book is not due to the amount of paraphrase, but to the amount
of reservations, forced upon him because of his adherence to the Alt-Nothian
recon­struction of pre-monarchical history, while he is simultaneously forced to
leave out of consideration Alt’s and Noth’s basic model of the pre-monarchical
Israelite society, the amphictyony of the twelve tribes.162

160. De Vaux, Histoire ancienne, I; vol. II is, of course, much less thoroughgoing since it
contains only a collection of sketches and preliminary studies of the Pe­riod of the Judges.
The neo-conservative attitude of Herrmann is well known and was already present in his
Israels Aufenhalt in Ägypten (SBS, 40; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1970). As a
matter of fact, his attitude is deceptive because more than twenty years ago he published
an important contribution to a re-evaluation of the early history of Israel as ‘Das Werden
Israels’, TLZ 87 (1962), 561–74.
161. Fohrer, Geschichte; A. Lemaire, Histoire du peuple hébreu (Paris: Presses Universitaires
de France, 1981); H. Jagersma, A History of Israel to Bar Kochba (London: SCM, 1994).
162. Of course, there is evidence of some fundamental problems for the study of the history
of Israel when the treatment of the prehistory reaches a quite inappropriate size, whereas
the period of the monarchy – not to speak of the exilic and post-exilic periods – receives
scant attention. It is quite normal to see when we reach the era of David and Solomon
that more than half of a his­tory of Israel is finished, although the known history of Israel
only begins at this point. The reason is not merely that it is easier to discuss at length
what is not known than what is well known. The attitude of the historians, rather, reflects
the modern ideology according to which the oldest is automatically the best be­cause
it is original and genuine. Therefore, it is important to the historian that the Israelite
society, its culture and religion and, at least, the essential content of its literature had
obtained the final form before the introduction of the monarchy. The monarchy should
 Rachel and Leah 129

Another reason for comprehensiveness is the solid re­view of the ancient

Near Eastern sources and of the archaeological evidence in Donner’s history.
Donner’s problem must therefore be placed on another level and is basically
rooted in his endeavour to retain a heuristic model which has lost its natural Sitz
im Leben. Ob­viously his reconstruction of the history of Israel has lost in inner
co­herence in comparison with his ideal model, that of Martin Noth.
My second point concerned the rather modest amount of theoreti­cal historical
considerations. It would be wrong to speak of a general change here today. The
short Geschichte by Fohrer contains practi­cally nothing. Fohrer only concludes
that the shape of the tradi­tion prevents a continu­ous description of the histori-
cal development.163 Herrmann’s defence of his paraphrasing ­reconstruction of
Israel’s history may be placed in the same class.164 Evidently, Herrmann pre-
sumes that the Old Testa­ment contains sources which are applicable to a his-
torical reconstruction after the specific idea of history present in the sources is
acknowledged and removed from the account. Among several other scholars we
simply mention Donner, who in principle is totally in agreement with this view
on the biblical sources.165 Quite different notes are struck in the con­tributions of
Thomas L. Thompson and Dorothy Irvin to the history of Israel edited by John
H. Hayes and J. Maxwell Miller, or in the new history of Israel by J. Alberto
Soggin.166 In these contributions we are met by the confession that it is, in fact,
possible that the Old Testament description of Israel’s earliest history does not
contain historical infor­mation relevant to the pre-monarchical period, for which
reason, the pre-state period must be described by criteria. In a way, Martin Noth
himself laid the foundation many years ago for such an evaluation in his famous
re­marks about the historicity of Moses (i.e. that we do not know anything about
Moses except that Moses died and was buried, but nobody knows where).167
An attitude like Noth’s is, however, often met by a claim of disbe­lief: if
Moses had not existed it would have been necessary to invent him! The reason
is, of course, that if we try to retain the unique his­tory of Israel there must have
been a primus agens such as Moses to commence the nation’s history; if not,

not be allowed to have contributed to the Israelite tradi­tion in any positive way. See this
emphatically in the general attitude of a major work in N. K. Gottwald, The Tribes of
Yahweh (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1979). Gottwald’s entire work is permeated by
what is best described as neo-romanticism.
163. E.g. in Fohrer, Geschichte Israels, 23.
164. Herrmann, Geschichte, 54–9.
165. Donner, Geschichte, 22–7.
166. T. L. Thompson and D. Irvin, ‘The Joseph and Moses Narratives’, in J. H. Hayes and
J. M. Miller, Israelite and Judaean History (London: SCM, 1977), 149–212. It is a pity
that many of the contributions to this work are not of the same opinion with regard to
their evaluation of the application of ancient documents. It would be better to say that the
contributors are generally in agreement with, for example, Foh­rer, Herrmann or Donner.
An exception to the rule is J. A. Soggin’s new A His­tory of Israel (London: SCM, 1985).
167. Cf. M. Noth, Überlieferungsgeschichte des Pentateuch (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche
Buchgesellschaft, 1966), 172–91, and about the burial tradition, especially 186ff. Cf.
also the short résumé in Geschichte Israels, 127–8.
130 Biblical studies and the failure of history

then the Old Testament description of Israel’s history is mean­ingless, or so we

believe. This again points to my third and fifth points above: the rationalistic
paraphrase of the Old Testament sources which are interpreted as historical
information, which need only be freed from a legendary or ideological disguise.
Saying this is to say that scholars have generally not considered the possibility
that the rational­istic paraphrase in contrast to a verbal paraphrase represents an
encroachment on the narrative itself, because it is not clarified that the narrative
has a story to tell which is not necessarily history.
In an article in Biblische Notizen a couple of years ago, I described the ancient
Israelite view of history writing.168 There is no need for a repetition of the argu-
ment here. It may be suffi­cient to mention the contribution of Mario Liverani to
the ‘Festschrift’ for I. J. Gelb from 1973.169 Liverani stresses that ancient Near
Eastern sources, among which the Old Testament certainly belongs, are first and
foremost not sources for the history behind the narrative. They are sources about
themselves. If this is true of the biblical narrative, it goes without saying that it
is a false procedure to ‘liberate’ the sources from their ideological or legen­dary
contents in order to recover report of historical fact. This process of purging
the text destroys the sources because it eliminates the code contained in the
sources and only this code may allow us to interpret the sources: not only their
character but also their real contents. It is impossible to agree with Donner that
biblical legends must con­tain historical nuclei, not in an absolute way but only
in an epistemological way. It is not a compelling fact that there must be such
nuclei. There might be found occasionally a historical background for a biblical
narrative about the oldest history of Israel, but it is wrong simply to assume that
such a nucleus is mandatory.
The question of destroying the code is relevant also when more than a single
narrative is the subject. The rationalistic assumption of the biblical division
of the history of Israel into a specific sequence of periods also removes the
code for understanding this procedure and, accordingly, destroys the possibility
for a proper understanding of why the history of Israel has been described by
the Old Testament in such a way. The result is not auto­matically that the Old
Testament account of the history of Israel is wrong, beginning with the period
of the Patriarchs, which is contin­ued by the sojourn in Egypt, by the Exodus and
the desert wander­ings, the conquest of Palestine, the Period of the Judges, the
Monar­chy and the Exile. Of course, we know that the Monarchy and the Ex­ile
dealt with histori­cal fact. To maintain the opposite would be foolish, al­though
the Monar­chy, especially in its early phases, may not have had the character
which is ascribed to it in the Old Testament. However, whether the Periods of
the Judges and Settlement are also his­torical is quite another question, not only
because of the lapse of time between the periods in question and the sources
containing informa­tion about them, but also because the biblical narratives can
hardly be reconciled with the factual evidence of the second millennium bce.

168. N. P. Lemche, ‘On the Problem of Studying Israelite History’, BN 24 (1984), 94–124.
169. M. Liverani, ‘Memorandum on the Approach to Historiographic Texts’, Or NS 42
(1973), 178–94.
 Rachel and Leah 131

There are several alternative ways of studying the oldest history of Israel
which are more fertile and which are possible as soon as we have acknowledged
both what we know and what we do not know. The historian should not leave
it to colleagues who are specialists in biblical literature to evaluate the histori-
cal sources as literary prod­ucts. They need themselves also sort out the factors
which decided the shape of the historical tradition when it was composed by
its writers – for example, why the prehistory of Israel was described as a heroic
period in the same manner as writers from other civilizations described their
past. The identity between, for instance, the view of the Greeks about their leg-
endary prehistory, of the Romans of their past, or of the Teutons, etc., is more
than just a casual resemblance. The description of the early history of such
peoples reflects the ideological point of view of their authors. The resemblance
between Greek, Roman, Teutonic or Israel­ite heroic periods indicates, accord-
ingly, common struc­tures and a common mentality, though the authors belonged
to quite different cultures. They shared and produced descrip­tions of the past
which follow analogous lines.
The work of the historian is therefore to unveil such mental struc­tures in
order to clarify how they worked in the composition of the historical nar­rative
and to use them as analytic tools. Such structuralist studies are not only inves-
tigations of narrative texts, but, as my col­league Hans Jørgen Lundager Jensen
has already demonstrated in the Scandi­navian Journal of the Old Testament,
it is really historical-critical scholarship.170 Historical re­search which pays no
attention to such subjects is therefore nei­ther historical nor critical because it
leaves out of consideration the level of knowledge which we already possess.
The division of the Israelite tribes according to apical mothers does not
intend to provide precise historical in­formation. Neither is it an expression of
Israelite genealogical specula­tion. It is an expression of a specific Israel­ite way
of systematizing the knowledge of their own generation by the authors of the
narrative and by their readers. The real task of the historian is to find the Sitz im
Leben of a sys­tematic thinking of this variety.
Any part of the Old Testament description of Israel’s prehistory may be
ex­amined in the same fashion. The concept of the Exodus which, as is well
known, plays a considerable role in the consciousness of the Old Testament
writers should not necessarily be interpreted as historical remembrances from
the remote past, but as the expression of the pe­riod in which the Exodus narra-
tives were drafted, which is now understood to be the period of the Exile. But
why, then, an Exodus from Egypt?171
Even though the country from which the Israelites escaped may be immate-
rial or only have symbolic status, the presence of a remem­brance about Egypt
and the delivery in various pre-exilic prophetical sayings, especially by Hosea,

170. Cf. especially H. J. Lundager Jensen, ‘Die Frauen der Patriarchen und der Raub der
Sabinerinnen’, SJOT 1 (1987).
171. We must, however, not forget that the ‘original’ Exodus in the Old Testament, the one by
Abraham, was from Ur in Chaldea (i.e. from Mesopotamia).
132 Biblical studies and the failure of history

indicates that the Exodus idea was not totally unknown before the Exile.172 But it
is also relevant in this case to ask whether it is a remembrance of an event which
took place per­haps more than half a millennium before Hosea’s own time, or
whether the idea originated in events or experiences of a much later date (or
even of an earlier date?).
It would be easy to add more examples. It is hardly neces­sary. The result
is clear. The historian whose subject is the history of Israel has to decline the
temptation to force his sources to yield illegitimate information which thereby
destroys his theme. The sources must be studied for what they are: information
about themselves.173 After that, they may potentially also be studied for what
they are not: in­formation about events and conditions outside themselves.
If we review the fourth point mentioned above, the question of har­monizing
biblical data with extra-biblical data, this is apparently a false problem. It is a
confusion of different catego­ries when we try to reconcile sources for the history
and culture of Pales­tine in the second millennium bce outside the Old Testament
and the biblical narrative about the pre-monarchical period because the Old
Testament sources are not rele­vant to the second millennium bce but to the first.
There are, accord­ingly, no common denominators between biblical information
and ancient Near Eastern evidence relevant to the second millennium bce. It is
bet­ter to investigate the possibility of a common denominator between biblical
evidence about the pre-monarchic period and ex­ternal evidence about the his-
tory of Israel in the first millennium bce.

172. Cf. on the historical remembrances in the pre-exilic prophetic literature, Lemche, Early
Israel, 306–28.
173. Cf. Liverani, ‘Memorandum’, 179.
 8

The Old Testament: a Hellenistic book?

1993

The Septuagint and the Hebrew Bible: Some basic issues

It may be rather imprecise to call the Old Testament a Hellenistic book – as not
all Old Testaments can be Hellenistic. It is obvious that the Septuagint must be
considered Hellenistic since it was not translated before the Hellenistic period.
The Hebrew Bible is, on the other hand, not a Hellenistic book for the simple
reason that it – in its present shape – is a Jewish rabbinic collection of writings,
no ear­lier than the second century ce (although the beginning of the process of
canonization can be traced further back).
It is, therefore, reasonable to connect the appearance of the Hebrew Bible
with the historical catastrophes that drastically influenced the life of Jewish
communities, especially in Palestine, at the end of the first cen­tury ce and in the
first half of the second century ce, which threat­ened to remove Jews from his-
tory. Also a new threat to the Jewish faith may have been important – that is, the
Christian religion, which (although originally part of the Jewish world) devel-
oped into a major opponent to Jewish religious society. Moreover, Christianity
argued that it had replaced the Jewish religion as the only legitimate faith.
According to James Barr, R. H. Lightfoot once claimed that the origin of
the New Testament should be sought in the moment early Chris­tians, under the
impression of the first Roman persecutions, lost faith in the survival of their
religion. As a result of their fear, they decided to write down their traditions and
recollections in order that these might not be lost or deliberately perverted.1 The
canonization of the Hebrew Bible may also have been caused by such motives,
not to be sepa­rated from the fact that the Jews had seen their religious centre, the
temple, defiled and destroyed, and – probably before the process of canoni­zation
had reached its goal – had had to evacuate their traditional religious home,
Jerusalem, to become foreigners in their own land.2
A number of differences exist between the Hellenistic Septuagint and the
later Hebrew Bible. One of them consists of the fact that a number of books in
the Septuagint are not included in the Hebrew Bible, al­though they are certainly

1. Cf. James Barr, The Bible in the Modern World (London: SCM, 1973), 43.
2. In 135 ce, after the insurrection against the Romans under Hadrian.
134 Biblical studies and the failure of history

to be considered holy writ in the Septuagint. We also find other differences in

the organization of the individual books; these are more or less extensive dif-
ferences of wording or dif­ferent arrange­ments of chapters and paragraphs. The
major differences are, first, the ar­rangement of the books in the Hebrew Bible
in compar­ison to the Septuagint; and, second, the absence in the Hebrew Bible
of several books included in the Septuagint.
The first part, the different arrangements of canonical books in the Septuagint
and the Hebrew Bible, is well known to most people, as it is perpetuated in the
different arrangement of books in the Hebrew Bible and in most modern bibles.
The issue here is that the modern versions generally follow the arrange­ment
present in the Septuagint, and disregard the organization of the Hebrew Bible.
It is a matter of discussion how, in the first place, such a differ­ence emerged.
From a chronological point of view, it is likely that the order of books in the
Septuagint should be considered older than the one found in the Hebrew Bible,
which was hardly in existence in pre-Christian times, and it may be assumed
that the different arrangement of the Hebrew Bible had polemical reasons. The
original order, in both Greek and Hebrew traditions, was the Law followed by
the Prophets, while they differed when it came to the incorporation of other
writings. We may suppose (but it is only a supposition) that the decisions made
by Greek-speaking Jews of Alexandria to place the writings be­tween the Law
and the Prophets, in a Palestinian Jewish environment of a later date, may have
seemed too obviously a Christian choice (Law and Prophecy followed by the
fulfilment of Prophecy).3
As far as the selection of writings is concerned, it is well known that all
books in the Hebrew Bible are to be found in the Septuagint, while several
books of the Septuagint have no place in the Hebrew canon. One principle of
biblical historiography seems to have governed the selection of writings in the
Hebrew Bible: no book can stem from a period later than the days of Ezra the
scribe. Of course, this is an ideological reason for accepting or rejecting books,
as quite a few Old Testament writings must be considered much more recent
than Ezra, including, among others, the Song of Songs, Daniel, Ecclesi­astes
and Job. However, insofar as these books had obtained canoni­cal status, they
have all been provided with an ‘author’ consider­ably older than Ezra, such as
Solomon, or they have been placed in a historical context that clearly antedates
Ezra, as happened to Daniel (which was placed back in Neo-Babylonian and
Achaemenid times). This principle may, however, be owing to a rather late
development and may not have been in force when the selection of writings in

3. Thus the references to the Tana(kh) in other writings – for example, in the Prologue to
Jesus Sirach and the New Testa­ment – can hardly be considered conclusive evi­dence of
the originality of the order in the Hebrew Bible. This information is more likely to be an
indication of a hierarchical kind of order: first, the Law; second, the Prophets; and, third,
whatever else, without reference to the actual place of the ketubim inside the Tanakh. For
recent overviews of this problem, cf. J. A. Sandars, ‘Canon’, ABD, I, 837–58, and M. K.
H. Peters, ‘Septuagint’, ABD, V, 1093–104.
 The Old Testament 135

the Septuagint was determined. Ezra’s position as the one who finally installed
the Law seems to be a creation of fairly late Jewish thinking. In favour of this,
the fact that Jesus Sirach does not know Ezra but – in his historical over­view
(Sir. 42–50) – skips over the period from Nehemiah to the high priest Simon,
the son of Onias (Sir. 49:13; 50).4 The persons respon­sible for the selection of
5
books included in the Septuagint were thus not constrained to acknowledge
only books that could be attributed to figures of ancient Israelite history; they
were free to include whatever kind of writing – even contemporary writings –
they pleased.
However, when we compare the Septuagint to the Hebrew Bible, the impor-
tance of the author – that he must per­force be pre-Ezra – seems not always to
have been decisive, as some books in the Septuagint, such as the Psalms of
Solomon, the Wisdom of Solomon and the first book of Esdras, were not found
worthy to be included in the Hebrew Bible. In this case, other principles may
have governed the decision, perhaps only a mechanical one that no Hebrew
manuscript of these books was extant.6 It should be rela­tively easy to isolate
two such major principles: first, the requirement that the content of a certain
book not be in conflict with dominant Jewish-theological doctrines of the day;
and, second, the requirement that books of special inter­est to religious groups
such as the early Church – especially apoca­lyptic literature – be discarded or
represented as little as possi­ble.7
Although these issues are interesting and, at the same time, provoca­tive,
this is not the place to proceed further. Very little has been done from an
Old Testament point of view because of a lack of interest on the part of Old
Testament scholars, as the Hebrew Bible has obtained a position as the only
relevant version to study in Chris­tian scholarly tradition.8 To the extent that
the already mentioned particular­ities of a Septuagint and Hebrew Bible may
be considered facts (insofar as we are entitled to speak about ‘facts’ in Old
Testament stud­ies), the argu­ment cannot be considered controversial. It is thus
time to return to the theme of this chapter: whether or not the Old Testament
was a Hellenistic book.

4. The point is well made by G. Garbini, History and Ideology in Ancient Israel (London:
SCM, 1988), 152.
5. In order not to be misunderstood, this should be stressed: it is most likely that more than
one selection of books was made and that the standardization into a single canon may
have been a phenomenon of a fairly late period.
6. Whether or not such a Hebrew ‘Vorlage’ for these books has ever existed is irrelevant to
the present argument.
7. The exception to this rule is, of course, the Book of Daniel. This is not to deny that some
earlier witnesses of the embryonic apocalyptic tradition were also accepted, say, Ezekiel
and Zechariah.
8. Pace the hard-working and learned minority of Septuagint specialists, form­ing the body
of the IOSCS.
136 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Tanakh and Hellenism

The Samaritan schism

When New Testament authors refer to writings in the Old Testament, however,
according to the order of the Hebrew Bible, it is arguable that the first two parts
of the Tanakh are attributed a special importance in their Jewish context. The
Law must be considered all important, closely followed by the Prophets. The
Writings, on the other hand, are certainly less important if they are included at
all in a Tanakh.9 Such hierar­chical subordination of different groups of books
is normally at­tributed to their redaction history, the Pentateuch being the oldest
col­lection, followed by the Prophets, whereas the Writings are understood to be
no more than a late amalgamation of different types of literature. The transla-
tion of the first two groups, however, took place already before the appearance
of the third group.
Scholars often refer to the existence of the Samaritan Pentateuch as an addi-
tional proof of such a redactional history of the books of the He­brew Bible.
Because the Samaritan congregation only accepted the Law as holy writ, and
not the Prophets and the Writings, it may be assumed that the Pentateuch was
the only part of the Hebrew Bible in existence when the Samaritan schism
occurred. This schism is usually dated to circa 300bce, which suggests that the
Law, at least, should not be con­sidered a work of the Hellenistic age.10 When it
comes to the Prophets, the date of composition is a subject of discussion. Parts
of the collection of prophetic books may certainly be very late, such as Trito-
Isaiah and Malachi. Most of the Writings can be considered literature of the
Hellenistic period. This argument, based as it is on a traditional dating of the
Samaritan schism, is not a very strong one.
First of all, it may be assumed that ideological as well as political reasons
were of decisive importance when the Samaritans had to choose what was to
become their ‘Bible’. There may have been plenty of reasons for the Samaritans
to accept only the five books of Moses and to exclude all of the other parts of
the present Old Testament (whether Greek or Hebrew). The religious centre
of Judaism (as ex­pressed by the greater part of the Old Testament) is certainly
Jerusalem, and not Shechem or Mount Gerizim. In contrast to this, Jerusalem
plays a considerably reduced role in the Pentateuch, where much more inter-
est is invested in the homeland of the Samaritans. We should there­fore simply
ask the question: why should any Samaritan, who found himself in outspoken

9. Cf. Mt. 5:17; 7:12; 22:30; Lk. 16:16; Acts 13:15; 24:14: exclusively ο῾ νόμος καὶ οι῾
προφη̃ται; cf.; however, the enigmatic Lk. 24:44: πάντα τὰ γεγραμμένα ε’ ν τω ι̃ νόμω
ι̃
Μωϋσέως καὶ τοι̃ς προφήταις καὶ ψαλμοι̃ς. Sirach, Pro­logue δίὰ του̃ νόμου αι᾽τω̃ν
προφητω̃ν καὶ τω̃ν α’΄λλων (cf., however, also Sir. 39:1: again only the Law and the
Prophe­ts).
10. On this, B. Otzen, Judaism in Antiquity: Politi­cal Developments and Religious Currents
from Alexander to Hadrian (The Biblical Seminar 7; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990), 29.
It is the opinion of Otzen that the Samaritans delib­erately broke the relationship to main-
stream Jewry, rather than being ostracized by the community of Jews in Jerusalem.
 The Old Testament 137

opposition to Jerusalem, want to include writings in his Bible that accepted

Jerusalem as the one and only centre of worship? This may be the reason why
the historical books were not part of the Samaritan Bible, but it also explains
the absence of prophets from Samaritan canonical literature because the proph-
ets – including Amos and Hosea – were certainly proponents of the worship of
Yahweh in Jerusalem. It goes without saying that a collection like the Psalter
could never become a Samaritan favourite – provided, of course, that the psalms
were indeed primarily con­nected to the temple in Jerusalem!
Second, the date of the Samaritan schism is not an established fact. It may
have happened before 300bce, but it could just as well be con­siderably younger
or, to put it bluntly, we do not know when or how such a separation occurred.11

Literary matters
The objections that can be directed against a Samaritan schism as the main wit-
ness to the existence of the Pentateuch before circa 300bce will, of course, not
make the Old Testament a Hellenistic book. It will, therefore, be necessary to
broaden the perspective of the discussion by including other aspects, literary as
well as historical
It seems obvious to most scholars that our estimate of the age of a certain
book of the Old Testament must be based on information con­tained in the book
itself and not on other information. Such an estimate should certainly not be
based on the existence of a historical background that may never have existed.
Although seemingly self-evident, this method is not without fault, and it may
easily become an invitation to ‘tail-chasing’, to quote Philip R. Davies.12 By
this, we mean that the scholar may become entangled in a web of cir­cular argu-
mentation, conveniently called the ‘hermeneutical circle’ (and an inevitability
which apparently makes it more acceptable among exegetes). It is also supposed
that the reading of a piece of literature automatically persuades it to disclose its
secrets, as if no further qualifications are needed.
The first point to discuss will be the circular argumentation that is based
on a too ‘close reading’ of a biblical text. My first exam­ple is from Samuel.
Some assume that these (two books in English) must be old simply because
they say that they are old.13 The exegete who claims that the books of Samuel

11. Cf. the excellent, though rather compressed, discussion in J. A. Soggin, Einführung in die
Geschichte Israels und Judas (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellscheft, 1991),
219–22. According to Soggin, the schism, according to later Jewish tradition, was set
back to the time of Ezra and Nehemiah, although Soggin also acknowledges that the
schism was not a decisive reality before the Hellenistic period.
12. Cf. Philip R. Davies, In Search of ‘Ancient Israel’: A Study in Biblical Origins (JSOT
supplement, 148; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992), 36, here used in connec­tion with the
reconstruction of a so-called ‘ancient Israel’ based on information contained in much
later (Old Testament) litera­ture.
13. The example is only one among many possibili­ties. The example might just as easily
have been the Pentateuch or any part of the Deuteronomistic History. We could easily
include also the prophetic books in the argument. Cf. N. P. Lemche, ‘The God of Hosea’,
in E. Ulrich, J. W. Wright, P. R. Davis and R. Carroll (eds) Priests, Prophets and Scribes:
138 Biblical studies and the failure of history

must perforce be old will have to accept, as his point of de­parture, this claim
by either rather naively assuming that Samuel was the author (as later Jewish
tradition did claim) or by a more sophisticated argumentation – for example, of
the kind often formerly used to prove narratives such as the ‘succession Story’
to be old, as only an eye-witness would have been acquainted with the particu-
lars of David’s family.14 In order to escape the trap created by such circular
argumen­tation and naive understanding of a biblical text, it will be necessary to
go further and find arguments not necessarily part of the biblical text itself, but
based on other sources. Such information discloses to the reader that the books
of Samuel were composed not at the very moment Israel got its first king, but
at a much later date.
The case of the books of Samuel is hardly unproblematic. Samuel can­not,
of course, be the author, since he passes away already in 1 Samuel 25, yet, to
reappear as a ghost, three chapters later. After this point, anybody could have
been the author and the only certain thing that can be said is that the composi-
tion’s terminus a quo must be at a date following the death of Samuel, which,
according to both biblical and modern scholarly tradition, would be in the late
elev­enth century bce. The logical terminus ad quem for the com­position must,
however, be the moment when we possess the first com­plete scroll or book
containing the text of Samuel as a whole. This date is not before, at the earliest,
the first half of the fourth century ce, the date of the presumably oldest Greek
manuscript (Vaticanus) of the Septuagint. As a consequence, we are involved
with a time span of no less than 1300 to 1400 years and, in principle, need to
main­tain that the books of Samuel could have been written at any time be­tween
1000bce and 350ce. It will certainly be very important to choose the right kind
of procedure to follow! Should we start at the ear­liest possible date, the eleventh
century bce, or at the latest possible – that is, the fourth century ce? To rephrase
the sentence: should we begin at the point where we are left with postulates
and hypotheses – that is, 1000bce – or is it preferable to start the procedure of
finding a date for the composition of the books of Samuel at the point where we
can be certain that these books existed – that is, 350ce? The simple fact is that
we do not know that the books of Samuel existed around 1000bce, but we do
know that they did in 350ce!
Although it has become standard procedure in the study of the Old Testament
to begin where we know the least and to end at the point where we have safe

Essays on the Formation and Her­itage of Second Temple Judaism in Honour of Joseph
Blenkinsopp (JSOT supplement, 149; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992), 241–55.
14. Cf. A. Weiser, Einleitung in das Alte Testament (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht,
sixth edn, 1966), 151; cf. the somewhat more interesting argu­ment in L. Rost, Die
Überlieferung von der Thron­nachfolge Davids (1926), reprinted in his Das kleine
Credo und andere Studien zum Alten Testament (Heidelberg: Quelle and Meyer, 1965),
119–253, see 234. If so, scandals in royal families may not be the subject of modern
boulevard journalists alone! It should never be forgotten who will be best acquainted
with inner thoughts of the participants of a narrative or play: the author himself who
invented its characters.
 The Old Testament 139

information in order to explain what is certain by reasons uncertain and from

an unknown past, it is obvious to almost everybody else that this procedure has
no claim to be called scientific. We should, rather – and as a matter of course
– start where we are best informed. Only from such an advantage should we
try to penetrate an unknown past. The point of departure for a discussion of
the date of the books of Samuel can only be 350ce, not 1000ce. This does not
suggest that the books of Samuel were written down – even in their present
form – between 340 and 350ce; but it does suggest that we need reasons for an
earlier date, as no evidence exists that these books are older. It is quite easy to
provide a reasonable argument in favour of an earlier date. Such an argument
might be based on the fact that fragments (so far only fragments!) of the books
of Samuel have turned up among the Dead Sea Scrolls. It will also be pos­sible
to argue in favour of an even earlier date than these Dead Sea Scroll fragments,
and to base our argument on the fact that such books were incorporated within
the form of the Septuagint that has been trans­mitted by Codex Vaticanus. Nor
can it be ruled out that they are even much older; but, in this case, it becomes
difficult to find hard evidence.
It is an established fact that a literary product must be considered a reflection
of its origins, as nobody can escape being a child of his or her own time. This
is commonplace but, on the other hand, not to be forgotten by narrative ana-
lysts who may claim that it is possible to understand an argument by a person
in the past without knowing in advance the specific values attached to beliefs
and concepts of that period. The same applies to the study of biblical litera­ture,
even though written by anonymous authors. It is surely naive to believe that the
meaning of biblical books can be properly expostulated without knowledge of
their date of composition, of ideas then current or of beliefs common to their
audience; and it is of no consequence whether the subject at hand is the narrative
as a whole, parts of it or, indeed, single concepts and phrases.15
To cite another, less controversial, example: Genesis 1. In the account of
the origin of the world, God first creates the light and the darkness, followed
by the water and the earth, although it is better to say that God does not exactly
create these elements, but makes a kind of division between them.16 Now, this

15. Cf. also the proposal by Diana Vikander Edelman, King Saul in the Histo­riogra­phy of
Judah (JSOT supplement, 121; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), 11–26, to read the story of
Saul and David as an ancient reader would have done it (although this is certainly a vain
hope, as Diana Edelman herself readily admits).
16. The creative activity of God in Genesis 1 is usually descri­bed by the verbs ‫ ברא‬and
‫עשה‬. However, the light (v. 3) and the darkness (v. 9) appear not because they are his
creation, but on his direct order, (neither ‫ ברא‬nor ‫ עשה‬is used in this con­nection). After the
appearance of the light, God makes a division (Hebrew ‫בדל‬, in the hiphil) between light
and darkness (v. 4), after which, God personally makes the firmament (v. 7: ‫)עשה‬. This
firmament, however, is to be considered another divi­sion, only now between different
kinds of water. The waters below the firmament are collected in one place on God’s order
and the dry land appears as a conse­quence. Again, it should be realized that the dry land
is not a creation of God; it just appears as a consequence of division between the water
and the land.
140 Biblical studies and the failure of history

d­ escription of the creation in Genesis 1 may seem­ingly be read without further

knowledge of the background of its author; although a number of misinterpreta-
tions have developed – for example, that we here have a creatio ex nihilo. If,
on the other hand, we have a look at the story of the creation of the four ele­
ments, light and darkness, water and earth, from an ancient point of view, it is
obvious that God ‘creates’ such elements in a manner that accords with ideas
current among Greek natural philosophers from the sixth century bce onwards.
The creation of light and darkness suggests that God creates a warm and a cold
element. Water and earth can also be compared to two elements, respectively
the dry and the wet. Taken together, the four basic ele­ments of creation are rec-
ognizable as the four elements of antique philosophy: the hot and the cold, the
dry and the wet. Old Thales from Miletus would not have been disappointed by
such acts of God!
As already indicated, this is hardly to be considered controversial, as most
scholars would be prepared to accept that the author of Genesis 1 cannot predate
the Babylonian Exile. He rather belongs to the sixth or fifth centuries bce, if not
later. If the author of Genesis 1 knew the ideas of Thales and his colleagues or
his information came from some other source (perhaps the supposed oriental
background of Thales’s theory), then this would not be in conflict with the gen-
erally accepted date of Genesis 1. In this case, Thales and the Greeks could only
be considered as the terminus a quo for dating Genesis 1; they are certainly not
to be iden­tified with the terminus ad quem. If the dating should follow the same
procedure as the one relevant to the books of Samuel, the result will be that this
text must have been written between the sixth century bce and the fourth century
ce. However, the presence of some Dead Sea fragments of the book of Genesis
makes it highly likely that this book of Genesis was already in existence in the
first century bce. The span of time from the earliest and latest possible dates for
Genesis 1 is much shorter than the one relevant to the dating of the books of
Samuel. From a methodological point of view, however, the problem of dating
Genesis 1 and the books of Samuel is the same.

Historical matters
At this point a shift of emphasis from literature to history is appropriate to
continue our discussion of the Old Testament as a Hellenistic book. By way of
introduction, we ask how important the historical information provided by a
biblical book is for dating the work. We should proceed in much the same way
as already indicated above, although literary issues have now been replaced by
historical. Instead of looking for the place of origin of some ideological ele-
ments, discerned in a given biblical text, we try to establish the time and place of
whatever historical information the text in question provides. In this, I shall use
two examples: the first from the book of Joshua and the second from Samuel.
The first example is easy enough to justify today as it has been long evident
that the historical ‘reality’ referred to in the book of Joshua has disappeared.
Joshua has simply nothing to tell us about the historical origins of an Israelite
nation. No prolonged discussion of Forschungsgeschichte is necessary here,
 The Old Testament 141

although I will refer readers to my discussion of the topic in Early Israel.17

However, in introducing this subject here, it is stressed that the often fervent
discussion between the two great schools of historical studies of the past – on
the one hand, the German school of Albrecht Alt and Martin Noth and, on the
other, the American school of William F. Albright – resulted in the victory of
the American school, though it may also be argued that it ‘died’ in the process.
To put it briefly, the German school was principally interested in ana­lysing
Old Testament texts to uncover historical facts from biblical narrative, while
Americans were mostly interested in creating har­mony between archaeologi-
cal artefacts and historical information, derived from the biblical text. The
American school triumphed because archaeology was destined to deal a death
blow to the German approach and its results. Archaeology simply demonstrated
that these German ideas about Israel’s origin and oldest history were wrong.
The German procedure consisted primarily of creating a rationalistic paraphrase
of the stories of the Old Testament and its intended goal was to present a pic-
ture of a historical development that would not disturb our sense of what may
have happened (no miracles, please!). At the same time, German scholars nearly
slavishly followed the historical form of Old Testament narrative and they had
no intention of departing from a general succession of the periods and events
presented by biblical writers. We may say, quoting the German scholar Bernd
Jørg Diebner of Heidelberg, that the German method should be likened to a text-
archaeological procedure.18 The most important German results were, first, that
the early Israelites did not conquer Palestine but moved into the country, mostly
as peaceful semi-nomads. The Israelite subjugation of an indigenous popula-
tion followed at a later date. Second, following their settlement in Palestine,
the Israelites proceeded to create an amphictyony or sacred tribal league that
became the home of most of Israel’s traditions.19
As already mentioned, so-called ‘dirt archaeology’, field ar­chaeology proper,
led to the downfall of the German position; but the idea of an Israelite con-
quest nourished by Albright and his students had be to discarded in the process.
Archaeology did not prove the Bible to be true. To the contrary, it has been
shown that the Israelites (whoever they were) never conquered Palestine. They
rather should be considered part of the ancient population of Palestine itself

17. Cf. N. Lemche, Early Israel: Anthropological and Historical Studies on the Israelite
Society Before the Monarchy (VT supplement, 37; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1985), 1–79. A
much shorter résumé can be found in my Ancient Israel: A New History of Israelite
Society (The Biblical Seminar, 5; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1988), 104–16.
18. Cf. B. J. Diebner, ‘Wider die “Offenbarungs-Archäologie” in der Wissen­schaft vom
Alten Testament. Grundsätzlicher zum Sinn alttestamentlicher For­schung im Rahmen
der Theologie’, DBAT 18 (1984), 30–53.
19. The classical German description of this period is certainly Martin Noth, Geschichte
Israels (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1950). In more recent German histories
of Israel, such as (probably the best informed) Herbert Donner, Geschichte des Volkes
Israel und seiner Nachbarn in Grundzügen (ATD 4.1; Göttin­gen: Vandenhoeck and
Ruprecht, 1984) the construct has begun to crumble, and the amphic­tyony is no longer
part of it anymore.
142 Biblical studies and the failure of history

with their roots in the Bronze Age. Only at a much later date did ‘Israelite’
society develop characteristics of the ‘Israel’ found in the Old Testament.20 One
historical fact cannot, of course, be denied – namely, the exis­tence of the nar-
ratives of Israel’s conquest of its land in the book of Joshua. However, these
tales have nothing to do with historical circum­stances at the end of the Late
Bronze and beginning of the Iron Age. This is not a postulate, but a fact, and we
are, therefore, in the posi­tion to ask what the narratives in Joshua really tell us
about since they do not inform us of a conquest of Palestine in ancient times.
The answer is clear and obvious: the book of Joshua informs its readers of a
conquest that never happened. The next question concerns why this book of
Joshua presents information about a conquest that never hap­pened? The answer
to this may not be as clear as the former because it is not a fact based on hard
evidence. Instead, it depends on scholarly theories and hypotheses. One pos-
sible answer could be that the tradition of Israel’s foreign origin was invent­ed
at a later date to create a racially pure nation. An extensive number of passages
in Joshua and elsewhere in the Old Tes­tament may be called in supporting this
answer, starting with the book of Genesis and continuing through to the book
of Ezra. If we wish to continue this line of thought, the next question will prob-
ably regard when the impetus arose which created the context, where the idea
of racial purity of an Israelite people, opposing other nations, living in its land,
could arise, as this claim cannot be supported by historical evidence. The cor-
rect answer to that question will be that such an idea arose the moment certain
individuals, who understood them­selves to be Israelites, saw others whom they
did not so consider, as occupying Israel’s land. Evidently – in light of what we
know about Israel’s origins – this claim of being pure Israelites, des­tined to
inherit the land, must have been a late development and most probably renders
Joshua a post-exilic book, written by an author – or a number of authors – who
can scarcely have lived in the land. This suggests that Joshua is, first, post-exilic
and, second, from the Jewish diaspora. To use a Hebrew term, it originated in
the Jewish gola.
In introducing my second example, I wish to return to the books of Samuel.
The central character is David, and neither Samuel nor Saul as the narratives
about Samuel and Saul are considered a prole­gomenon to the narratives about
David. It is only right to say that David is truly the great hero of Israel’s past

20. A kind of status quaestionis can be found in Diana Edelman (ed.) ‘Toward a Consensus
on the Emergence of Israel in Canaan’, SJOT 5.2 (1991), 1–116 (including contributions
by N. Lemche, G. W. Ahlström, I. Finkelstein and others), and in two comprehensive vol-
umes: T. L. Thompson, The Early History of the Israelite People (SHANE; Leiden: E. J.
Brill, 1992), and G. W. Ahlström, The History of Ancient Palestine from the Palaeolit­hic
Period to Alexander’s Conquest (JSOT supplement, 146; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992).
So far no seri­ous reaction has come from German scho­lars; a book such as R. Neu, Von
der Anarchie zum Staat: Ent­wicklungsgeschichte Israels vom Nomadentum zur Monar­
chie im Spiegel der Ethnosozi­ologie (Neukirchen–Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1992),
should, rather, because of its total neglect of archaeology and because of its extensive
rationalistic paraphrase of the biblical text, be understood as a clear step backwards.
 The Old Testament 143

(Joshua alone might dispute that claim) and he was reckoned the creator of a
great Israelite empire, preceding the independent histories of the kingdoms of
Israel and Judah.
Laypeople as well as scholars (including the present writer21) have always
thought highly of the historicity of David and considered it an established fact.
They also believed the main part of the traditions about David and his son and
successor, Solomon, to be trustworthy informa­tion, although none of it, nei-
ther person nor event, has been confirmed or sup­ported by external evidence,
especially by written sources from other parts of the ancient Near East. The
only written evidence about David and Solomon are from sources whose infor­
mation comes from the Old Testament itself. Only a few voices of protest have
arisen that may cast doubt on the historicity of the early Israelite empire, includ-
ing the historicality of its two kings.22 Although the conclusions reached by
David Jamieson-Drake can only be considered a temporary resolution,23 it is his
opinion that we find no evidence of a united Israelite king­dom from pre-exilic
times. To the contrary, it is unlikely that a state called Judah came into existence
before the middle of the eighth cen­tury. The Jerusalem of ‘David’s time was
hardly anything but a small fortified village, occupying a territory of less than
4 hectares, inhabited by a population of hardly more than 2000 persons, includ-
ing women and children’.24 Although Jamieson-Drake’s argument will cer­tainly
provoke other scholars to object, he presents a very strong case in favour of
abandoning the period of the United Kingdom as historic.
These two dubious cases, concerning the historicity of a conquest and a
United Kingdom, certainly point in the same direction. When we deal with the
tradition of the empire of David, we obviously have to ask why the idea of a
Davidic empire arose if it were without historical foundation. The exchange
of answers and questions that may follow will be of the same kind as the one
described in more detail above concerning Joshua’s conquest. The result of such
a discus­sion would probably be that a number of possible dates for the origin of
this idea of David and his empire could be proposed, either a late pre-exilic, an

21. Cf. my article, ‘David’s Rise’, JSOT 10 (1978), 2–25. Although the his­torical part of the
argument in that article as well as that of several other contribu­tions by other scholars
either following in its footsteps or progressing along com­parable lines may now have to
be discarded, the literary argument is still of some importance, as maintai­ned by G. G.
Nicol, in his ‘The Death of Joab and Accession of Solomon’, SJOT 7 (1993), 134–51.
22. Cf. the outspoken mistrust of the biblical tradition in G. Garbini, History and Ideology in
Ancient Israel, (London: SCM, 1988), 21–32. Recently also D. B. Redford has presented
a negative view of the histor­icity of David and Solomon, in his Egypt, Canaan, and
Israel in Ancient Times (Princeton, NJ: Princeton Univer­sity Press, 1992), 297–311.
23. Cf. D. W. Jamieson-Drake, Scribes and Schools in Monarchic Judah: A Socio-
Archaeological Approach (JSOT supplement, 109; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991).
24. The calculations of the population size is, however, not presented by Jamieson-Drake but
is my own estimate, based on a calculation of population size like the one proposed in
J. M. Sasson, Jonah (AB, 24B; New York: Doubleday, 1990), 312. It should, however,
be clear that this is a very generous calculation. It would also be possible to say that the
area covered only 1 or 2 hectares, and included a population of 1000 persons or fewer.
144 Biblical studies and the failure of history

exilic or even a post-exilic one. The answer to the question why this story was
invented at all will presumably be of this type: to create an ‘Israelite’ great king
comparable to the great kings said to have ruled other nations. Biblical histori-
ans consequently turned the mythical ancestor of the Judean royal family into an
ideal king, comparable to the empire-builders of the ancient world. It might also
be argued that since this great ancestor-king never lived, it is impossible to con-
sider the stories about the Kingdom of David as historical reports con­cerning the
past. Rather, they present a programme for a future which will appear as soon
as the contemporaries of the historians themselves have (re-)conquered their
land. It could very well be the case that the stories about David, as well as the
conquest, aimed at creating a programme for a glorious future of Israel, rather
than a report about a past glory that never existed. Thus, these narra­tives could
well derive from the Persian period and the model of the great king may have
been none other than the great founder of the Persian Empire, Cyrus. It should
not be forgotten that the careers of Cyrus and David bear a number of compara-
ble traits. It is, however, also possible that the idea of the great King David only
arose in the Hellenistic period, but for comparable reasons.
More than a few scholars will be prepared to think of the books of Joshua
and Samuel as having propagandistic motives. Lately, a number of studies have
connected the composition of these books with the reign of Josiah. One such
example is provided by Magnus Ottos­son who regards the book of Joshua a
product of the Josianic age with a programme for the Josianic restoration of the
Davidic kingdom.25 It should, however, be noted that while Ottosson thinks the
conquest stories in Joshua are fictional war reports and have little if anything to
do with historical facts, he still considers the Davidic kingdom to be a histori­
cally established fact. Contrary to Ottosson’s opinion, his anal­ysis (probably
correct) of the relationship between P-elements and the main D-narrative in
Joshua actually proves Joshua to be not Josianic but post-­exilic, and later than
P – provided, of course, that P should be dated in the post-exilic era.26
Another scholar who thinks highly of the Josianic age as a time for the com-
position of ‘historical’ texts is Diana Vikander Edelman, who considers the
Saul–David narrative to belong to the time of Josiah, although the purpose of
writing this story at exactly this moment in Judah’s history seems more ambigu-
ous.27 It is a problem for her dating of these narratives that the Israelite people in
1 Samuel 8 demand to have a king like all other nations. Why should anybody
in the age of Josiah wish to have a king, as they already had one? As a matter

25. Cf. M. Ottosson, Josuaboken: En programskrift för davi­disk restauration (Uppsala:

AUU, 1991).
26. Ottosson generally considers the P-elements original parts of the Deuterono­mistic narra-
tives in Joshua. For that reason, they cannot, of course, be late additions to the narratives.
At the same time, it should be added that Ottosson, like so many Scandinavian scholars,
reckons these P-elements to be left­overs from various sanc­tuaries such as Shilo or Gilgal.
The problem with such a theory is certainly that it is entirely based on guesswork, as it
is without proof, except a circular variety.
27. Cf. Edelman, King Saul in the Historio­graphy of Judah.
 The Old Testament 145

of fact, this demand can hardly be pre-exilic.28 It is therefore more likely that
the author of 1 Samuel 8 wrote during a period and for a society without a king.
Here, too, it is better to look to the exilic or post-exilic periods.29
This predilection for the time of Josiah as the creative period in the history
of Hebrew literature is, moreover, problematic. It is, after all, Deuteronomistic
historians who claim that the period of Josiah was a splendid era, a restora-
tion period and therefore an appropriate time and place for writing great litera-
ture such as Joshua and Samuel. If scholars accept the picture presented by the
Deuteronomistic circle, without examining their reasons for turning Josiah’s
period into such an age of ‘enlightenment’, they fall into the same her­me­neutical
trap as, formerly, scholars such as Gerhard von Rad did, who thought highly of
the Solomonic period as background for Is­raelite history-writing.30 Although
this background for Hebrew history-writing now evaporates with the demise of
a Hebrew empire of the tenth century bce, scholars are tirelessly repeating the
same argu­ments now in connection with an era of Josiah, which they consider to
have been nearly in the same class as that of Solo­mon! It should not be forgot-
ten that all we know about Josiah is what Old Testament writers have told us.
No external source men­tions Josiah, except those which are clearly dependent
on biblical narrative. It is primarily because the Old Testament itself says that
Josiah tried to unify all Israel in a single major state at the end of the seventh
century bce that biblical scholars believe this to be true.31 However, the Josiah

28. Unless we should choose to express a view on these narratives such as the one in
F. Crüsemann, Der Widerstand gegen das Königtum (WMANT, 49; Neukirchen–Vluyn:
Neukirchener Verlag, 1978), who maintains that they are to be considered reflections of
party politics in pre-monarchical times – not a bad idea at all if it was possible to claim
that the Deuteronomistic traditions are as old as that.
29. It may be an alternative to the idea that David became the model of later Judean kings,
especially Josiah, to transfer this honour from the presumably non-existent David to a
person whose historicity cannot be doubted, and here the obvi­ous candidate would prob-
ably be Omri (followed by his son Ahab). The importance of the state that was governed
by these kings is certain and is also reflected by Assyrian and Moabite inscriptions. It
is also generally assumed that they reigned over a territory that included Jerusalem, if
not all of Judah. It is at least a working hypothesis that, in the period follo­wing the fall
of Samaria, the idea of a United Kingdom, which was founded on the existence in the
ninth century of the Kingdom of Omri, was transferred to Judah, and that the greatness
belonging to the old Israelite kings was at the same time bestowed on David, the mythi-
cal ancestor of the Judean kings.
30. Programmatically expressed in G. von Rad, ‘Der Anfang der Geschichts­schreibung im
alten Israel’ (1944), now in his Gesammelte Studien zum Alten Testament (TB 8; Munich:
Chr. Kauser, 1958), 148–88.
31. This reminds me of the verdict of Mario Liverani, in his ‘Storiografia politica hittita II:
Telipini, ovvero: Della Solidarieta’, OA 16 (1977), 105–31, see 105: ‘The indolence
of the historians is of great extent, and when they deal with a certain period and they
are confronting a conti­nuous account of the course of events, which has already been
included in some sort of “ancient” documentary source (which is perforce not contem-
porary with the events themselves), then they all too happily apply this account, and
they limit their efforts to paraphrasing it or even rationalizing it’ (trans. N. P. Lemche).
146 Biblical studies and the failure of history

of 2 Kings need not be a historical character at all (though it seems likely that
shortly before the disappearance of the short-lived state of Judah, there did live
a king called Josiah in Jerusalem); he may be nothing more than the invention
of the Deuteronomistic author(s) who wrote Kings. The comparison between
David and Josiah is, of course, also a product of Deuteronomistic thinking and it
shows how the Deuteronomists worked a rather miserable king with an inglori-
ous end into a major historical figure of Israel’s history. It can also be argued that
the Deuteronomists needed a Josiah very much if they were to legitimate their
own religious programme and, in this regard, it was of no consequence whether
the Deuteronomistic History was a work of an exilic or post-exilic period.32
The discussion may pause at this point and it may be argued that the time of
Josiah, the so-called restoration period, known only from the Old Testament,
is nothing more than a product of Deuteronomistic imagination and it is not
necessarily more historical than the age of David and Solomon.33 Instead of
trans­ferring the period of Josiah into a great time for history-writing in Israel
(or Judah), only to repeat former mistakes, it will be safer to apply the same
procedure as advocated above in connection with the dating of bib­lical litera-
ture – that is, to begin where we can be certain that the lit­erature in question
really existed and, after having established that fact, proceed with our quest for
a possible earlier date. It should, however, be understood that there may be lit-
tle reason to go back to the time of Josiah, which may itself be no more than a
postulate created by Old Testament writers.

Liverani is dealing with scholarly recon­structions of the history of the ancient Hittite
empire, normally based almost exclusively on the decree of Telipinus and generally
accepting its views, and it is fairly easy for Liverani to deconstr­uct the content of the
edict and to show that it is a totally propagandistic and partisan view of the history of the
Hittites that is presented by the king who issued the decree.
32. It is, on the other hand, interesting to compare the description of Josiah in 2 Kings with
2 Chron. 34–35. The Chronicler seems much less enthu­siastic about this king than his
Deuteronomistic source, although he duly quotes the Deuteronomistic narrative from
one end to the other. However, when he comes to the death of Josiah, the Chronicler
clearly expresses his contempt of this king who died an ignomi­nious death because he
disobeyed a direct order from Yahweh. The Chronicler diminishes (or even ridicu­les:
cf. the wording of 2 Chron. 35:18, ‘No Passover like it had been kept in Israel since
the days of the prophet Samu­el’, with the slightly different version in 2 Kgs 23:22!) the
importance of Josiah’s reform as described in 2 Kings by referring to Hezekiah as the
real reformer who reinstated the Passover in its former glory (cf. 2 Chron. 30). Accord­ing
to the Chronicler, the reform of Josiah was no more than a copy of the one initiated by
Hezekiah (cf. 2 Chron. 31:1).
33. It should not be overlooked that some indications offered by Jamieson-Drake point at
the possibility that the decline of Judah started well before the Babylonian destruction
of Jerusalem, notably in the sector termed ‘Public Works’. Cf. Jamieson-Drake, Scribes
and Schools, 104, and charts 7 and 9, although a more comprehensive study of the period
of Josiah is badly needed, especially from an archaeological point of view.
 The Old Testament 147

Other themes

I believe that I have presented enough practical examples to illus­trate my point.

It would have been possible to discuss other impor­tant issues and themes that
may be in the focus of the scholarly debate as well. I have to abstain from doing
so here. Instead I will mention a few important themes for discussion.
First, the religion of Israel: in this connection, I mention only one recent con-
tribution that may help us to clarify the history of the religion which, according
to the Old Testament, should be considered old Israel­ite. In his highly interest-
ing study Der höchste Gott,34 Herbert Niehr proposes not to separate the emer-
gence of monotheism in ‘Israel’ (we should rather think of post-exilic Jews)
from a contemporary trend towards a practical monotheism in other places. It is
only true to say that Niehr’s investigation can be understood as a confirmation
of my own view that the so-called pre-exilic Israelite religion was some sort of
Western Asiatic religion, hardly distinguishable from religious belief in places
such as Moab, Ammon, Phoenicia, etc.35 As a result of Niehr’s (and others’)
work, we are entitled to ask whether it is not mis­leading to talk about an Israelite
religion in pre-exilic times. ‘Gen­uine’ Israelite religion – that is, as presented
by the biblical tradition – is in no way Israelite. It reflects religion of post-exilic
Jewish society and it is more than likely that the religious conflicts between so-
called Israelite religion and so-called Canaanite religion, which emerge from
the Old Testament, have little to do with conditions in Pales­tine between, say,
1000 and 500bce. Rather, this information refers to the situation between, say,
500 and 200bce.
Second, the national identity of the Israelite people: just as Israelite religion
in the Old Testament turns out to represent Jewish religious thought, Israelites
of the Old Testament are Jews (it is ironical that this was anticipated by, for
example, the German sociologist Max Weber, when he published his study of
Israel as ancient Judaism).36 If this is compared to the modern view on the
origin of the ‘Israelites’ (and we now have to put the concept of ‘Israel’ into
quotation marks!), there is no longer any reason to talk about Israelites as
forming an ethnic unity in pre-exilic times. If anything, the so-called Israelites
were Canaanites, or maybe better – to make this conform with the result of my

34. BZAW, 190; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1990.

35. Cf. my Ancient Israel, 197–257; as well as ‘The Develop­ment of the Israelite Religion in
Light of Recent Studies on the Early History of Israel’, in J. A. Emerton (ed) Congress
Volume: Leuven 1989 (VT supplement, 43; Leiden: E. J. Brill), 97–115. I have little to
say against a verdict like this: ‘there was very little dis­tinction between Canaanite and
Israelite religion, at least in practice. The rituals were virtually the same, even if one
assumes that Israel’s Yahwistic theology was an innovation and that is not always evi-
dent’ (W. G. Dever, Recent Ar­chaeo­logical Discoveries and Biblical Research, Seattle,
WA: University of Washington Press, 1990, 166).
36. Das antike Judentum (Tübingen: Mohr, 1921). It should also be noted that the distinc-
tiveness of what is ‘Israelite’ and what is ‘Jewish’ may not always have been as obvious
to Max Weber’s contemporaries as it was to become afterwards.
148 Biblical studies and the failure of history

study on the Canaanites – to say that ‘Israelites’ are left with­out any specific
ethnic affiliation at all. They simply reflect a regional selection of inhabitants
of Palestine, where they formed a late branch of the population that had been
present in Western Asia since the beginning of history. The idea of ‘Israel’ in
the Old Testament may be nothing except a very late ideological concept, as
maintained by Philip R. Davies.37
Third, the Babylonian exile: this is certainly an issue that is grow­ing in
importance as the greater part of the Old Testament is now considered fairly
late. The whole issue of the exile could be summa­rized in the following fashion.
We have excellent information about the beginning of the Babylonian exile dur-
ing the first half of the sixth century bce; it is, however, far more uncertain when
it ended. The ‘official’ date of return is, of course, 538bce, when the exiles were
allowed to return as a con­sequence of Cyrus’s decree, or this is what is normally
assumed. However, if such a decree was ever issued, with the particular inten-
tion to send the Jewish people home, it could be maintained that the Jews of
Babylonia were offered something which they could easily refuse. Most of them
preferred to stay in Babylonia and to die there as did also their descendants for
many generations. They found little reason to leave the centre of the Persian
Empire in order to move to its fringe to one of its poorest and most desolate
provinces. It is quite ironic that the end of Jewish communities in Mesopotamia
came first in 1948ce, when the majority of the Jews in Mesopotamia were forced
to leave and to return to Palestine as a consequence of the estab­lishment of the
modern Jewish state. I wish to stress this point, as most scholars who are prone
to date the larger part of the Old Testament to the Babylonian exile may after
all be right: this literature is really exilic. It should also be stressed at the same
time that few of the aforementioned scholars have realized that the exile con­
tinued – almost forever – although its extent was self-inflicted. The sons and
daughters of deportees happily continued to live in Mesopotamia as long as the
Persian Empire existed, but also under the following empires of the Seleucids,
Sassanides and Parthi­ans. It may even by maintained that the idea of an exile
became an obsession for the Jews of the Diaspora because it provided them
with a legitimate excuse for keeping away from a barren place called Palestine.

The Old Testament: a Hellenistic book?

The following points speak in favour of a Hellenistic date for the Old Testament:

1. It is a fact that the history of Israel as narrated in the Old Testament has
little if anything to do with real historical developments in Palestine until

37. On the Canaanites, cf. N. Lemche, The Canaanites and Their Land: The Tradition of the
Canaanites (JSOT supplement, 110; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991). The con­sequences
of this are more sharply drawn by Davies, In Search of ‘Ancient Is­rael’. Most of this
develop­ment was, however, foreseen by the late Gösta W. Ahlström, in his Who Were the
Israelites? (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1986).
 The Old Testament 149

at least the latter part of the Hebrew monarchy. It cannot be denied (and
there is, as a matter of fact, no reason to deny it) that we may possess
some few genuine historical recollections; but, at the same time, it should
be argued that, from a historian’s point of view, we must consider Old
Testament literature a poor source of historical information.
2. An extensive part of this literature should be considered the cre­ation of the
Jewish Diaspora, first and foremost, the patriarchal narra­tives, the story
in Exodus about Israelites in Egypt and their escape from Egypt, but also
the conquest narratives in Joshua. All of these aim at one and the same
issue – at a more or less utopian level – that a major Jewish kingdom (even
empire) should be (re-)established in Pales­tine, an idea that emerged in
spite of the fact that it had no grounding in an ancient Israelite empire.
3. The writers who invented the ‘history of Israel’ seem to have modelled
their history on a Greek pattern. The first in modern times to stress this
point is presumably John Van Seters,38 although his reference to Hecataeus
of Miletus may seem gratuitous, as we no longer possess Hecataeus’s
history except in the form of rather diminutive fragments. It would be
preferable to propose the history of Herodotus as the ear­liest point of
comparison and to indicate that there are a number of similari­ties between
the histories of Herodotus and the Old Testament. Both histories have as
their beginning a perspective that encompasses the world as such, and
this perspective narrows to single nations only at a later point, the Greek
and the Hebrew, respectively. I should like to stress this point without
ignoring many significant differ­ences between Herodotus’s history and
the Old Testament historical literature.39 It is merely my intention to indi-
cate that biblical historians display knowledge of Greek tradition, and that

38. Cf. J. Van Seters, In Search of History (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983),
and now his Pro­logue to History: The Yahwist as Historian in Genesis (Louisville, KY:
Westminster John Knox Press, 1992). In his book, Van Seters argues that two currents
are present in the Yahwistic parts of Genesis, one of them displaying an interest in history
proper, while the other is more of an ‘anti­quarian kind’. The first current can be traced
back to the Greek historical tradition while the second is genuinely oriental, and has its
roots in Mesopotamia, in the Babylonian tradition. According to Van Seters, the meeting
place of both currents cannot be pre-exilic, but must be dated to the Babylonian exile
in the strict sense of the word. In favour of this, Van Seters dis­cusses the possibility
that the Phoenicians were the carriers of the Greek tradition to the Orient. This sounds
like an unnec­essary complica­tion and is completely unattested. In spite of Van Seters’s
splendid defence of his exilic date, a more relevant moment can and should be proposed
for the confluence of Greek and Oriental tradition – that is, the time of the Seleucid and
Ptolemaic empires when the Greeks ruled the East. In this age, the Jews of Meso­potamia
would have had easy access to Greek as well as Babylonian tradi­tions.
39. Other Greek historical works should, of course, be consul­ted as relevant to the discus-
sion, in particular Hellenistic authors, but also Livy, although Livy, being a Roman
author, can only be an elaborate example of history-writing in the Hel­lenistic world. The
fact, however, remains that a number of parallels can be found between Livy and the
Old Testament history, even structural ones. This may not be a coincidence but may be
a testimony of a common ‘spiritual’ (i.e. Helle­nistic) background.
150 Biblical studies and the failure of history

this hardly was the case before Greek historians were became known and
read in the Near East.
4. The Persian period does not seem to meet the requirements of being the
time when the historical books of the Old Testament were composed. First
of all, it would have to be proven that Greek authors were known and
extensively read in the Persian Empire, and I doubt very much that this
was the case. Furthermore, we have to look for a suitable place where the
biblical-historical narratives may have been compiled.

One of the major problems in this connection is the fact that we have very lit-
tle information about the Persian age, at least as far as the Jewish population is
concerned. We know practically nothing about the situation in Palestine except
from the books of Ezra and Nehemiah and, although these books have generally
been highly regarded as first-hand sources of information, some critical voices
have arisen lately arguing, first, that the mission of Ezra never took place; and,
second, that the authen­ticity of the so-called ‘autobiography’ of Nehemiah may
also be doubt­ed – with reference to the fact that autobiographies constituted an
acknowl­edged and widespread literary genre in the Greek world.40
Palestine during the Persian period hardly seems to have embraced the kind
of society in which to look for the authors of literature such as those found in the
historical parts of the Old Testament. From a material point of view, the Persian
conquest seems to have brought little positive to Palestinian society, in general.
The rebuilding of Jerusalem was evi­dently only on a minute scale, the Jerusalem
of Nehemiah being even smaller than the one that existed before the extensions
to the city area made by Heze­kiah.41 It is certainly true that much work has to be
done in order to clarify the conditions of the Persian period, archaeologically,
if we wish to create the impression that great literature may possibly have been
composed in this age.42

40. A number of interesting viewpoints relevant to this discussion can be found in R. Davies
(ed.) Second Temple Studies: Persian Period 1 (JSOT supplement, 117; Sheffield: JSOT
Press, 1991); notably, Lester L. Grabbe, ‘Reconstructing History from the Book of Ezra’,
98–107; and R. Carroll, ‘Textual Strategies and Ideology in the Second Temple Period’,
108–24. On Nehemiah’s biography, cf. also D. J. A. Clines, ‘The Nehemiah Memoirs:
The Perils of Auto­graphy’, in his What Does Eve Do to Help? And Other Readerly
Questions to the Old Tes­tament (JSOT supplement, 94; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990),
124–64. It is, as a matter of fact, an age-old posi­tion which hereby makes its re-entrance
on the scene: cf. C. C. Torrey, ‘The Exile and the Restoration’, in Ezra Studies (Chicago,
IL: University of Chicago Press, 1910), 285–340, and especially C. C. Torrey, The
Composition and Historical Value of Ezra–Nehemiah (BZAW 2; Giessen: Töpelmann,
1896). See also the discussion in Davies, In Search of Ancient ‘Israel’, 78–87, and, of
course, in Garbini, History and Ide­ology, 151–69.
41. It is strange to realize how uninformative even the most recent descriptions of Jerusalem
in the Persian period are. Thus J. King, in ABD, III, 757, has noth­ing to add to such old
books as K. M. Kenyon, Digging up Jerusalem (London: Ernest Benn, 1974), 172–87.
Both King and Kenyon merely paraphrase the books of Nehemiah and Ezra.
42. In spite of the existence of a work such as E. Stern, Material Culture of the Land of
the Bible in the Persian Period (Warminster: Aris and Phillips, 1982), a study such as
 The Old Testament 151

An utterance such as the following from Philip J. King, ‘The Persian Period
was a time of peace and prosperity, when Judah was allowed a great deal of
administrative independence’, should awaken suspicion. How do we know this,
except that it is the convenient, common opinion of many scholars? Modern
examples of crumbling societies left on their own and with ‘a great deal of
administrative independence’ provide a sad picture of local incompetence, and
Jamieson-Drake’s demonstration of the total collapse of Judean society around
600bce points to socio-economic conditions in Palestine during the following
centuries that will have demanded more than the occasional visit of a Persian
emissary to settle. As a matter of fact, the often praised leniency of the Persians
towards their subject nations may have been nothing more than a dis­play of an
absolute lack of responsibility on the part of Persia. Maybe they did not interfere
in local affairs because they did not care! A re-evaluation of Persian rule and a
realistic appraisal of the Achaemenid administrative system are much needed.
The possibility that the com­munity in Jerusalem was organized as a ‘Tempel-
Bürger’ society, as main­tained by some scholars, following a proposal made by
Joel Wein­berg (e.g. Joseph Blenkinsopp and David Petersen) seems to me to be
a moot question, as very little except the idea itself speaks in favour of such a
theory.43 I have little to offer here, except that I have severe doubts about the
efficiency of Persian administration in those days, doubts caused by a report
such as Xenophon’s Anabasis. Here, in the heyday of the Persian Empire (at the
end of the fifth century bce), Xenophon, together with a minor army of Greek
mercenaries (roughly 10,000 men), participated in an expedition that brought
them to the very heart of the empire. The expedition, however, did not end here
when their Persian warlord was killed in a battle. The Greeks simply turned
around and walked home. In spite of having lost their command­ing officers,
they were not only able to get rid of their Persian persecu­tors but to proceed
on their journey right through – at the beginning – the richest provinces of the
Persian Empire. They were met by serious opposition, first, when they crossed
the borders of Anatolia, although their opponents there were not Persian troops
proper, but local mountain tribes, seemingly the subjects of the Persian king.

Jamieson-Drake, Scribes and Schools, is most needed for this period and the available
material should be statistically analysed. The deplorable lack of material is also reflected
by the rather short description of the age from an archaeological point of view in Helga
Weippert, Palästina in Vorhellenistischer Zeit (Handbuch der Archäologie, 2.1; Munich:
C.H. Beck, 1988), 687–718. Her remarks on 697 (‘Forschungsstand’) are most revealing.
It is also the case that most of the material from this period is found in sites north of
present-day Haifa, an area that can hardly be consi­dered part of the Persian province of
Yehud!
43. On this see J. Blenkinsopp, ‘Temple and Society in Achaeme­nid Judah’, in R. Davies
(ed.) Second Temple Studies 1, 22–53, and D. Petersen, ‘Israelite Prophecy: Change
Versus Continuity’, in J. A. Emerton (ed) Congress Volume: Leuven 1989 (VT supple-
ment, 45; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1991), 190–203, see 195–203. The original formulation of
this hypothesis can be found in Joel Weinberg, ‘Demographische Notizen zur Geschichte
der nachexilischen Gemeinde in Juda’, Klio 59 (1972), 45–59, and the same author’s
‘Das beit ‘abot 6.‑4. Jh. v.u.Z.’, VT 23 (1973), 400–14.
152 Biblical studies and the failure of history

The report by Xenophon hardly indicates that the adversaries of the Greeks
were citizens in an efficiently governed state or empire! It would also certainly
be an appropriate irony – assuming a view of the origins of the Old Testament
such as that promoted by, for example, Philip Davies should be vindicated – if
most of the archaeological material of the formative period of Old Testament
literature should belong to the much neglected Persian period, as this material
has often been thrown away or placed in dumps, that archaeologists might get
down quickly to ‘true’ Israelite layers.44
It should never be forgotten that the revitalization of the ancient Near East
occurred only after the Greek takeover. It is an established fact that city life
vastly expanded after the conquests of Alexander. In this, we must realize
that innovations in Jerusalem and Palestine were comparable – although on a
smaller scale – to the cul­tural developments in Syria, Mesopotamia and Egypt.
This theme hardly has to be discussed further other than to point out that we
now, finally, in the Hellenistic period, get a glimpse of a society in which great
literature may have been com­posed, kept and loved. Scholars may nurse very
romantic ideas about what may have happened in the nooks and crannies of pre-
Hellenistic Palestine, in a society considerably poorer than the one that has been
found.45 A more sophisticated and realistic assessment of facts suggests that the
Persian period was not the time in which the Old Testament could have been
written. Hardly any parallel exists to such a development, but a lot of evidence
that suggests that the Hellenistic period was the formative period of early Jewish
thought and literature, as witnessed by the Old Testament itself.46
There is no reason to gloss over the fact that the majority of Old Testament
scholars of the present day will not readily accept new ideas such as these con-
cerning the date and ideological background of the Old Testament. A number
of reasons may be found, not all of them based on irrational, if understandable,

44. An outspoken example of the lack of interest (i.e. contempt) for the Persian Period among
Israeli archaeologists is the recent ‘standard’ archaeology by A. Mazar, Archaeology of
the Land of the Bible 586 bce (New York: Doubleday, 1990). His example is certainly
not exceptional!
45. For example, the Late Bronze Age, a society that was hardly the home of great literature,
as is clear from the Amarna letters.
46. So far, the topic under discussion has been the historical literature. That the writings
are mostly Hellenistic litera­ture seems self-evident in the light of the present discus­sion
and there is no need to elaborate further on this at this point. The prophe­tic literature,
however, poses a special problem because this collection is normally understood to be
more recent than the Pentateuch and the Deuteronomistic History, which, according to
the Jewish tradition, is also prophetic. This is not the time to go into this here, except
to say that Julius Well­hausen’s verdict should be remem­bered, that the Prophets predate
the Law. The possibility that the historical literature may be late does not preclude that
the prophetic literature is yet later (the col­lection may be, but that is another case). The
analysis in my Early Israel, 306–36, showed that the historical tradi­tion was unknown
to the pre-exilic prophets. My estimation of the time of composition of the so-called
pre-exilic collections may be wrong after all, but the conclusion may still be valid that
these prophetic collections predate the appearance of a larger historical nar­rative of the
kind found in the Pentateuch and in the Deuteronomistic History.
 The Old Testament 153

d­ isbelief and reluctance to accept what goes against the opinio communis of
several generations. Exclamations such as ‘This is nonsense!’, ‘This cannot be
true!’ or ‘This is impossible!’ are often heard, although the argument in favour
of such ‘criticism’ will usually be of a circular kind – that is, it cannot be true
because it goes against the once gener­ally accepted view, which is, in turn,
based on the assumption that such alternatives cannot be correct.
However, objections of a more serious kind will likely be launched against a
position like that held in this chapter:

1. How is it possible that a period which must be considered the time of

production of ‘literature’ such as Chronicles could also produce a Yahwist
or the book of Joshua, and not least the engaging stories of the books of
Samuel?
2. We are acquainted with the linguistic evidence in certain parts of the Old
Testament that are acknowledged as Helle­nistic, such as Ecclesiastes or
the Song of Songs. When this evidence is known and compared to, for
example, the lan­guage of the Deuteronomistic literature, how could any-
one be prepared to accept the Deuteronomistic literature as being about
the same age as Ecclesiastes or the Song of Songs?
3. Where should we look for the home of the Old Testament in such a late
period? Is the Old Testament in its Hebrew form not so far removed from
the Septuagint in spirit and language that these Hebrew writings must be
much older than their Greek translations?

It should be possible to answer all three questions at one and the same time
by introducing ethno-linguistic as well as socio-economic argu­ments, although
these need not be very sophisticated. The issues are, in fact, quite plain. The
remarkable qualitative distance between Chronicles and the Deuteronomistic
History is not merely a distance in time (the Chroni­cler is generally citing the
Deuteronomistic History, so this his­tory must predate Chronicles), short or long;
it may just as well bear witness to the fact that the two histories were composed
in very different environments. It is, moreover, quite safe to assume that those
responsible for publishing the books of Chron­icles were less able narrators than
the Deuteronomistic historians.
This discussion sounds much like a new version of the debate about the
respective date of J, E and P, which has lasted for more than a century. It is well
known that much of this discussion was based on arguments such as differences
of religious or political outlook, linguistic matters, etc. It was also assumed that
the Yahwist was a more simple-minded fellow (although by all means a great
narrator) than his Elohist col­league and that the persons behind P display a view
of religion (if not theology) that is quite different from that found in J and E.
Such differences were explained a long time ago by Johannes Pedersen as not
necessarily the consequence of a difference in time; they could well be the out-
come of different milieus and/or abilities and preferences of their authors.47 To

47. Cf. J. Pedersen, ‘Die Auffassung vom Alten Testament’, ZAW 49 (1931), 161–81.
154 Biblical studies and the failure of history

deny that Pedersen’s argument could be valid would be the same as maintaining
that Plato could not be a contemporary of Xenophon!
When we turn to linguistic matters, it is true that the language of Ecclesiastes
is much nearer the Middle Hebrew of the Mishna, and it is far removed from
classical Hebrew, which is the idiom of the Pen­tateuch and Deuteronomistic
History. Nevertheless, it should be realized that it is impossible to say whether
such differences reflect differences of time or milieu (or context). Where should
we look for the author of Ecclesiastes, and who wrote the Deuterono­mistic
books, are relevant questions. Although I will not deny that such differences
may reflect different times of composition, I will also stress the fact that Hebrew
was known (if not spoken) in post-exilic times among Jews living in places as
different as Mesopotamia, Egypt and Palestine. Dialect differences, which must
have existed between these places, have been poorly studied. We must also con-
sider that it may be impossible to find evidence of such differences, as linguistic
differences have been harmonized, though certainly not totally eradicated.
Finally, in order to counter the argumentation that refers to differ­ences
between the Septuagint and Hebrew books of the Old Testa­ment, it should be
remembered that it is safe to assume that the Septuagint came into being in
Egypt. There is, on the other hand, no certainty that the Hebrew writings also
originated there. It is not unreason­able to think of a mixture in the Hebrew Bible
of writ­ings which came from Mesopotamia (especially the major part of the
historical literature) and from Palestine (perhaps Ecclesiastes, certainly Daniel
and others). Neither can we totally exclude the possibility that Hebrew – as
repre­sented by the Hebrew Scriptures – was no longer a living language. In this
period, Hebrew may have been what Ernst Axel Knauf has termed an artificial
language, a kind of ‘Latin’, perhaps ‘invented’ as the idiom of sacred litera-
ture.48 It is likely that the original Hebrew manuscripts, which were incorporated
within the Septuagint, were simply translated after having been transferred to
Egypt because of the less than inadequate knowledge of Hebrew among ordi­
nary Jews living in a city such as Alexandria. There is really no reason to believe
that the Hebrew versions must perforce have been much older than their Greek
translations. To discuss an interval of 100 years or a decade, or even a single
year, is hopeless, as no hard evidence for the interval between the appearance
of a Hebrew original and Greek translations can be found in support of any of
these positions.

Theses

It is my intention at the end of this chapter to present some ‘theses’ to show that
the view of the Old Testament presented here may lead to a renewed appraisal
of its status as sacred literature for both Jews and Christians in ancient times.
These theses are all to be considered for future discussion. Here, they are only

48. E. A. Knauf, ‘War Biblisch-Hebräisch eine Sprache?’, ZAH 3 (1990), 11–23.

 The Old Testament 155

listed. First, four theses concerning the relationship between the Septuagint and
the Hebrew Bible:49

1. The position of the Septuagint in the Christian Church. It is often stressed,

especially by specialists in Septuagint studies, that the Septu­agint was the
bible of the first non-Jewish Christians. However, insofar as it was still
in use in the Jewish Diaspora, the Septuagint was also the bible of these
communities. The Septuagint was clearly a Jewish bible. The reaction to
Christian use of the Septuagint, on the other hand, led to the appearance
of Jewish revisions of the Septuagint, as well as to the canonization of the
Hebrew Bible.
2. The Hebrew Bible is a Jewish canon, selected by Jews for Jews, per-
haps created in direct opposition to the Septuagint, now the Bible of the
Christian Church, but certainly also under the influence of the catas­
trophes of the late first century and early second century ce.
3. The reason why the Hebrew Bible and not the Septuagint should be part
of the Bible of the Protestant Church is to be found in the criterion of
origi­nality, which is certainly a mythical concept: in this case, attached to
the question of the original language of the Old Testament. Ancient man
was able to understand that there is a qualitative difference between an
original text and its translations. Because of this, it is still reasonable to
continue in the footsteps of European biblical humanism and the reform-
ers and read the Old Testament primarily in Hebrew.
4. On the other hand, from a specifically Christian point of view, it is ques-
tionable to continue in the footsteps of the Protestant – in contrast to
the Greek Orthodox and Roman Catholic churches – and disregard the
books of the Septuagint which are not in the Hebrew Bible. Protestantism
made a strange decision when it departed from the usage among fellow
Christians and accepted a selection of writings originally made by Jewish
scholars for their fellow Jews. From a theological perspec­tive, the concept
of ‘apocryphal writings’ should be suspect. There may be sound reasons
to reintroduce the parts of the Septuagint not included in the Hebrew Bible
among the scriptures of the Western Church (al­though this will probably
awaken little discussion today, as the impor­tance of the Bible to modern
Christians is, after all, diminishing).

Finally, four theses concerning the relationship between the two Tes­taments:

1. The lapse of time between the composition of the major part of the Old
Testament and of the New Testament must be considered minimal in light

49. Some preparatory work on this has already been published by my colleague Mogens
Müller; see his ‘Graeca sive Hebraica veritas? The Defense of the Septu­agint in the Early
Church’, SJOT 3.1 (1989), 103–124, and his ‘Hebraica sive graeca veritas: The Jewish
Bible at the Time of the New Testament and the Christi­an Bible’, SJOT 3.2 (1989),
55–71.
156 Biblical studies and the failure of history

of the discus­sion above. The Old Testament was no creation of a dis-

tant and foreign Israelite world, but came into being in post-ex­ilic Jewish
society, presumably during the Hellenistic period. From a his­torical point
of view, the continuity between the Old and New Testament consists of
the identity of the Jewish society that created and transmitted the writ-
ings of the Old Testament and the Jewish society that was the cradle of
Christianity.
2. It is important that we realize that the Septuagint was originally a Jewish
bible and was accepted as holy writ by early Christians only later. From
a specifically Christian point of view, this means that the Old Testament
cannot be considered an isolated entity, but is a theologically integral part
of the Christian heritage.
3. A theology of the Old Testament is, accordingly, not an issue for Christian
believers. The idea that Old Testament theologies should be founded on
the Old Testament alone cannot be supported by the allega­tion that early
Christians inherited old writings from the ancient Israelites – not from
the Jews – and turned these old Israelite books into their own sacred lit-
erature. The Christian acceptance of the Old Tes­tament cannot, therefore,
be likened to its acceptance by the ancient Jews (who wrote it). It should
accordingly be a job for Jewish theologians to write Old Testament (or,
rather, Hebrew Bible) theologies in the strict sense of the word.50
4. A theology that also acknowledges the Old Testament as part of the
Christian canon will, in a Christian environment, look to the New Testa­
ment for guidance, according to the scheme ‘promise and fulfil­ment’. As
a result of this, a Christian theological discussion that also involves Old
Testament matters will have to be an issue of interest for biblical theol­ogy;
it is not a specific Old Testament theme.51

These theses may eventually lead to a renewed interest in the Old Testament and
save it from becoming a theological and intellectual cul de sac among Christian
believers. Traditional historical-critical re­search has, in spite of its many merits,
made the Old Testament a book that merely provides information about the past,
and which has little to say to modern (Christian) people. In connection with the
New Testa­ment, the Old Testament must be considered a main topic of ­interest

50. This is not to deny that extraordinary intellectual achievements have been accomplished
in this field, as, for example, perhaps the most important Old Testament theology of
this century, Gerhard von Rad’s Theologie des Alten Testa­ments (2 vols; Munich: Chr.
Kaiser, 1957–1960). At the same time, it should be realized, however, that because of his
defining historical and redac­tion-historical approach, von Rad wrote a mental history of
the an­cient Jews, which is legitimate in a Christian environ­ment. A fine dissection of the
problems involved in writing Old Testament theologies in the present century has been
written by J. Høgenhaven, Problems and Prospects of Old Testament Theology (The
Biblical Seminar, 6; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1988).
51. The opposite could be said of specialized theolo­gies of the New Testa­ment, as it was
never intended to be an independent part of the Bible, but certainly presupposes the
existence of the Old Testament.
 The Old Testament 157

for all Christians, laypersons and theologians alike. This approach should cer-
tainly not be considered an attack on the integrity of the Old Testa­ment in a
Christian environment and it does not prevent historical studies from continuing
to be based on the Old Testament.52 To the contrary, the Old Testament should be
acknowledged as part of the Christian canon and, as such, important to Christian
believers on a level with the New Testament. Nor should it be forgotten that
the New Testament is such a small book with a comparably narrow theme only
because of the presence of the Old Testament within a Christian canon.

Acknowledgements

This chapter represents a rewritten and greatly expanded version of my article

in Danish, ‘Det gamle Testamente som en hellenistisk bog’, DTT 55 (1992),
81–101. The Danish original goes back to a public lecture held in Copenhagen
on 31 March 1992. This version represents the article as it appeared in L. L.
Grabbe (ed.), Did Moses Speak Attic? Jewish Historiography and Scripture in
the Hellenistic Period (JSOT supplement, 317/ESHM, 3; Sheffield: Sheffield
Academic Press, 2001), 287–318.

52. It is not for me to judge whether a change of approach to Old Testament studies will
bring any benefit to modern Jewry. I imagine that the majority of modern Jews will
consider these to be irrelevant, but it is my hope that they will also in time appreciate
their importance for the relationship between Christians and Jews, if the Christian com-
munities will understand that the origin of the Old Testament as well as the cradle of
Christianity should not be sought among ancient Israelites, but in the Jewish society of
the Hellenistic and Roman periods.
 9

Power and social organization:

some misunderstandings and some proposals,
or is it all a question of patrons and clients?
1994

Let me start this lecture by quoting the admoni­tion of God in Exodus 23:20-33
extensively:

And now I am sending an angel before you to guard you on your way and to
bring you to the place I have prepared. / Heed him and listen to his voice. Do
not defy him; he will not pardon your rebelliousness, for my authority rests in
him. / If you will only listen to his voice and do all I tell you, then I shall be an
enemy to your enemies, and I shall harass those who harass you. / My angel
will go before you and bring you the Amorites, the Hittites, the Perizzites, the
Canaanites, the Hivites and the Jebusites and I will make an end of them. /
You are not to bow down to their gods; you are not to worship them or observe
their rites. Rather, you must tear down all their images and smash their sacred
pillars. / You are to worship the Lord your God and he will bless your bread
and your water. I shall take away all sickness out of your mist. / No woman
will miscarry or be barren in your land. I shall grant you a full span of life. /
I shall send terror of me ahead of you and throw into panic every people you
find in your path. I shall make all your enemies turn their backs toward you.
/ I shall spread panic before you to drive out the Hivites, the Canaanites, and
the Hittites in front of you. / I shall not drive them out all in one year, or the
land would become waste and the wild beast too many for you, / but I shall
drive them out little by little until you have grown numerous enough to take
possession of the country. / I shall establish your frontiers from the Red Sea
to the Sea of the Philistines, and from the wilderness to the River Euphrates, I
shall give the inhabitants of the land into your power, and you will drive them
out before you. / You are not to make any alliance with them and their gods.
/ They must not stay in your land, for fear they make you sin against me by
ensnaring you into the worship of their gods. (New English Bible)
 Power and social organization 159

And I continue with another quotation, this time from Mario Puzo’s novel The
Godfather.1 The following dialogue – if not monolo­gue – can be found at the
beginning of the book when a de­spairing father of a girl, who had been mis­
treated by some young­sters, who had only received a mild sentence from the
court, appeals to the Godfather – the head of the Corleone family – in an effort
to obtain justice. However, the father, a caretaker, has offended the God­father
by never calling him ‘Godfather’, and – worse – he offers to pay for the service.
What was expected in the first instance was that, before he had gone to the court
with his case, he should have involved the Godfather in seeking his revenge.
Instead, he played with ‘other gods’ (as it were), and disregarded the honour of
his own, the Godfather, who, nevertheless, forgives these offenses. Yet, before
he agrees to do what is asked he delivers a speech:

But if you had come to me, my purse would have been yours. If you had
come to me for justice those scum who ruined your daughter would be weep-
ing bitter tears this day. If by some misfortune an honest man like yourself
made enemies they would become my enemies … and then, believe me, they
would fear you.

The scene ends with the following dialogue between the applicant and the
Godfather. The caretaker: ‘Be my friend. I accept.’ The Godfather: ‘Good, you
shall have your justice. Some day, and that day may never come, I will call upon
you to do me a service in return. Until that day, consider this justice a gift from
my wife, your daughter’s godmother.’
In both places the important points are:

1. You must accept the superior as your God(father).

2. You must not deal with someone else and hope that this ‘other’ will help
when you are in trouble.
3. If you keep this agreement, then you have nothing to fear, but your ene-
mies will fear – not because of you but because of the superior being
behind you.

Many passages in the Old Testament – if not most of the Bible – follow this line.
The Deuteronomistic History contains one long tale of disobe­dience against the
superior being to whom Israel had sworn allegiance, and although we some-
times find expressions of the opposite – for example, in Psalm 89, where the
God is rebuked for having forsaken the faithful king of his chosen dynasty, or
in Psalm 44, in which the people of Israel have never broken the covenant – the
tone of unfaith­fulness runs through the historical narratives and greater part of
prophetic literature – to the destruc­tion of Jerusalem and its temple and the exile
of the unfaith­ful people of God.

1. Mario Puzo, The Godfather (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons 1969).

160 Biblical studies and the failure of history

It has long been recognized that Old Testa­ment authors were not entirely
original. They made use of the relationship between superior and vassal,
known from innumerable ancient Near Eastern texts, among which the Hittite
suzerain-treaties might well offer the clearest – but certainly not the only –
examples.2 One could quote extensive passages in example from the treaty
between Šuppiluliumaš I of H atti (fourteenth century bce) and Šattiwazza (if not
Mattiwaza or Kurwazza) of �Mitanni.3 Šattiwaza is obviously the inferior part-
ner in the agreement. It is, therefore, forbidden him to enter­tain relations with
foreign parties not accepted by the king of H atti. Should one arise as ‘an enemy
� king of H atti’. Mutual friends are
of the state of Mitanni, he is an enemy of the
also good to have, so if a foreigner ‘is a friend of the� king of H atti, he is also
� contain rules
the friend of the king of Mitanni’. Large parts of such treaties
for exchanges between suzerain and vassal, as if between two people of equal
standing, which, when the stipulations are read closely, is, in fact, not the case.4
Normally, weightier duties are placed on the vassal. However, a treaty like this
guarantees the vassal help from his suzerain when he or his family is in danger.
In a series of studies, the well-known Italian Assyriolo­gist Mario Liverani
has shown how the political scene in western Asia was domi­nated by a system
according to which petty kings were always sub­ordinate to a mightier king:
either the king of Mitanni or the king of H atti.5 On the other hand, it was never
�
imagined that a petty king could sur­vive alone for any longer period. Sometimes
there were reactions against this system – for example, in the short history of
the independent state of Amurru during the fourteenth century bce. Here, the
kings, because they ruled a state on the border between the Hit­tite and Egyptian
empires – tried to play the two great kings against each other and thereby obtain
a tempo­rary situation of independence, which was, however, soon abandoned
as the king of Amurru had to submit to the one mighty lord, the king of H atti, to
�
escape the yoke of the other, who was Pharaoh.6

2. In general on this discussion, see D. J. McCarthy, Treaty and Covenant: A Study in Form
in the Ancient Oriental Documents and in the Old Testament (Analecta Biblica, 21;
Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1978).
3. Translated in E. F. Weidner, Politische Dokumente aus Kleinasien: die Staats­verträge
in akkadischer Sprache aus dem Archiv von Boghazköi (Bohazköi-Studien, 8 and 9;
Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs, 1923), 2–57.
4. On how a Hittite suzerain treaty may be struc­tured to hide the inequality between great
king and vassal, M. Liverani, ‘Storiografia politica hittita – I: Shunashshura, ovvero:
Della reciprocità’, Oriens Antiquus 12 (1973), 267–97.
5. Beginning with his article ‘Contrasti e confluenze di concezioni politiche nell’età di
El-Amarna’, Revue Assyriologi­que 61 (1967), 1–18, and reaching a temporary climax
in his ‘Prestige and Interest: International Relations in the Near East c.1600–1100bc’
(History of the An­cient Near East/Studies I, Padova, 1990).
6. Cf. on the short history of Amurru, especially Horst Klengel, Geschichte Syriens im 2.
Jahrtausend v.u.Z. Teil 2: Mittel- und Südsyrien (Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaften
zu Berlin. Institut für Orientfirschung, Veröffentlichung Nr. 70; Berlin: Akademie-
Verlag, 1969), 6. Abschnitt: ‘Amurru’, 178–325.
 Power and social organization 161

Liverani demonstrates that this system was common and acknowled­ged in

Western Asia: that the inferior kings were the loyal vassals of the great kings
and that both parties well understood how the system worked: a mutual sys-
tem of allegi­ance and protection, the vassal pro­tecting the great king with his
soldiers and, with taxes and tribute to his overlord, contributing to the welfare
and strength of the empire, of which he was a part, whereas the overlord was
guarantee of the petty king that he might remain on his throne as long as he
was faithful. The system is well described as early as the Mari letters, where,
for example, we have that famous message that confirms that, in Western Asia,
there were two great kings, the king of Yamhad, fol­lowed by twenty kings,
� Babylon (Hammurabi), Larsa,
whereas other great monarchs, such as the king of
�
Ešnunna and Qatna had but ten to fifteen kings as their followers. 7
We find this
clearly expressed in 2 Samuel 7, in the prophecy of Nathan, regarding the rela-
tion between Yahweh and the Davidic dy­nasty and, especially, in Psalm 132:
‘The Lord swore this oath to David, an oath which he will not break: A prince
of your own line, I will set on your throne. / If your sons keep my covenant and
heed the teaching that I give them, their sons in turn for all time will occupy
your throne!’ Of course, we also have the motif of enemies of the beloved and
chosen one, who will be crushed: ‘I shall cover his enemies with shame, but on
him there shall be a shining crown.’
It is an interesting fact that Egyptian kings of the Amarna Age may not have
understood this system. There is considerable evidence in the Amarna letters
– as also shown by Liverani in the previously mentioned works and especially
in studies on Rib-Adda of Byblus and his corresponden­ce with Pharaoh8 – that
Egyptians and Asiatic kings lived in two different political worlds, not in the
sense of political allegiance, since the kings of Palestine and southern Syria were
in those days all vassals of Pharaoh, but in an ideological sense, as Egyptians
and the people of Western Asia meant two different things, when talking about
mutual allegian­ces. Asiatic princes understood that the Egyptian king was the
suzerain to whom they had prom­ised loyalty, in exc­hange for which Pharaoh
protected them, whereas Egypti­ans understood Pharaoh to be a lofty god, far
removed from such need to provide for the welfare of insignificant Asiatic –
namely, Barbarian – kings.
Clearly – or so Liverani maintains – princes of Asia believed themselves
part of a mutual protection system, they being vassals and Pharaoh their master,
while Egyptians lived in a bureaucratic system, where princes were employed as
civil servants to Pharaoh and owed him allegiance, without expecting anything
in exchange other than their due wage. Since he was not a normal human being,
what was due them consisted in the life granted to them by the god, Pharaoh –
surely an important thing in Egypt because it meant eternal life together with the

7. Text and translation George Dossin, ‘Les archives épistolaires du Palais du Mari’, Syria
19 (1938), 105–26, 117.
8. M. Liverani, ‘Le lettere del Faraone a Rib-Adda’, Oriens Anti­quus 10 (1971), 253–68,
‘Rib-Adda, giusto sofferente’, Altorientali­sche Forschungen 1 (1974), 175–205.
162 Biblical studies and the failure of history

god in the land of blessing on the other side of the grave, whereas, in Western
Asia, such promises would hardly pay your mortgage.
Two different political ideologies existed at the same time, both tracing their
history back to the hidden past, and both destined to survive centuries after the
close of the Amarna period and the Late Bronze. We should, however, expect
such ideolo­gies to reflect different socio-political usage – which was the main
reason I introduced the quotation from The Godfather early in the discussion.
Let me be clear that my thesis is that the political ideology of the kings of
Western Asia in the Amarna Age was under the influence of a socie­tal system,
which was structured similarly to Sicilian society of the twentieth century ce,
dominated by Mafiosi. In order not to be misunderstood, Western Asia was
politically struc­tured as a society consisting of two types of persons: patrons
and their clients. It was a system of patronage (from a different perspective also
called cliente­lism). Such a politi­cal system moulded political-ideo­logi­cal termi-
nology and controlled the be­haviour of people living in that society. This is not
a joke. Some call this the Mediter­ra­nean political system, suggesting that it was
the standard political system of the Mediterranean region, given that other polit-
ical forces not intrude on the traditional (i.e. local society). It is also a system
which is still largely operative in the Mediter­ranean world. On the other hand,
it is also very different (or should be) from the system we find in Central and
Northern Europe, where patronage as a system has been abolished for at least
a couple of centuries. A near classic selection of studies published by Ernest
Gellner and John Waterbury9 demonstrates the presence of patronage in Italy
(the basic termino­logy is, or is influenced by, Italian), Malta, Turkey, Cyprus,
Iraq, Lebanon, Jordan, Egypt (i.e. the modern state), Tunisia, Libya, Algeria and
Morocco. It also exists in Corsica and in France before the revolution.
This system seems to blossom nearly every­where in what anthropologists
have identified as pre-industrial societies (though to some degree stratified).10
It is not found in most simple family-oriented societies, but in complex socie-
ties that have reached a degree of work differentiation. The principal enemy of
this system seems to be bureaucra­cy, as when bureaucracy functions well (with
limited corruption, as prevails today in most Protestant countries of Europe),
there is no room for the patron–client system to function.
The basic structure of the system consists of the existen­ce of the afore-
mentioned two categories, patrons and their clients, the patrons being the
more powerful, as well as wealthy leaders of parties and clans. A patron is, in
theory, not bound by bonds of allegiance to other parties, although this may
be blurred because the actual development of the system is hardly simple.
Clients, for their part, are defined as persons who are not slaves in a technical
sense, but free citizens who have entered a contractual rela­tions­hip with one

9. E. Gellner and J. Waterbury, Patrons and Clients in Mediterranean Societies (New York
and London: Duckworth, 1977).
10. Cf. S. N. Eisenstadt and Luis Roniger, Patrons, Clients and Friends: Interpersonal
Relations and the Structure of Trust in Society (Themes in the Social Sciences;
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984).
 Power and social organization 163

to whom they owe allegiance and loyalty and whom they serve, should their
patron so wish.
Why does such a system arise? First of all, the state apparatus of simple or
embryonic states is often not effective. We all recognize in the Bible that the
great men of society must care for the widow and the orphan, the poor and the
destitute. It is a central theme in the prophetic message that wealthy Israelites
did not do that, but deser­ted their obligations for their own interests. If neces-
sary, they bribed judges and officers of the court. It is also well recognized that
this happened because the state generally did not possess the means to enact
justice. There was no significant police force. If a person had a case against
another, he need himself drag that person before a judge and hope for the judge-
ment to go his way. Even this was a privilege that was not bestowed on all, but
only on wealthy landowners, so-called full citizens. Women, children and the
landless did not share such privilege. They were not citizens, but relied on the
mercy or good humour of the wealthy. The choice at hand for the poor was a
rich man who could secure their rights – not far different from The Godfather’s
caretaker, who, unable to obtain justice in court, needed to refer back to the
Godfather to carry his case. Those who know the novel well might also remem-
ber that the caretaker started with a request that the scoundrels should be killed.
The Godfather, who weighed the case, simply decided that this was too much
and not according to the rules. It would be enough to break all their bones – and
so it happe­ned.
In the embryonic state of this system there was but a single patron, who
presided over all other patrons: the king (who owed only his god allegiance).
Therefore, the notion of the just king sitting on his throne creating law and
justice is a prevalent theme, not only in the Old Testament but in the Near East
as a whole.
It is a remarkable fact that until now no laws have ever appeared in any docu-
ment from Western Asia – the Old Testament laws including the so-called Book
of the Covenant (Exod. 21–23) being a special case, but eventually reflecting a
Babylonian understanding of justice and law. No patron and especially no king
would have cared being told how to judge and how to decide a specific case.
It was their sovereign right to act as judges as well as lawgivers at one and the
same time.
Was it a bad system, as the similarity to Mafia rule seems to demonstrate?
No, not in itself. From the viewpoint of the common man, the patron was a fear-
ful creature whom you were obliged to follow, and against whom you certainly
were not expected to react – and, if you did, you broke the bond to your patron
and had the worse to expect from his hand, including death. On the other hand,
it must be remembered that the patron is a powerful man who almost ‘owns’
you, although in a respectful way (Mafiosi are always ‘Uomini d’onore’, ‘men
of honour’), so that your feelings are not hurt (too much). He must be feared
and respected, but he also has to treat you with respect. In practice, your life
is safe as long as you keep your part of the bargain. That is the most important
aspect of the system. The patron cannot refuse a rightful wish formulated by
a loyal client because, if he does so, he has broken his oath, a thing that may
164 Biblical studies and the failure of history

endanger the client’s existence in the short run – but also the patron’s survival.
The bond between client and patron is broken if either party does not fulfil its
duties towards the other.
How does such a system function in practice? We have already heard of cases
brought before the court where the client must hope for his patron to rescue him.
Other instances may relate to times of distress and hunger, where the superior
resources of the patron may help the client to survive, or, failing such help, the
client would die. The patron simply must provide for the survival of his clients.
On the other hand, the patron, of course, benefits from the contributions which
the clients offer their patron: tilling fields, paying rent, providing manpower
in conflicts between patrons and the like. Many instances can be considered
where the patron benefits from his clients. The system is, however, not as such
exploitative (it may, of course, be, but only when abuses substitute the correct
application of the system, as in present-day mafia systems), for the costs of
holding the patrona­ge when clients are under distress may well supersede any
income from such clients. If he wishes to keep his clients together, the patron
must support them and provide them with means of survival – or they will desert
him. This obligation for support may not seem as critical as it is because it could
be argued that such desertion, at a time when the country is hit by hunger and
draught, for example, in fact, could help the patron to keep his possessions.
However, this is hardly a valid explanation, as, within this Mediterranean sys-
tem, the most important aspect of clientelism consists of the prestige, which the
adherence of a large number of clients bestows on the patron, and prestige is
the all important factor at play in regard to political power between patrons. If
one patron does not give such care to his clients, his clients may choose another
patron, who better deserves their gratitude. The status of the new patron will
grow just as the power of the former diminishes. In the end, he runs the risk
of losing his position altogether. Therefore, the order of the day for the good
(i.e. clever) patron is to hold his clients under his benevolent hand at all cost.
It has been maintained that the patronage system is, indeed, a very effective
way of en­suring the redistribution of wealth in society. It is not just a system of
tyrannical economic exploitation; under certain circumstances, it can be a well-
functioning economic system.
How is it that this notion of patronage, which, in my eyes, formed the
single most important social factor in most of the ancient and many modern
Mediterranean societies, among which, also, ancient Palestinian society, includ-
ing the states of Israel and Judah, belonged, has been so little recognized? If
we read, for example, Gottwald’s The Tribes of Yahweh and other works by
the same school of thought,11 it becomes obvious that they have no idea that
political power is invested in patronage. They rather assume that power and

11. N. K. Gottwald, The Tribes of Yahweh (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1979); M. Chaney,
‘Ancient Palestinian Peasants Movements and the Formation of Premonarchic Israel’, in
D. N. Freedman and D. F. Graf (eds) Palestine in Transition. The Emergence of Ancient
Israel (The Social World of Biblical Antiquity Series, 2; Sheffield: Almond Press, 1983),
39–90.
 Power and social organization 165

the power play is a family matter or based on linea­ges (Gottwald mistakenly

understands these as extended famili­es) and tribes. But they are wrong. Why?
First the propositions of this line of thought:

1. They look upon ancient society as a society structured on class.

2. They think of ancient society as a family-organized society.
3. They believe the state to be an intruder on such a family-organized ­society,
which destroys that society and turns people into slaves.

First comment
The notion of class societies comes from Gottwald’s Marxist perspective. Not
that, in principle, I have anyt­hing against Marxism as a scholarly theory (as a
political system, it has demonstrated its impossibil­ity – although every politi-
cal system, good or bad, would probably break down in Russia); but the theory
developed on the basis of Central European society as found in nineteenth-cen-
tury Germa­ny, France and England. It was believed that we only need to have
two different groups to have a class society. In fact, however, in these countries
150 years ago, we find at least three classes: peasant, noblemen and the liberal
third class, which assumed power in the wake of the French Revolution of 1789.
It is my thesis that this third ‘class’ created all the trouble because it was new
(although it developed in Central Europe over a period of, say, 500 years), it was
wealthy and it was independent – owing nothing to the state nor the nobility. It
created its own for­tune, and now – in 1789 – demanded its right to power, as the
most dynamic part of the society.
Pre-revolution France was dominated by the relation between nobility and
peasants, who, in fact, were clients of the nobility. So it was everywhere in the
pre-industrialized world. The phenomenon is well known from my own country
– and part of the curricu­lum as early as primary school. The ties which bound the
nobility to the peasants and vice versa are important for all the reasons described
earlier in this lecture. In Denmark, it was not against the rules that those who
liberated the peasants at the end of the eighteenth century (in 1787) were among
the highest-ranking noblemen of the country:12 good patrons, caring for their
clients! It is interesting that one of the slogans of the French Revolution was
that ‘power belongs to the people!’ The new group, the independents, really
believed themselves identi­cal with the people. Again, it is hardly coincidence
that we soon find the first pronounced ideas of nationa­lity and nation, and of a
people identified with the nation, belonging to a specific territory with a national
heritage and, finally, a history. These new rulers misunderstood themselves to be
the world and they formed their impression of the world according to their own
perceptions, especially of themselves as standing between two groups: between
the peasants and the old nobility. As a result, the idea of a class-society appears,
an idea that for all practi­cal purpo­ses was false as originally formulated, but one
which was taken up by the new ‘class’ that had begun to appear in England at

12. Names such as Bernstorff and Reventlow are conspicuous here.

166 Biblical studies and the failure of history

the end of the eighteenth century. It was, however, during the nineteenth and the
beginning of the twentieth that the victors from 1789 (i.e. the class of workers)
were led to fight cruel wars against the bourgeois. Although employing them,
without, however, any understanding of the old bond between patrons and cli-
ents, the bourgeois factory owners had not cared for their workers’ needs.
Modern European society is horizontally arranged – that is, it is today a
class society, in every sense. Ancient society, however, was not. I sometimes
describe its social structure as vertical, consisting of a vertical polarity, associ-
ating wealthy patrons with their poor clients. There was no politi­cally common
ground among peasants who belonged to different patrons and any such form
of political communication was forbidden – as it was forbidden for a vassal of
the great king to associate with others not be­longing to the same system – ‘fam-
ily’ – or patronage. Only once do we find examples from the ancient Orient of
a differ­ent type of society, during the Hellenistic period. This society, however,
strongly differed from the older Orient, as well as the later Muslim one. An
independent third class also emerged, consisting of well-to-do people who lived
in huge Helle­nistic cities. To understand the difference between the Hellenistic
and the previous oriental worlds, we need to study the structure of a Hellenistic
oriental city and compare it to older types of cities. The desert city of Palmyra,
for example, with a 4 or 5 kilometre long central road (Cardo), with open spaces
and many great houses, over an area which needs to be measured in square
kilometres, can be contrasted to a large city in Western Asia of the late Bronze
Age, such as Ugarit, which covered an area of about 160 hectares, where, apart
from the temples, only a single house – the royal palace – was well built. In
Hellenistic cities, we find a third class, standing apart from rulers and peasants,
living on its own means and independent of other groups. This may well be the
reason we also see notions of nations and nationality appearing in this period,
quite comparable to ideas of the embryonic Romantic Age 2000 years later.

Second comment
Was power not invested in the family, as we find an extensive use of terms such
as ‘father’, ‘son’ and ‘brot­her’ in the Old Testament? Although this is true, it
has been known for many years that such terms are used in different ways in
Ancient Near Eastern wri­tings. On the one hand, a father may be the physi­cal
progenitor of his son. On the other, he may be a superior person deserving of
respect. At the highest level of the patronage system, this is obvious when kings
address each other as ‘brot­hers’ or ‘fat­hers and sons’. In a letter from around
1250bce, for example, the Assyrian king is the ‘brother’ of the ‘Hittite’ king,
who, however, knows of no such ‘brotherhood’.13 Evidently, the Assyrian king
tried to explain to his colleague in H attu­sas that he himself belonged in the same
� colleague in Egypt (who was given respect
class as both the Hittite king and his
as the ‘brother’ of the king of H atti). The Hittite king, for his part, refused to
�

13. Translated in G. Beckman, Hittite Diplomatic Texts (SBL Writings from the Ancient
World Series, 7; Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1996, no 24A), 138.
 Power and social organization 167

accept such a frivolous invitation to comradeship and, offended, turned against

the Assyrian king to make clear that he did not belong among the great kings
of his time.
Another example, illustrating different status, although the exact kind is
unknown, is found in the correspondence between the king of Alašiya and the
king of Ugarit. It is obvious that the king of Ugarit, for some unknown reason, is
reckoned to have a lower status than his ‘father’, the king of Alašiya.14 It would
certainly be possible to find many other examples of this kind. This metaphoric
use of family terms is, however, important in understanding how family rela-
tions worked in the Ancient Near East. The ideology as expressed, for example,
in the Old Testa­ment tells us that the family is the all-important institution. This
may be true, but we are entitled to examine the manner of importance. On the
lower level, a father of a family in trouble may need to sell his sons and daugh-
ters, his wife and even himself, as we see from the law of the Hebrew slave in
Exodus 21:2-11. The nuclear family may be important to its members (coun­ting
between two and six persons), but this family has no significant function within
a political structure. It is far too weak for that. On the higher level – which, by
the way, is the only level where we can expect extended families (counting as
many as perhaps ten to twenty persons) – the family may be much more impor-
tant simply because of its wealth, including the clientele attached to this family
and the prestige within its own society.15
On the level of lineage, we find the same situation. On the lower level, line-
ages may well exist, but they are often scat­tered, not merely within their own
city and village – as has been noted by many anthropologists, though, without
accounting for this phenomenon – but over other towns and villages. This is due
to the recurrent problem of a single poor lineage which is not able to help its
members. In fact, anthropologists often stress that, contrary to the ideology of
the family, poor relatives are seldom helped by more fortunate lineage members.
Help has to be found in the patronage system to which the different segments of
a poor lineage belong.16 As every father is (theoretically) independent, he may
choose his own patrons and thereby split the lineage politically into different
groups, though still ideologically members of the same family.
The rich family with its lineage plays a completely different role, for here
patrons ‘own’ their society and are active in the play for power over their coun-
try. This play may be active on all levels, from the tiniest village to the empire
– hence, a very inter­esting book I read many years ago (I have forgotten both

14. RS 18.147, published in J. Nougayrol, E. Laroche, C. Virolleaud and C. F. A. Schaeffer,

Ugaritica V (Mission de Ras Shamra, 16; Paris: Librairie Orientaliste Paul Guethner,
1968), 87–89, no 24. Translated and discussed among other places in Trevor Bryce, The
Kingdom of the Hittites (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 333. After all, the letter
includes a plea from the king of Ugarit for help from Alašiya.
15. On the family, cf. my Early Israel: Anthropological and Historical Studi­es on the
Israelite Society before the Monarchy (VT supplement, 37; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1985),
245–59.
16. On the lineage, see ibid., 260–72.
168 Biblical studies and the failure of history

author and title) explained how Napoleon turned Europe into one big Corsican
mafia/patronage system, placing his family, his brothers and sisters with their
husbands on the different thrones of occupied countries, and keeping one
brother as his private consigliore – that is, ‘family adviser’. Napoleon, who was
brought up in a Corsican patronage system, could not imagine that any other
system would work.

Third comment
Nothing speaks against the reconstruction of ancient society proposed here,
not even the existence of tribes, that single most impossible notion of social
anthropology. Tribes are no substitute for a patronage system. They have little
political power in themselves and they possess no means for handling more
complicated matters as appear in complex societies. On a more basic societal
level, tribes may well have such importance, but in a compli­cated – yet not
fully developed – socio-economic system; as is typical in Bronze and Iron Age
Palesti­ne and Syria, tribes played no role – except in the ideology of a patron-
age system (because that ideology maintains that people, belonging to the same
tribe, must side with members of their tribe). Tribes disappear because they are
superseded by the patro­nage system. We must remember that, in early states,
kings are reckoned the first and most important patron: as in Rome, he is Primus
inter pares. When a true bureaucracy arises with civil servants or a third class
between patrons and their clients, the patronage system will likely break down,
as has happened in a limited number of countries in modern times, such as
Scandinavia (remnants of the old system do, of course, still exist), Holland and
parts of Germany, and, in antiquity, in Egypt, where the notion of being the serv-
ant of the god (i.e. Pharaoh) preven­ted civil officers from deserting their master:
who could resist the offer of eternal life together with your god and master? It is
obvious that the Egypti­ans, as already ex­plained, did not understand the system
of patronage as it existed in Western Asia simply because they did not have such
a system of their own.

Acknowledgements

This chapter is based on a lecture presented to the University of Stellenbosch,

South Africa, in August 1994.
 10

Is it still possible to write a history

of ancient Israel?
1994

A few months ago I lectured at a symposium in Bern in Switzerland on the

theme ‘Kann von einer “israelitischen Religion” noch weiterhin die Rede sein?’
(‘Is it still possible to speak of an “Israelite religion”?’). The subtitle of the
lecture was ‘Aus der perspektive eines Historikers’ (‘From a historian’s point
of view’).1 My answer was ‘yes and no’ at the same time. It is still possible to
speak of an Israelite religion, although the only place this religion should be
sought is in the Old Testament. No: Israelite religion, as it is described by the
authors of the Old Testament, is quite different from the religions present in
Palestine during the so-called Old Testament period. The Old Testament does
not describe a religion that could be found in Palestine in ancient times; rather,
Israelite religion must be studied in the light of later Jewish sentiment. One
could also put it in the following manner: in the field covered by Old Testament
scholars, two religions are likely to exist side by side. On the one hand, there is
the biblical religion, a literary form of religion which is usually considered to
be a true expression of ancient Israelite religion. On the other hand, we have a
variety of west Asian religion, which Old Testament writers hardly ever allow
to speak for itself, but which, instead, is mostly described in desultory terms and
heavily criticized as religious abuse.
It should be apparent that scholars generally use the term ‘Israelite religion’
in a questionable way. First of all, it is obvious that most scholars have formed
their opinion of Israelite religion almost solely on the basis of the description
found in the Old Testament. Second, it is equally obvious that such scholars
work at the mercy of the Old Testament authors and that their understanding of
religious matters derives almost entirely from the Bible. It follows that the reli-
gious standards of biblical writers form the basis of a modern religio-­historical
analysis of ancient Israelite religion. Scholars, working with the biblical descrip-
tion of Israelite religion, have paid insufficient attention to questions that arise
because of the dating of texts and they have been evasive when they have had

1. Published in W. Dietrich (ed.) Jahwe unter den Göttern und Göttinnen des Alten Orients
(OBO; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1994),
59–75.
170 Biblical studies and the failure of history

to face the fact that the greater part of biblical literature belongs to the so­-called
exilic or post-exilic periods.2
I am not going to discuss Israelite religion here. Instead, the theme of this
chapter will be the history of ancient Israel and I intend to present how I think
we should continue our study of this history in the future, whether or not it is
legitimate to speak of such a history at all. In order to introduce my subject,
I briefly mention some of the new elements that have changed the course of
the study of ancient Israel. It cannot be ignored that most of the changes have
oc­curred at the beginning of this history – that is, before 1000bce – while the
following periods have until recently been left almost untouched by modern
developments. There is, however, reason to believe that the period after 1000bce
will be the focus of our interest in the future and that dramatic changes are also
about to take place during this period. Be this as it may, I beg your indulgence
for starting this section by referring to my study, Early Israel,3 although I still
believe that this can be justified because the idea of the history of ancient Israel
presented there played an essential role in promoting the present situation, char-
acterized by rapidly changing views concerning historical matters.
It could be maintained and it should not be forgotten that George Mendenhall
(since 19624) and Norman Gottwald (since 19745) started their deconstruction
of Old Testament history, which certainly contributed to the change of para-
digm that has occurred in Old Testament studies. At the same time, it should
not be forgotten that their theories have their fair share of problems, since
Mendenhall’s and Gottwald’s major contributions are idiosyncratic and often
misleading. Mendenhall, for example, seems prepared to sacrifice the his­tory
of Israel to preserve the history of Israelite religion, whereas Gottwald is only
‘revolutionary’ in the sense that he applies a revolu­tionary model to the study
of Israel’s origins. Aside from this, Gott­wald’s methodology is rather conven-
tional; the number of new ideas is quite limited. If anyone is in doubt on this
issue, he should consult Gottwald’s introduction to the Old Testament,6 which
makes it obvious that, apart from a certain ‘sociological’ flavour im­posed on

2. ‘So-called’ because the term ‘the Exilic Period’ presupposes that it ended in 538bce.
This was, however, only partially true, as most ‘exiled’ Jews remained in Babylonia
for the rest of their lives. I sometimes maintain that the real end to the Babylonian exile
only came in 1948ce, when the proclamation of the modern state of Israel triggered the
second Alia, the one from modern Iraq to Palestine/Israel, leaving only a tiny remnant of
Jews in their age-old home in Mesopotamia. This is, of course, intended to be understood
as a joke – a joke, however which has some reality behind it. The presuppositions for
speaking of an exile certainly did not end in 538bce.
3. VT supplement 37 (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1985).
4. The year of publications of his ‘The Hebrew Conquest of Palestine’, in BA 25 (1962),
66–87.
5. See his lecture at the IOSOT meeting in Edinburgh, 1974, ‘Domain Assumptions and
Societal Models in the Study of Pre-Monarchic Israel’, VT supplement 28 (1975),
89–100.
6. N. K. Gottwald, The Hebrew Bible: A Socio-Literary Introduction (Philadelphia, PA:
Fortress, 1985).
 Is it still possible to write a history of ancient Israel? 171

his textual analysis, the main view of scripture is most traditional and not
inspiring.
The main reason for quoting my own study is to refer to the ‘maxims’ for-
mulated at the end of the book: first, our most important duty is to acknowledge
our ignorance; second, once we have acknowledged the state of our ignorance,
we are in a position to acknowledge what we really do know. These statements
could be under­stood as mottos underlying many studies that have appeared
since 1985, not least the recent monograph by Thomas L. Thompson.7
When I finished writing Early Israel (now more than ten years ago), it
seemed clear to me that a literary theory was missing which might provide an
answer to the obvious discrepancies between the Old Testament description
of the early history of Israel and the history of Palestine during the transition
from the Late Bronze to the Early Iron Age. This writer, like most of his con-
temporaries, was entangled in the historical network laid out by Old Testament
writers, according to whom the history of Israel was divided into fixed periods:
the periods of the settlement, the judges, the united and the divided monarchies,
the exilic and the post-exilic periods. During the middle 1980s, we were pre-
pared merely to scratch or adjust the portrait, which had been painted by Old
Testament narrators.
In his Who Were the Israelites?, the late Gösta W. Ahlström went further8 as
he correctly questioned the identity of so-called early Israelites. Very few really
understood what Ahlström’s inten­tion was and this writer, himself, had to write
two more books before he understood what changes were developing. When
he admitted to Gösta Ahlström that he must be slow-witted, Ahlström replied:
‘Yes, since you say so yourself!’ Indeed, Ahlström preceded Philip R. Davies in
demonstrating that the ancient Israelites represented a phenomenon which had
been invented by Old Testament historians: the Israelites were never a historical
reality. Philip Davies has, nevertheless, discussed this in a highly directed man-
ner in his recent polemical contribution to the discussion, ‘In Search of Ancient
Israel’.9 According to Davies, Old Testament scholars have tried to grasp for
more than 200 years the historical truth behind the Old Testament narratives, as
if this truth were a holy grail and biblical scholars, modern knights of that grail.
However, they have been no more successful than their colleagues had been,
gathered about King Arthur’s round table.
Ahlström and Davies are correct in maintaining that the ancient Israelites
were invented by Old Testament writers. They play the role of ‘good guys’. On
the other hand, once we have identified the heroes of the tale, we also need to
find the ‘bad guys’, for without a conflict between good and evil there is hardly a
narrative. ‘The bad guys’ of the Old Testament narratives are surely identified as

7. T. L. Thompson, Early History of the Israelite People (SHANE 4; Leiden: E. J. Brill,

1992).
8. G. W. Ahlström, Who Were the Israelites? (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1986).
9. P. Davies, ‘In Search of Ancient Israel’, JSOT supplement, 148; Sheffield: Academic
Press, 1992.
172 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Canaanites. In this, Davies builds on the results presented in my The Canaanites

and their Land.10 The biblical Canaanites hardly reflect any historical or ethnic
reality, but, rather, owe their existence to biblical historians. As I put it in my
study, the first Canaanites who understood themselves to be Canaanites were
Punic peasants, living in Northern Africa in the days of Augustine!11 As far as
documentation shows, no person from the ancient Near East has ever called
himself a ‘Canaanite’. Transferred from the literary to the historical level, this
demonstrates that without bad guys there are no good guys. If the Canaanites
owe their existence to the creative mind of Old Testament writers, these writ-
ers may also be understood as having invented their counterparts, the Israelite
nation.
This does not mean that there was never an ‘Israel’ in ancient times. To
maintain this would be foolish, as the name itself, ‘Israel’, is well represented
in ancient documents, including documents which have nothing to do with the
Old Testament. We need only refer to the stele of Merenptah, which mentions
an ‘Israel’ in Palestine at the end of the thirteenth century bce, the ‘Israel’, found
in King Mesha’s Moabite inscription or that ‘Israel’ (spelled Sirla’a12) that was
governed by King Ahab according to Assyrian sources. There is no reason to
doubt that the Israel mentioned by Mesha or by the Assyrian documents was the
same Israel which, in the Old Testament, was to be found in the highlands of
central Palestine. It is, however, not apparent that this Israel of the ninth century
is necessarily the same as Merenptah’s Israel. Moreover, even if it were permis-
sible to speak of an ethnic continuity between Merenptah’s and Ahab’s Israels,
we cannot be sure that the real history of this Israel has much, if anything, to do
with the history of the Israel we find in the pages of the Old Testament, apart,
that is, from the commonplace conclusion that there once existed a Palestinian
state called ‘Israel’ that was destroyed by the Assyrians at the end of the eighth
century bce. It is, for example, evident that, in the Old Testament, the name
‘Israel’ is a national name attached to a special Israelite people having a peculiar
status and history. On the other hand, this is the only conclusion we can reach,
as we have no information about the ethnicity of such a nation of ‘Israel’, nor
much knowledge of its prehistory. The national identity of Israelites was cer-
tainly not strong enough to prevent that all traces of the deportees from Samaria
in 722bce disappeared a few years after their deportation, a fact that makes it
likely that the deportees may have ‘forgotten’ their Israelite identity after some
years of captivity in Mesopotamia. Not even West Semitic names, which can be
identified with Israelite deportees, have been found in the remains of the Neo-
Assyrian kingdom.
Then again, when discussing the ‘Israel’ of Merenptah, it should not be over-
looked that we have no assured idea as to what this concept really covered or
whether there ever existed a political or ethnic continuity between this Israel

10. N. P. Lemche, The Canaanites and Their Land: The Tradition of the Canaanites (JSOT
supplement, 110; Sheffield: Academic Press, 1991).
11. Cf. The Canaanites, 56–57.
12. In Shalmanaser III’s version of the battle at Qarqar in 853bce, ANET 3, 279.
 Is it still possible to write a history of ancient Israel? 173

and the people of Old Testament narrative. The only thing the two entities may
have had in common is the name. However, even a modern state in this region is
called ‘Israel’, although the relation of this modern Israel to ancient Israel – that
is, to the Northern Kingdom – is principally a matter of ideology. Whether the
inhabitants of central Palestine during the time of Omri and Ahab ever under-
stood them­selves as ‘Israelites’, in an ethnic and national sense, is unknown.
They may merely have seen themselves as human beings who happened to
pay taxes to a king of a state called ‘Israel’. It was equally possible to call it
‘Samaria’ or ‘the House of Omri’ (Bît H umriya). The only thing we can safely
�
assume is that Old Testament writers considered this population to be Israelite
in an ethnic sense of the word.
At the centre of the debate stands the question as to whether we should fol-
low Old Testament historians here. Should modern scholars allow these writers
to decide the course of research? Would it not be preferable if the modern his-
torian simply skipped over the biblical construction and made his own recon-
struction of what he thought to be the history of ancient Palestine?13 The Old
Testament would be but one source of knowledge (albeit a rather comprehensive
one) among others, and there would be no reason to pay special attention to
the Old Testament version. I must draw attention to a number of related ques-
tions that should also be discussed. We have questions of definition, the most
important of which being the use of the name ‘Israel’. The importance of this
and other matters become obvious in reading the contributions to the volume
published by Diana Edelman, The Fabric of History.14 In this volume, there are
studies that are indistinct and evasive in their terminology: for example, the
articles by William B. Dever15 and especially that by J. Maxwell Miller,16 and
there are contributions, which seem to have overcome this problem, especially
the ones by Thomas L. Thompson17 and Ernst Axel Knauf.18 On the other hand,
it is obvious that, in the event that problems of definition and terminology are

13. Allowing for the fact that any reconstruction of history can only be a reconstruction; it
is certainly not to be mistaken for history. I have sometimes been unjustly accused of
having, much like ancient Deuteronomists, created nothing but my own personal version
of the history of Israel (cf., e.g., S. Herrmann, ‘Die Abwertung des Alten Testaments
als Geschichtsquelle. Bemerkungen zu einem geistesgeschictliches Problem’, in H. H.
Schmid und J. Mehlhausen (eds) Sola Scriptura. VII. Europäischer Theologen-Kongreß
Dresden, 1990 (Gütersloh, Gütersloher Verlagshaus Gerd Mohn, 1993), 156–65. This
may be true, but at least it is my version, not just a new paraphrase of a Deuteronomistic
one.
14. D. V. Edelman (ed.) The Fabric of History. Text, Artifact and Israel’s Past (JSOT supple-
ment, 127; Sheffield: Academic Press, 1991).
15. W. B. Dever, ‘Archaeology, Material Culture and the Early Monarchical Period’, in
Edelman, The Fabric, 103–15.
16. J. M. Miller, ‘Is It Possible to Write a History of Israel Without Relying on the Hebrew
Bible?’, in Edelman, The Fabric, 93–102.
17. T. L. Thompson, ‘Text, Context and Referent in Israelite Historiography’, in Edelman,
The Fabric, 65–92.
18. E. A. Knauf, ‘From History to Interpretation’, in Edelman, The Fabric, 26–64.
174 Biblical studies and the failure of history

not solved, the discussion will end in a morass and issues blurred. Another mat-
ter that needs to be discussed deals with the historical interest present in ancient
times. Did Old Testament historians really want to write history? How would
they have understood such a project? During the last decade, several scholars,
including this writer, have given such problems con­sid­erable attention and it is
now clear that a history writing that has anything in common with the modern
concept of history cannot be expected from the hands of Old Testament ‘histori-
ans’; this kind of writing was certainly not on their agenda when they presented
their version of a history of Israel. Although Baruch Halpern has tried to argue
that Old Testament historians were true historians,19 it would be misleading to
maintain that he has presented a strong argument in favour of this thesis. I have
only to refer to his very extensive discus­sion of Ehud’s killing of Eglon, which
obviously works against his own interests.20
The third question to be addressed concerns the problem of the survival of
historical information in Old Testament historical literature. Excluded from this
discussion, is the clearly historical information about Sennacherib’s siege of
Jerusalem in 701bce and that pertaining to Nebuchadnezzar’s conquest of the
same city in 597bce. The fact that the authors of the stories of Sennacherib’s
siege have embellished their narrative by introducing legend does not imply
that this siege must be considered unhistorical. Rather, it tells us something
of the methods used by Old Testament history writers when constructing their
histories.
I have finally reached the theme of this chapter: the possibility that there may
be some historical information con­tained in Old Testament writings after all,
even in those parts which concern the early history of Israel. However, though
it cannot be excluded that such information is present, it is far from safe that
they are in a context, which is correct from a historian’s point of view. I intend
to present three examples of possible historical information handled by Old
Testament historians. My first example relates to the sojourn of the Israelites in
Egypt. The second deals with the Benjaminite immigration into Palestine, and
the third concerns the relations between David and Omri. It goes without saying
that, as far as the early history of Israel is concerned, the discus­sion is prelimi-
nary; it certainly does not intend to pro­vide a final argument on these matters. I
present only proposals and ideas which may or may not become part of a more
comprehensive discussion.

Pithom and Ramses

The note in Exodus 1:11 that Israelites in Egypt were forced to build the stor-
age cities of Pharaoh, Pithom and Ramses has often been consid­ered evidence

19. B. Halpern, The First Historians: The Hebrew Bible and History (San Francisco, CA:
Harper & Row, 1988).
20. Ibid., 39–75.
 Is it still possible to write a history of ancient Israel? 175

that there was a historical background to the Exodus narrative. In this, scholars
usually refer to the mention of hapiru in an Egyptian document in the days of
� participated in the construction of the great
Ramses II (1279–1212bce), who
pylon gate tower – namely, Ramses Miamon.21 The note in Exodus 1:11 is
accordingly assumed to be historically correct, as, from a linguistic point of
view, the hapiru of the Egyptian documents are supposed to be identical with
�
biblical Hebrews and it certainly has not escaped the attention of modern schol-
ars that Israelites are often referred to as ‘Hebrews’ in the Joseph and Exodus
narratives. Both Pithom and Ramses are place names known from the history of
Egypt. The city of Ramses, without doubt, should be identified with the ruins of
Khatana-Qantir in north-eastern Egypt. During the late New Kingdom, this site
was called Pi-Ramesses (taking its name from the famous Ramses II, the great
builder of this city) and was the residence of the Pharaohs of the nineteenth and
twentieth dynasties. After that period, the place was forsaken by its inhabitants
and the residence moved to nearby Tanis, the Zo’an of the Old Testament, the
city that was to become the new capital of Egypt in the days of the twenty-first
dynasty. In light of this fact, it would be reasonable to consider the information
of Exodus 1:11 to be historical and connected to conditions which occurred in
Egypt at the end of the second millennium bce and only then. Although this may
seem unproblematic and beyond doubt, some problems arise as soon as we turn
our attention to the identity of the second storage city: Pithom.
According to Exodus 1:11, Pithom should be regarded as a city comparable
to Ramses. This is, however, historically impossible, as ‘Pithom’ was only used
as the name of a city in the Saite period, from the seventh century onwards.
Pithom means ‘the House of (the god) Atum’, and was also known prior to the
Saite period as the name of temples and temple estates belonging to this god (or,
better, to the priests of Atum). The name was, however, never connected with
cities. Moreover, archaeologists working at tell el-Maskhuta in north-eastern
Egypt have found clear evidence that this was the ancient city of Pithom and
that it was founded by Pharaoh Necho II between 609 and 606bce.22 Hence,
information that Israelites worked as forced labourers before the Exodus at the
site of Pithom is anachronistic. On the other hand, it cannot be denied that
prisoners of war from the territory of the former state of Israel or from Judah
may have been employed by Necho in his building activities in northern Egypt.
Such prisoners may have been transported to Egypt by Necho in the wake of his
609bce campaign, during which King Josiah of Judah lost his life at Megiddo.
It is also possible that immigrants from Palestine, who already lived in Egypt,
had been conscripted for building purposes. It may not be possible to point to
a moment in the history of Egypt when both cities mentioned in Exodus 1:11
existed simultaneously and it may be difficult to say anything about the time
when the Israelites are supposed to have worked at the storage cities of Pharaoh.

21. J. Bottéro, Le problème des habiru (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1954), no 188, 169–70.
�
22. Cf. J. S. Holladay, The Wadi Tumilat Project. The Excavations of Tell el-Makhuta
(Malibu, CA: The American Research Center in Egypt, 1982).
176 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Part of the content of Exodus 1:11 does seem to belong to the second millen-
nium, another to the middle of the first millennium. It may, nevertheless, be
possible to create some coherence if the Egyptologist Edward F. Went should
happen to be right in maintaining that the name of ‘Ramses’ in Exodus 1:11 need
not be directly connected to the city of Ramses, going back to Ramses II. The
Ramses of Exodus 1:11 may refer to Tanis, which had been built by recycling
stones from nearby Ramses. The colos­sal statues of Ramses II were also moved
from Ramses to Tanis and traces of a cult of Ramses II can be found at Tanis
until the Hellenistic Period. Accordingly, Went maintains that Old Testament
writers transferred the name of Ramses (never lost to Egyptian traditionalists)
to another place – namely, Tanis, which was still in existence when they wrote
their history. At the same time, they transferred their information about pos-
sible building activities of ‘Israelites’ in the days of Pharaoh Necho back to an
assumed stay of Israel in Egypt in ancient times.23
If this explanation is plausible, the main argument in favour of the historical
context of the Exodus narrative has lost its foundation. Instead of being able to
prove that Israelites were once in Egypt, Exodus 1:11 can be taken as evidence
of the ways and manners of Old Testament historians, who, in this case, obvi-
ously manipulated their sources to create an impression of Israelites working as
slaves in Egypt at an early point in the history of Israel. The note in Exodus 1:11
about the building of Pithom and Ramses may be historical after all; but this
history has nothing to do with the history of ancient Israel. Instead, it should be
understood in relation to later conditions that were used by the authors to create
their own fictitious picture of the sojourn in Egypt. In its present context, the
note is certainly anachronistic. While this example may seem obvious, the next
case, which deals with the settlement tradition in the book of Joshua, however,
will demand more patience from the reader.

The settlement of the Benjaminites

When it was first formulated, the classic German explanation of the settlement
of the Israelites was hailed as an important breakthrough in the history of schol-
arship because the two main figures associated with this explanation, Albrecht
Alt and Martin Noth, ignored the information in the book of Joshua insofar as
it concerned an Israelite conquest of Canaan. There is no reason to review their
research here or to deal with alternative ideas about the conquest, which pre-
vailed in other quarters of biblical scholar­ship.24 Only a single interesting obser-
vation which was made by these scholars will give focus to our interest. This is
the obser­vation that all specific conquest narratives in Joshua concern localities
in the territory of Benjamin (although the hero of the conquest, Joshua, was
himself from Ephraim). Alt and Noth considered these conquest narratives to

23. Cf. E. Wente, ‘Rameses’, ABD 5 (1992), 617–18.

24. My review of these theses can be found in my Early Israel, 35–48.
 Is it still possible to write a history of ancient Israel? 177

depend on Benjaminite local traditions and legends, which the Deuteronomistic

authors of Joshua remoulded into pan­-Israelite traditions ­connected to the
­immigration of the Israelite tribes led by Joshua.25 The historical content of the
narratives was, however, not their focus of attention except insofar as it referred
to the second phase of the settlement, the so-called phase of the Landübernahme
– that is, to the time when, many years after the immigration had taken place,
the growing Israelite tribes confronted opposition from the original Canaanite
population of Pales­tine. The fact that no comparable conquest traditions sur-
vived from other parts of the Israelite territory was believed to be the result of
a traditio-historical coincidence.
In light of the present, nearly predominant view of the origin of the historical
Israel (however understood), such Benjaminite legends and sagas seem to have
lost their historical basis. It should, however, still be a matter of interest to know
more about the origins of the legends themselves. Where did they arise and what
did they intend to say? If we assume that Israelites were originally Canaanites
(and I have to say that I personally abstain from using such terminology any
more), why should legends and sagas have survived from one particular part
of Pal­es­tine that inform us about a military conquest of this region? Is it really
a traditio-historical coincidence or may we assume that other reasons may lie
behind this state of affairs? Moreover, who were the Benjaminites, suspected of
having conquered their territory by military means? According to some tradi­
tions, they used their left hands, and some scholars have assumed that this was
due to some kind of secret weapon employed by such Benjaminites as Ehud in
connection with his killing of the Moabite King Eglon.26 It is, however, prefer-
able to speak of this as a joke, as the Hebrew of the word Benjamin signifies ‘the
son of the right (hand)’, and our story’s Benjaminite was, in fact, left-handed!
There is certainly no reason to believe that this was a special physical mark
indigenous to the tribe of Benjamin! It is therefore still necessary to find a plau-
sible explanation for the tribal name, ‘son of the right (hand)’. One solution is
to translate this, geographically, as ‘the son of the south’ (facing east, the right
hand points to the south). As Benjamin was the tribe that lived to the south of the
other Israelite tribes, this name will naturally have accrued to them. The histori-
cal reason for this is, however, not easy to reconstruct, as we have no informa-
tion that Benjamin was con­sidered the southernmost of Israelite tribes before
the time of the divided mon­archy. Even thereafter, a part of Benjamin belonged
to the kingdom of Judah. This proposal, moreover, presupposes that a tribal
name should depend on the formation of a state, which would be something of
a sensation from a socio-anthropological point of view. The name ‘Benjamin’ is
also unusual because it is the only Israelite tribal name containing the element
ben, ‘son’. This part of the name is, on the other hand, well known from other

25. A. Alt, in his article ‘Josua’ (1936), Kleine Schriften zur Geschichte Israels I (Munich:
Beck, 1953), 176–92; M. Noth, thus in his introduction to his commentary on Joshua,
Das Buch Josua (HAT, I 7; Tübingen: Mohr, 1953), 11–13.
26. Cf. Judg. 3:15, 17, 21, and especially 20.16. Cf. among the more recent, Halpern, The
First Historians, 41.
178 Biblical studies and the failure of history

tribal groups of the Near East in antiquity and later periods. Tribal names of this
type can be found both in Mesopotamian documents and among Arab tribes up
to the present day. Other Israelite tribal names are, however, as M. Noth has
excellently explained, either,27 first, names for people having a specific ‘occupa-
tion’ (so Issachar); second, names of landscapes (so Ephraim, Judah); or, third,
tribes which may have been named after gods (so Gad). Only Benjamin seems
to be a genuine tribal name.
In this connection, it should not be forgotten that biblical Benjaminites
may not have been the only Benjaminites of the ancient world. According
to documents from ancient Mari, a tribal group were in existence in Upper
Mesopotamia around 1800bce who were most likely called the binu jamina.
Scholars formerly doubted that the name of the Benjaminites was related to the
Marian Benjaminites since, in the cuneiform writing employed by the scribes
of Mari, the first name of the Mesopotamian Benjaminites was always rendered
as DUMU.MEŠ jamina, with a sumerogram instead of an Akkadian transcrip-
tion. According to Hayim Tadmor, this suggests that there were no Benjaminites
around Mari because the scribes of Mari never used sumerograms to render
West Semitic words. In Marian texts, sumerograms are invariably used to render
Akkadian names and concepts and a proper Akkadian rendering would not be
banu or binu jamina but maru jamina.28 Such a compound is made up of an
Akkadian word and a West Semitic one (jamina is doubtless West Semitic).
In proper Akkadian, its counterpart, imnum, is certainly very uncommon and
most scholars have therefore considered the sumerogram DUMU.MEŠ here
to be used with the general meaning to indicate members of a tribal group that
was known only as jamina. Accordingly, scholars have normally not spoken of
Benjaminites, but rather of ‘jaminites’ living in the province of Mari. The situ-
ation may have changed, as the first component of the name has now turned up
in a document from Mari, written syllabically and surprisingly as binu and not,
as to be expected, banu, making it likely that the name DUMU.MEŠ jamina was
intended to render binu jamina.29
At Mari, the name ‘the son of the south’ makes excellent sense, because there
also are traces of another tribal group called the DUMU.MEŠ sim’al – that is,
‘the sons of the north’. We are badly informed about the whereabouts of this
second group. This is not very important here. What is important is the fact that
‘the sons of the south’ carry their name in opposition to ‘sons of the north’,
much in the same fashion as Ostrogoths (eastern Goths) were so called because

27. M. Noth, Geschichte Israels (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1950), 56–67.
28. H. Tadmor, ‘Historical Implications of the Correct Rendering of Akkadian ‘dâku’, JNES
17 (1958), 129–41.
29. Cf. ARM XXII: 328:111. Cf. on this A. Malamat, Mari and the Early Israelite Experience
(The Schweich Lectures 1984; Oxford: University Press, 1989), 31 and 35 n. 29. Since
the syllably written name has so far only occurred as a personal name, Malamat is still
of the conviction that we should speak about jaminites, the first part a kind of semantic
indicator. However, this will not change much, as all later examples of tribal names of
this type could also be said to contain the word ‘sons of’ as ‘semantic indicators’, includ-
ing the biblical Benjaminites.
 Is it still possible to write a history of ancient Israel? 179

Visigoths (western Goths) were around at the same time, though not always,
living to the west of Ostrogoths.
The question remains whether Benjaminites from Mari have anything to
do with Benjaminites of Palestine. Such a connection has been proposed by,
among others, M. Astour in his characteristically fanciful fashion.30 Astour
refers to religious ties which should have existed between the two areas. The
Benjaminites of Upper Mesopotamia lived at least seasonally in an area where
the dominant deity is supposed to have been the moon god Sin, whereas in the
Old Testament, a city name that also implies worship of the moon (i.e. Jericho)
is actually located inside the tribal area of Benjamin. If no additional arguments
could be provided, the most generous thing to say would probably be that this
theory should simply be forgotten. However, although they are hardly to be
considered conclu­sive, such arguments may eventually be found, and here the
‘reference’ preserved in Genesis 35:23-26 may be of interest: that Benjamin,
like other sons of Jacob, was born in Paddan-Aram (the anachronistic term
applied by P to Upper Mesopotamia in the days of the Patriarchs).
Such information demands attention because it clearly contradicts the narra-
tive of the birth of Benjamin just before the note in Genesis 35:23-26. According
to the main narrative, Benjamin is supposed to have been born in the land of
Canaan near the city of Bethlehem after the return of Jacob to his own country.
Benjamin is therefore said to be the only one among the sons of Jacob who orig-
inated in Palestine, whereas his eleven brothers were all born in Mesopotamia.
We must therefore ask how it can be that the conflicting note in Genesis 35:23-
26 has survived. Perhaps the person who included the note ‘nodded off’ or
forgot that we have just been told about the birth of Benjamin and the death
of Rachel in Canaan? However, this is hardly a reasonable explanation after
all; how should he forget such an obvious contradiction? It is more likely that
the note in Genesis 35:23-26 owes its existence to a special tradition that runs
counter to the official version of Benjamin’s birth and has to be evaluated as an
independent piece of information.
One may pay as much attention as one wishes to a special tradition; it should
still not be forgotten that it has always been characteristic of classic historical
research to focus on information that does not conform with, but rather con-
tradicts, mainstream information to be found in the available documentation.
Historians are trained to grasp such contradictions in order to show whether they
derive from a special source or have something to say which the authors of the
main traditions never intended to pass on to posterity. Such ‘fossilized traces of
tradition’ provide the historian with an opportunity to get behind his source and
evaluate its content on the basis of what the main tradition says and on the basis
of what it does not say, but which has filtered through the screen created by the
author of the main document. Even though historians of the present have found
other methods and prefer to focus on totalities and la longue durée, it should be
maintained that it is appropriate from the standpoint of source criticism not to

30. M. Astour, ‘Benê-iamina et Jéricho’, Semitica 9 (1959), 5–20.

180 Biblical studies and the failure of history

disregard any non-normal piece of information that is present in a given corpus

of documents, as such pieces give us information about matters not included in
the main narrative and intended to become public. When we return to the ques-
tion of Genesis 35:23-26, it will be possible to maintain that, in contrast to the
main narrative, which maintains that Benjamin originated in Canaan, another
less elaborated tradition simply declares that Benjamin, like his brothers, came
from Mesopotamia. The im­pli­cations of the place where Benjamin was born,
Paddan-Aram, should in this connection be kept in mind.
To cut the discussion short, I would like to argue that it remains a possibil-
ity that the biblical Benjaminites came from Mesopotamia and were members
of the comprehensive tribal group known to the scribes of ancient Mari as the
binu jamina.
How the two parts of the Benjaminites are related is unknown, but the fol-
lowing scenario may be possible. The documents from Mari make it apparent
that a serious conflict existed between the authorities of the kingdom of Mari
and the tribal society of Benjaminites, a conflict that mostly arose from the fact
that the Benjaminites only temporarily visited the territory of Mari, and soon
had to leave it again by crossing the Euphrates at a point close to the city of
Mari to reach their winter grazing areas to the east of the Euphrates. During the
summer period, the Benjaminites seem to have been visiting the area around
Djebel Bishri in the central part of Syria, to the west of Mari. Although they
often tried, the kings of Mari never succeeded in halting the migrations of the
Benjaminites. Although it cannot be excluded and is only a theory that when
Hammurabi conquered Mari and in­cluded it in his empire, he gained sufficient
�
strength to impede the migrations of the Benjaminites to such a degree that at
least a fraction of this tribal group decided to move, not from the west to the
east, from Djebel Bishri to Upper Mesopotamia, but from north to south, from
Djebel Bishri to Transjordan and Palestine, an area in those days not occupied
by strongly centralized states as we think were present in Mesopotamia in the
first half of the second millennium. The distance from Djebel Bishri to Jericho
is about the same as the distance from Djebel Bishri to Upper Mesopotamia. So
distance alone could hardly have prevented a change in the Benjaminite migra-
tory route towards the south (though the terrain may have been more difficult
along this route than along the usual one to Mesopotamia). The distance in time
between the references to the Benjaminites in the Marian archive and the Old
Testament narratives about Benjaminites is, on the other hand, formidable, and
generally considered the main reason for not accepting a straightforward iden-
tification between the two tribal entities.
The last-mentioned problem can be compared to a hydra with many heads.
One of these concerns the literary aspects. How old are Old Testament his-
torical books: from the beginning, middle or end of the first millennium bce?
The importance of the chronological gap between the Mari letters mentioning
Benjaminites and biblical sources for the history of Benjamin will increase or
decrease depending on decisions made in this area. Another issue relates to
the main his­torical problem: when did Benjaminites arrive in Palestine: circa
1200bce, which would be the natural consequence of an immigration theory, as
 Is it still possible to write a history of ancient Israel? 181

­proposed by Alt and Noth? It can hardly have happened after 1200bce, as noth-
ing indicates a large-scale nomadic immigration into Palestine after 1200bce, at
least not before the Roman and Arab Periods.31 The date 1200bce derives from
the general Israelite immigration hypothesis, which, on the other hand, has little
support in recent discussion.32 If anything like a nomadic migration happened
in those days, the scale of action must have been so small that nobody noticed
it, and certainly not archaeologists of the present. Such a small-scale migration
would also seem inadequate to explain why we still possess a conquest tradi­tion.
On the other hand, it would be possible to propose a date for the immigration
of Benjaminites before the ‘magical’ year of 1200bce, and to connect this migra-
tion with destructions at the end of the Middle Bronze Age. Conservatives and
evangelicals alike would, or so I assume, be only too happy with such a theory
because they would have found an explanation for the destruction of Jericho
circa 1550bce.33 To accept such a connection would, however, be premature
since it does not solve the problem of Ai, which during the sixteenth century
bce was in ruins for more than 700 years.34 Benjaminites of the sixteenth century
would still have to wait another 400 years before negotiating with the inhabit-
ants of Gibeon, as no settlement was found on this spot before the Iron Age.35
One thing speaks in favour of an early date apart from the fact that we possess
no precise information about this period (always an advantage when historical
conjectures are involved): demographic changes which occurred in the central
highlands, which were almost com­pletely devoid of village settlements in the
Late Bronze Age, leaving only a small number of insignificant townships in
that part of Palestine.36 It is not before the beginning of the Iron Age that we
see villages reappearing in central Palestine.37 An important argument against

31. I have problems with the proposal of G. A. Rendburg, ‘The Date of the Exodus and the
Conquest/Settlement: the Case for the 1100s’, VT 42 (1992), 510–27, to be serious. It is
a desperate wish that at least a tiny part of the settlement tradition be preserved!
32. There is really no reason to discuss this subject any further at least not in light of our
present knowledge of the situation in Palestine at the end of the second millennium
bce. The two studies by the late Gösta W. Ahlström, The History of Ancient Palestine
from the Palaeolithic Period to Alexander’s Conquest (JSOT supplement, 146; Sheffield:
Academic Press, 1993) and Thomas L. Thompson, Early History of the Israelite People
(1992) stand at the end of this discussion rather than at the beginning of a renewed one.
33. The date, 1550bce, for the destruction of MB Jericho is generally accepted; cf. T. A.
Holland, ABD (1992), vol 3, 735–36. This destruction could, however, with some reason
be explained as the work of marauding Egyptian troops.
34. The former results of the French expedition under the direction of J. Marquet-Krause
(1933–5) have been reconfirmed by J. Callaway’s more recent excavations (1964–1976),
as Callaway himself has observed in several publications, the most recent being his
article ‘Ai’ in the ABD 1 (1992), 125–30.
35. This is the outcome of J. B. Pritchard’s excavations, as maintained in a number of pub-
lications, for example in his article ‘Gibeon’, EAEHL II (1976), 446–50.
36. Cf. T. L. Thompson, The Settlement of Palestine in the Bronze Age (TAVO Beihefte B,
34; Tübingen 1979).
37. Cf. on this, above all, I. Finkelstein, The Archaeology of the Israelite Settlement
(Jerusalem: Magnes, 1988).
182 Biblical studies and the failure of history

a theory of early Benjaminite migration is that they are not mentioned in any
document from the Late Bronze Age, although it should not be forgotten that
although a well-known and established feature of Late Bronze Age society, they
were known to Egyptians solely as Shasu, and to people writing in cuneiform
Akkadian as Sutu. Neither the term Shasu nor Sutu are names of individual tribal
groups. In the Amarna Age, they were used by Egyptian as well as Akkadian
scribes as designations for ‘nomads’. Thus human beings who, according to
Egyptians, should be consid­ered members of the Shasu group would, in an
Akkadian letter, likely turn up as Sutu. Be this as it may, both Akkadian and
Egyptian texts of the Late Bronze Age provide information about nomadic
groups living in Palestine and neighbouring countries.38
I have no intention of saying that this proposal is a well-founded one, and
it would be difficult to object if colleagues would prefer to dismiss it without
further discussion. However, even if the theory should be accepted as a kind of
working hypothesis, it does not prove the Bible true. The conquest narratives in
the book of Joshua do not prove that Benjaminites conquered central Palestine
or even migrated to this area at some time between 1800bce and 1500bce. The
only conclusion we can safely draw is that inhabi­tants of central Palestine may
have preserved the general idea that they were not themselves indigenous, and
that they may have maintained that their origins not be sought where they lived.
Such an idea would not be remarkable, either among the inhabi­tants of the ter-
ritory of Benjamin or among other comparable groups. It is certainly a coinci-
dence that social anthropologist Abdul Lutfiyya, in his study of modern Beitin
(Bethel), mentions that the inhabitants of this small Palestinian town considered
themselves descendants of migrants from the Arabian Peninsula, though such
a claim has little basis in fact.39 The inhabitants of the tribal territory of Benja­
minites in Palestine may never have been descendants of ancient Benjaminites
who migrated from Syria to Palestine. It is enough that they considered them-
selves to be descendants of former nomadic tribal groups, regardless of the fact
that this claim may not be true.
In conclusion, it may be argued that Old Testament historians had no idea of
history as we see it. On the contrary, the example of Benjaminite migration and
conquest narra­tives may illustrate the ways and manners of these ‘historians’.
The writers who composed the book of Joshua were not forced to ‘invent’ the
idea of a conquest; they possessed immigration traditions that circulated among
the inhabitants of the territory north of Jerusalem. Such writers, however, knew
little of the historical background of these legends and traditions, but it is obvi-
ous that this did not worry them. The inclusion of the Ephraimite hero of the
conquest (i.e. Joshua) should be regarded as an effort to change the outlook of
the conquest traditions from a local to a pan-Israelite perspective. I have often
maintained that little of historical value has been preserved in the Old Testament.

38. On the Sutu, cf., among others, M. Heltzer, The Suteans (Naples: Istituto Universitario
Orientale, 1981), and on the Shasu, R. Giveon, Les Bédouins Shosu des documents égyp-
tiens (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1971).
39. A. M. Lutfiyya, Baytîn. A Jordanian Village (The Hague, 1966).
 Is it still possible to write a history of ancient Israel? 183

Nobody, however, ever forbade Old Testament historians to offer something that
would turn out to be historical. The writers who created the book of Joshua will
most likely have been in possession of migration traditions, though the concrete
content of such traditions is impossible to recover today. The only thing we can
safely argue is that writers had no concrete idea of what may have happened or
when it happened. They merely turned a popular tradition into a literary inven-
tion, part of a much larger description of the early history of Israel.

David and Omri

The above example will not prove my case. Perhaps the next can provide my
argument with necessary strength. It concerns the relationship between David
and Omri in tradition and history. Both were kings of importance and founders
of great kingdoms. Or, at least this is what the Old Testament has to say about
David, while the importance of Omri is considerably reduced by Old Testament
historians. Omri’s greatness can only be deduced from other documents from
the ancient Near East, which mention him or members of his dynasty as impor-
tant West Semitic monarchs. The similarity between the two kings, however,
goes further. As David was succeeded by his brilliant son Solomon, Omri was
succeeded by his son, the no less important Ahab, the mightiest king Israel
was ever to see. We could also provide more similarities like the one that says
that both David and Omri were professional soldiers in the service of a previ-
ous king, whom they succeeded, not because they murdered their masters, but
because they removed usurpers who were supposed to be the real scoundrels. It
is a well-­known fact that the author of ‘David’s Rise’ (1 Sam. 16 to 2 Sam. 7)
invested considerable interest in clearing his hero of accusations for having
liquidated most, if not all, of the dynasty of King Saul. Omri’s case is clearer:
he had only to remove and execute the usurper Zimri, who rebelled against his
and Omri’s master, King Elah of Israel. It is a remarkable fact that there are
plenty of references to the two Israelite kings, Omri and Ahab, while nothing
has survived that has anything to say about David and Solomon, except for
the narratives of the Old Testament.40 This could be a coinci­dence and would
not be very important if it were the only argument called upon when question-
ing the historicity of David and Solomon. Much more attention should be paid
to the growing conviction that no United Monarchy and no Israelite empire
ever existed in the tenth century bce, which vaguely resembled the greatness
of Omri’s kingdom. It is unnecessary to present details here. More will be said
in an article of mine that will be published in early 1994.41 Nevertheless, it is
enough to point to the size of David’s Jerusalem, the capital of a great empire,

40. This is valid as far as the moment of writing is concerned, although unconfirmed rumours
say that a new inscription has been found in an archaeological dump at Tell Dan, men-
tioning King Asah of the Beth-David as well as Ben (Bar?) Hadad. However, before its
proper publication, it is hard to say anything conclusive on this inscription.
41. Cf. note 1 above.
184 Biblical studies and the failure of history

which biblical authors extended from the Egyptian border to the Euphrates. The
‘great’ city of Jerusalem in the days of David, however, covered an area of no
more than 4 hectares, allowing (by generous calculation) for some 2000 inhabit-
ants (men, women and children). If we estimate the average size of the family
as about six persons, around 300 adult males (between seventeen to eighteen
years and forty-five years) would have lived inside the walls of this ‘city’.42 The
kingdom of David was based on the tribal population of Judah, which, of course,
numbered more than merely the inhabitants of Jerusalem. However, if we apply
the same method of calculation for other sites of Judah in the tenth century,
the total population of this area will not have surpassed 10,000 to 15,000 indi-
viduals, which allows for an army of some 2000. These conclusions are based
on the recently produced statistical mate­rial found in David Jamieson-Drake’s
study of the kingdom of Judah. He maintains that there was never an empire in
the tenth century bce, the capital of which is supposed to have been Jerusalem,
and second, that the only thing that may have existed in this area was perhaps
a small and non-centralized chiefdom, ruled by the local chief, David. On the
basis of this embryonic political assembly, a small state or kingdom was to
arise after another 200 years, the short-lived kingdom of Judah known from
the Old Testament. In the future, the results of Jamieson-Drake’s study will
certainly be questioned, and archaeologists may object to the value of his evi-
dence or his way of presenting his material (although, to date, no challenge of
importance has appeared). It should not be overlooked that the only legitimate
way to depart from Jamieson-Drake’s conclusions will be to show his statistics
totally wrong or grossly misleading; they cannot be refuted by reference to the
Old Testament. Furthermore, it is a safe assumption that it will not be possible
to present archaeological material that will make it likely that a great Judean
kingdom of the tenth century bce ever existed.43
It is a deplorable fact that no comparable statistically arranged analysis is
available for the remains of the Northern Kingdom in the tenth century bce. It is,
on the other hand, possible to draw some inferences based on the present avail-
able material. To prove the greatness of David, and especially Solomon, many
scholars have referred to the similarity between public buildings found at many
sites, dating to the tenth century bce. Such buildings may include so-called

42. Based on a calculation system explained by S. Parpola, in J. M. Sasson, Jonah (AB 24B;
New York, 1990), 311–12, allowing for 358 persons per hectare (= 2.5 acres). That this
calculation is generous to ancient Jerusalem can be seen from the fact that according to
the same system, Hazor in the Bronze Age contained at least 25,000 persons, which is
more than is usually assumed today, although Y. Yadin himself believed that the popula-
tion of Hazor may have been even bigger than that.
43. D. W. Jamieson-Drake, Scribes and Schools in Monarchic Judah (JSOT supplement,
109; Sheffield: Academic Press, 1991). His results seem to be confirmed by the inde-
pendent analysis by H. M. Niemann, Herrschaft, Königtum und Staat. Skizzen zur sozio-
kulturellen Entwicklung im monarchischen Israel (Forchungen zum Alten Testament, 6;
Tübingen: Mohr, 1993). As a matter of fact, Niemann’s results echo Jamieson-Drake’s,
though Niemann, at the time of writing, did not know Jamieson-Drake’s book, nor has
he used the same method or materials as his North American colleague.
 Is it still possible to write a history of ancient Israel? 185

‘stables’ present at Megiddo, Hazor and Beersheba or city gates at Megiddo,

Hazor, Gezer and elsewhere, understood as evidence of Solo­mon’s building
activities, described in 1 Kings 9:15-19. Strangely enough, this building activity
seems not to have made its imprint on conditions in the capital: at least not in
the parts of Jerusalem that are available for archaeological exploration.44 To the
best of my knowledge, no archaeologist is able to date anything from the end
of the tenth century and the beginning of the ninth century bce, without allow-
ing for a margin of error of about fifty years. This is not just another theory, but
seems to be confirmed, for example, by the age-old discussion between Yigael
Yadin and Yohanan Aharoni concerning the date of the public building at Hazor
and Megiddo: whether these should be Solomonic or derived from the days of
Omri and Ahab, a discussion that has yet to be terminated.45 These buildings can
hardly go back to Solomon, but it is still a matter of debate whether they were
constructed in the ninth century bce or at the end of the previous century (i.e. by
King Jeroboam and his successors).
In contrast to the so-called great kings of Judah, some evidence of an early
Northern Kingdom may be available, and especially its first king, Jeroboam Ben
Nebat, may be a historical ruler of this kingdom. I am referring to the presence
of the famous lion seal, found at Megiddo in the early twentieth century, which
can be seen on the front page of every issue of the Journal for the Study of the
Old Testament. The inscription on this seal reads ‘belongs to Šema, the servant
of Jeroboam’. The general opinion has been that this Jeroboam must be the sec-
ond who reigned over Israel, in the eighth century, although the archaeo­logical
context of the finding may point to an earlier date, which makes it a reasonable
assumption to associate it with a person employed by Jeroboam I.46 The seal
was found in connection with the remains of public buildings that predate the
‘stables’ at Megiddo. It, accordingly, cannot be denied that before the days of
Omri a centralized kingdom was in existence in Northern Palestine, on the basis

44. If we allow for some historical reality behind the description of Solomon’s building
activities in Jerusalem, especially his construction of a palace complex and a small
temple, this would hardly have changed the general conditions of the town or provided
the town with a major increase of its population. The public area that consisted of the
temple and the palace complex will not have been densely populated, but would mostly
have comprised of workshops, archives, ceremonial buildings and housing for the royal
family, some retainers and, perhaps, the highest officials and priests.
45. Cf. on Y. Aharoni’s criticism of Yadin’s Solomonic datings, Y. Aharoni, The Archaeology
of the Land of Israel (Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1982), 192–239.
Cf. also the evaluation of this discussion in A. Mazar, Archaeology of the Land of the
Bible c.10,000–586 bce (New York: Doubleday, 1990), 381–82. Mazar favours Yadin’s
datings, as does H. Weippert, Palästina in vorhellenistischer Zeit (Handbuch der
Archäologie. Vorderasien II/1; Munich: Beck, 1988), 431. Among other scholars who
have criticized Yadin’s interpretation, we should mention K. M. Kenyon, ‘Megiddo,
Hazor, Samaria and Chronology’, Bulletin of the Institute of Archaeology 4 (1964),
143–56, and D. Ussishkin, ‘Was the ‘Solomonic’ City Gate at Megiddo Built by King
Solomon?’, BASOR 239 (1980), 1–18.
46. Cf. G. W. Ahlström, ‘The Seal of Shemae’, SJOT 7 (1993), 208–15.
186 Biblical studies and the failure of history

of which Omri and Ahab were able to create a small empire which was among
the important states of western Asia.
If so, we certainly have to discuss the background of the stories of David
and Solomon in Samuel and Kings. From a Judean angle, it seems impossible
to talk about an empire. However, the ancient world was rich in empires and
great states, so it may be that the tradition of David’s and Solomon’s greatness
derives from some other part of the Near East. It is possible that traditions which
had originally nothing to do with Judah or Jerusalem were transformed and
became Judean traditions. This is only a qualified guess. All that we can safely
say is that we are looking at a possible background for the stories about David
and Solomon. It cannot be excluded that the idea of a great Palestinian kingdom
derives from the tradition of the Omride kingdom, a tradition that was later
transferred to Judah and Jerusalem as a founding legend for the Judean kingdom
(for my purpose, here, it is immaterial whether this happened in the pre- or post-
exilic period). Accord­ing to this reworked tradition, the two impor­tant Israelite
kings were no longer Omri and Ahab, but David and Solomon, who if they had
been historical personages, they ruled over an uncoordinated chiefdom in the
backyard of ancient Palestine.
This may be another example of Old Testament writers who have included
an old tradition without paying attention to its historical con­text. The perspec-
tive of these writers was certainly Judean and, accordingly, they transformed
David and Solomon, ancestors of the Judean royal family, the House of David,
into great kings of all Israel and creators of empire. It is an interesting fact that
nobody seems to have known of or been interested in such two ‘important’ fig-
ures of Israelite history, not even the Moabite king, Mesha, who only few years
after the time of Solomon described how he liberated his country from the yoke
of Israel, which Omri had imposed on his land. His inscription does not include
a single reference to David, supposedly the ‘Israelite’ king who subdued Moab
(and killed a great number of its male population: 2 Sam. 8:2), nor does it refer
to Mesha’s father, who Mesha, himself, describes as reigning for ‘thirty years’,
having recovered Moab by driving off the Israelite armies of Solomon.
In an article published many years ago, I demonstrated what a cunning work
the story of David’s Rise really is.47 It is clear that external parallels to this
­narrative can be found in documents from Western Asia, not least the ­inscription

47. In my ‘David’s Rise’, JSOT 10 (1978), 2–25. Other authors have since dealt more exten-
sively with these matters. One important point should be noted, that so-called ‘negative
evidence’ (i.e. stories of David’s seemingly criminal acts, as well as the obvious cover-up
in connection with the killings of Abner, Ishbaal and Saul, respectively, which are often
considered proofs of the basic historicity of ‘David’s Rise’) can just as well be seen as
literary efforts to describe the hero as a clever ‘trickster’. As a matter of course, such
elements make it more likely that ‘David’s Rise’ and the ‘Succession Narrative’ are
products of literary invention, as only the hero of political propaganda (e.g. Idrimi) is
blameless. I owe my thanks to cand theol. Pernille Carstens of Aarhus for presenting me
with these insights into the nature of ‘the hero as trickster’.
 Is it still possible to write a history of ancient Israel? 187

of King Idrimi of Alalah (sixteenth century bce).48 On the other hand, if it is

� authors of David’s Rise as well as of the Succession
correct to assume that the
Narrative had their ideas of the greatness of their heroes from the traditions
of the great Israelite kings, Omri and Ahab, this would be another example of
how Old Testament historians felt free to manipulate traditions to serve their
purposes regardless of the original histori­cal context of such traditions. They
also elaborated upon these traditions by adducing literary patterns of folktale or
whatever stylistic means suited their purpose.

Conclusion

The results based on these examples could easily be multiplied if we direct our
attention to the Pentateuch. This might lead us behind the present shape of Old
Testament narrative, not only to show whether these are proper historical nar-
ratives connected with the real world or ‘merely’ brilliant fictions, but also to
study the ‘minds’ of the writers who employed such means, including historical
traditions, free of their proper historical contexts, to create a ‘history of Israel’
that conformed with the intentions of the writers and lived up to the expecta-
tions of their audience. In this, they were apparently not bothered by questions
of historical correctness and they hardly possessed means and methods for dis-
tinguishing what was historically correct from what was invention. In spite of
this, it should be maintained that their enterprise was successful since these
narratives have survived to the present and have always been able to make an
impression on the mind of the human race.
But let us return to the beginning of this chapter, where the central issue was
whether it is still possible to write a history of ancient Israel. It is important to
notice that my three examples are different in that they show three different
ways of manipulating ‘history’. The first example shows how late information is
referred back to earliest times in order to create a picture of the Israelite sojourn
in Egypt. The second example demonstrates the opposite: that older traditions
were re-em­ployed to create a story of an Israelite conquest. The third example
clearly exposes an author who reshaped two great figures of Israelite history to
create a new entity: a Judean empire of David and Solomon, although such a
Judean realm may never have existed.
To compose a history of Israel based on the information of the Old Testament
would be the same as to make a bargain with the authors who manipulated this
history in their own interest – that is, it continues in the tradition of these authors
to make their viewpoints one’s own. This is certainly a legitimate procedure so
far as the literary content of such stories is concerned, but it is hardly advisable
for a historian interested in reaching historical ‘truth’ (whatever this means). It

48. Cf. my Ancient Israel (Sheffield: Academic Press, 1988), 53–4. The honour of having
pointed at this connection should be bestowed on G. Buccellati, cf. his ‘La “Carriera” di
David e quella di Idrimi, re di Alalac’, Bibbia e Oriente 4 (1962), 95–9.
188 Biblical studies and the failure of history

is certainly best to proceed with historical studies in such a manner that we not
confuse literary invention with historical event.49
It would be correct to maintain that we are in possession of two ‘histories’:
on the one hand, we have the history of Palestine, a history of the real world and,
on the other, a history of Israel – that is, a literary history of the Old Testament.
Sometimes, these two histories overlap, as in the description of Sennacherib
ante muros. More often, however, two such histories have little or nothing in
common. The situation of the modern historian can be summed up in the words
of the late Gösta Ahlström, who once explained to me: ‘If I were to write a his-
tory of Israel in the Iron Age, it would hardly cover more than a few pages, but if
I were to write a history of Palestine in the same period, it would take a thousand
pages.’ As is well known, he actually wrote those thousand pages.50

49. J. A. Soggin’s three ‘histories’ of Israel (A History of Israel, London: SCM, 1984;
Einführung in die Geschichte Israels und Judas, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche
Buchgesellschaft, 1991; and An Introduction to the History of Israel and Judah, London:
SCM, 1993) show an increasing understanding of the problems involved. They are, on
the other hand, also examples of the kinds of problems that appear when biblical and
extra-biblical sources are believed to speak about the same thing: the history of biblical
Israel. Extra-biblical sources do not speak about biblical Israel.
50. Ahlström, The History of Ancient Palestine from the Palaeolithic Period to Alexander’s
Conquest.
 11

Is it still possible to speak about an ‘Israelite

religion’? From the perspective of a historian
1994

A question of this kind begs a negative answer and, as a matter of fact, it is diffi-
cult to escape such an answer. As I see it, it is increasingly problematic to speak
about an Israelite religion in the way that this concept is normally used. It is
my intention to present but a select few of the arguments that might be directed
against this understanding of Israelite religion. The decision to let the historian
speak, instead of the student of religious history, is deliberate and it is my hope
that the historian’s perspective may help to cast light on the problems.

History versus religious history

Let me begin with a personal recollection: In 1986, during the IOSOT

(International Organization for the Study of the Old Testament) congress, I
was invited to the home of the grand old man of Israeli bibli­cal scholarship,
Benjamin Mazar. The obvious reason was my contribution to the then very
lively debate about the origins of historical Israel. However, the real purpose of
Professor Mazar’s invitation was to ask me my view on the theological motives
behind the position of George E. Mendenhall, as formulated in his famous arti-
cle on the He­brew Con­quest.1 In spite of ferocious opposition, this article had
caused a change of direction in the study of Israel’s history. Professor Mazar and
I were in total agreement: Mendenhall had not intended to further such a radical
change in this study. His real object was to ‘save’ the religion of ancient Israel
– considering this more important than the biblical picture of the early history
of Israel, which, according to Mendenhall, had to be sacrificed. Mendenhall’s
motives were very conservative, if not (quasi-)fundamentalist. His intention
was to sacrifice history on the altar of religion and support the positive notion
of Israelite religion that had been formulated by his teacher, William Foxwell

1. George E. Mendenhall, ‘The Hebrew Conquest’, Biblical Archaeologist 25 (1962),

66–87.
190 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Albright.2 While it is always sad to dismiss beautiful stories about the origins of
early Israel, it must be done out of respect for modern historical research and,
in particular, the results of modern archaeological excavations in Palestine and
the ancient Near East. There was no longer room for a conquest of ‘Canaan’.
It was better to let the people of Israel fail than demand the fall of God. Men­
denhall’s revision of the early history of Israel had the neces­sary consequence of
abandoning the competing construction of Israel’s settlement in Palestine. Few
of his fellow students of Albright regretted this part of Mendenhall’s argu­ment.
His separation of religious from general history – an effort which reappears
in Norman K. Gottwald’s Tribes of Yahweh and which paved the way for the
thesis of a ‘revolutionary’ Israel3 – must be considered unnatural, if for no other
reason than that, in the Old Testament, history and religion are inseparable. I
have consistently stressed that, in this literature, the relationship between history
and religion is both logical and consequent.4 To be more precise, if we accept
the unity of religion and history in the Old Testament, it is clear that such unity
cannot be traced back to Israel’s early history, but is rather an axiom of later
Old Testament historiography, whose aim is to present the history of the people
of Israel and their worship as a whole. Put in another way: the Old Testament’s
history of the people of Israel is not the history of an ordinary people but rather
of the people of God. How we decide on the status of the Old Testament as a
historical source, therefore, is paramount to our evaluation of the Old Testament
as a source of the religious history of Israel. To the extent we give up the main
lines of the construction of Israel’s history as found in the Old Testament, we
will have trouble maintaining the Old Testament’s construction of religion.
Nevertheless, when introducing this subject, we must also say that it is not
possible to transfer automatically the narrow literary relationship between the
history of the people and of the Yahweh religion to the factual level of actual
history. We cannot merely assume that religion in ancient Palestine was identi-
cal with the history of the nations of that time, simply because religious and
historical event do not belong to the same logical categories. In order to avoid
such severe categorical mistakes, we need to investigate each case for itself and
find the best methods and procedures relevant.
In spite of all the objections which have been raised, we cannot exclude
in advance that Mendenhall may be correct – namely, that the history of the
people of Israel has to be submitted to a dramatic deconstruction. At the same
time, the description of the Yahwistic–Mosaic religion, as presented by the Old
Testament, may be correct – although I see little reason to suppose this to be the
case. Rejecting a naive acceptance of the biblical description of the history of
Israelite religion, I have already presented my own construction of this religious

2. Cf. the description of Mosaic faith in William F. Albright, From the Stone Age to
Christianity (New York: Doubleday, 1940).
3. Cf. N. K. Gottwald, The Tribes of Yahweh (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1979).
4. N. P. Lemche, ‘The Development of the Israelite Religion in Light of Recent Studies
on the Early Hi­story of Israel’, in J. A. Emerton (ed.) Congress Volume Leuven 1989:
Supplements to Vetus Testamentum 43 (1991), 97–115, 103.
 Is it still possible to speak about an ‘Israelite religion’? 191

history several times.5 Here, I concentrate on some new ideas which have arisen
in the last decade or so.

Biblical historiography

It is common to speak today of a paradigm shift in scholarship regarding not

only Israel’s religion and its history, but also the evaluation of the Old Testament
as a historical source. We should, how­ever, ask if such a change of paradigm
has, in fact, taken place. On the other hand, it is not totally unreasonable to argue
that the studies by Mendenhall and Gottwald have brought at least a change of
direction to historical studies because they have cast serious doubt on one of
the most popular ideas of the Old Testament in previous scholarship: that of
an immigration into Palestine at the end of the Late Bronze Age of Israelite
nomadic tribes – an idea which has, however, no more sub­stance than might be
expected from a rationalistic paraphrase6 of a story found in the Old Testament.
It is possible to muster several arguments, based on historical analyses and sup-
ported by social-anthropological parallels, against this paraphrase. Such criti-
cism, however, cannot be decisive as long as the usual paradigm for explaining
Israelite religion remains.
It is characteristic of both Mendenhall and Gottwald that, having dismissed
the hypothesis of an immigration of Israelite tribes, they continue a path estab-
lished long since. Both maintain the theory of a tribal league, where we find
roots of earlier paraphrases of the history and religion of early Israel.7 What is
new is their introduction of modern social anthropology to Old Testament schol-
arship. Neither, however, has contributed a revision of perspectives on the Old
Testament as a historical source. When it comes to evaluating biblical sources
as historical information, they are conventional if not trivial.
If we are to speak of a change of paradigm at all, it should be in regard to
the debate during the 1970s about the Israelite amphictyony.8 Although criti-
cal voices which then arose against Noth’s hypothesis merely achieved minor
changes in the ruling paradigm – admitting that Noth’s hypothesis was not based
on actual history – the consequences of the successful criticism reached further

5. N. P. Lemche, Ancient Israel (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1988), last chapter, and Lemche,
‘The Development’. Both descriptions are, in fact, too short and do not represent ade-
quate histories of Israel’s religion, though they sketch the main outline.
6. Cf. N. P. Lemche, ‘On the Problem of Studying Israelite History’, Biblische Notizen 24
(1984), 94–124, especially 111–14. The expression ‘rationalistic paraphrase’ is based on
studies by Mario Liverani and Eduard Meyer relating to the habit of extracting historical
information from Old Testament narratives by applying rationalistic means.
7. Cf. my previous evaluation of Gottwald’s acceptance of the main arguments of Martin
Noth’s Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Studien, I (Königsberg, 1943; repr. Darmstadt:
Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1963): N. P. Lemche, Early Israel (VT supplement,
37; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1985), 284–99.
8. The best overview over this debate is found in Otto Bächli, Amphiktyonie im Alten
Testament (Basel: Friedrich Reinhardt Verlag, 1977).
192 Biblical studies and the failure of history

and involved perspectives on the general study of the historical tradition of early
Israel as found in the Old Testament. When there was no more reason to accept
the idea of a sacral Israelite league of twelve tribes as part of Israel’s early his-
tory, scholars were forced to look for a different background for the ideology
of twelve tribes in the Old Testament – a background that would either be in
the history of the Israelite tribes before the settlement in Palestine or after the
conclusion of this settlement, if it had, in fact, occurred as described by, for
example, Albrecht Alt.9 It is rather easy today to select which option is the most
likely because there is little prospect of any longer maintaining the notion of an
Israelite immigration, let alone a conquest.
This dismissal of the ‘Landnahme’ theory is valid in spite of several stud-
ies that have been published recently, which still concern themselves with a
historical immigration of early Israelites. For example, Gary Rendsburg dates
an Israelite conquest to the eleventh century bce. However, the argument is
not convincing.10 Just as hopeless is the proposal by Rainer Neu, who wants
to ‘embellish’ the history of Israelite tribes with anecdotes drawn from social
anthropology.11 In general, current discussions about early Israel hardly pay
much attention to the immigration hypothesis any longer. The obituary of this
discussion may have been written by Thomas L. Thompson in his The Early
History of the Israelite People and Gösta W. Ahlström in his The History of
Ancient Palestine from the Palaeolithic Period to Alexander’s Conquest.12
It is no longer legitimate to speak of the historicity of the patriarchs, Israel’s
sojourn in Egypt or the wandering of Israel’s tribes in the desert. The biblical
tradition referring to such epochs cannot be considered reflections of Israel’s
actual history, but belongs, like the conquest in the Book of Joshua, to narra-
tives rooted in a later ideology. These stories are fictive and cannot be used as
historical sources for a reconstruction of events reflected by them. Following
the stories of the immigration of the Israelite tribes into Palestine, which are
fictive and not historical sources, comes the Period of the Judges. After the
dissolution of the theory of an amphictyony, such a ‘period of the judges’ can
no longer be considered the home of historical tradition. We must change our
ideas in a fundamental way, not least because of historical arguments that Egypt
controlled Palestine, or a fair part of that land, until at least 1075bce.13 If this

9. Albrecht Alt, ‘Die Landnahme der israelitischen Stämme in Palästina (1925)’, in his
Kleine Schriften zur Geschichte Israels I (Munich: Beck,1953), 89–125.
10. Gary Rendsburg, ‘The Date of the Exodus and the Cinquest/Settlement: The Case for the
1100s’, VT 42 (1992), 510–27.
11. Rainer Nau, Von der Anarchie zum Staat (Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1992).
12. Thomas L. Thompson, Early History of the Israelite People (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1992);
Gösta W. Ahlström, The History of Ancient Palestine from the Palaeolithic Period to
Alexander’s Conquest (Sheffield: Sheffield University Press, 1993). Cf. also Diana
Edelman (ed.) ‘Towards a Consensus of the Emergence of Israel in Canaan’, SJOT
1991/2, 1–116, with contributions by N. P. Lemche, G. W. Ahlström, R. B. Coote, I.
Finkelstein and others.
13. See Donald B. Redford, Egypt, Canaan, and Israel in Ancient Times (Princeton, NJ:
Princeton University Press, 1992), 290. At the same time, it has to be said that Redford
 Is it still possible to speak about an ‘Israelite religion’? 193

is true, then the time we allow for the ‘Period of the Judges’ is all too short, at
least if one reckons with an introduction of the monarchy in the last decades
of the eleventh century bce. It is highly unlikely that traditions about the early
history of Israel can be dated to a time when Israel was not yet a state. Instead
of speaking of a ‘Period of the Judges’ as the formative period of Israelite tradi-
tion, it is more common to see the period of a ‘united monarchy’ under David
and Solomon as the time when these traditions came into being – a construc-
tion which would fit the classical dating of the oldest sources in the Pentateuch
excellently, as it places the Yahwist in the tenth century bce. If we must lower
the date of the Pentateuchal sources considerably, such a change would not
itself create problems for the assumption that the tradition of Israel’s prehistory
was formed during the reigns of David and Solomon in the tenth century bce.
The problems arise when we begin to ask questions about the historicity of the
biblical tradition of the ‘united monarchy’ and the glorious days of David and
Solomon. If we have to relegate the tradition of an early Hebrew empire to the
realm of mythology, we can hardly argue in favour of seeing this mythologically
great period as the home of a historical tradition about early Israel. I find little
to recommend the hypothesis of this great Israelite kingdom in the tenth century
bce. But if this, nevertheless, is the case, then the traditions of the twelve tribe
league and of the emergence of Israelite Yahweh religion hardly belong to the
tenth century bce.
Ten years ago, hardly any serious biblical scholar would have questioned
the historicity of the Davidic Empire. During the last decade, serious objections
against the biblical imagery of Israel’s early greatness have begun to appear.
Because the historicity of this empire is relevant to our discussion, I will address
it. We have only a single source which informs us of the period of David and
Solomon (i.e. the Old Testament). Other sources, dating to the tenth century
bce, whether Egyptian, Syrian or Meso­potamian, have no information about
any such empire. According to Giovanni Garbini and others, we must see the
silence in non-biblical sources about David and Solomon as an argument against
the historicity of the biblical story and it is hardly possible to claim that such
an argument is without cause.14 According to the Old Testament, the Kingdom
of David included the area between Wadi el-’Arish to the south-west and the
Euphrates to the north-east. However, though this would have made David’s
kingdom the largest empire of its time, we have no refer­ences to its existence
outside of the Old Testament. From a methodologi­cal point of view, objec-
tions may be raised against Garbini simply because it can be described as an
argumenta ex silentio. It is also maintained that what we have of ancient Near
Eastern documents relevant to the tenth century bce is not much. Sources are,

is not talking about a stable Egyptian empire in those days, but of a weakened politi-
cal organisation. Aside from this, he – like other Egyptologists – still reckons with an
Israelite immigration with reference to the activity of the Shasu nomads.
14. Cf. Giovanni Garbini, History and Ideology in Ancient Israel (London: SCM Press,
1988), 21–32, and the serious criticism of the traditional view on this period in Redford,
Egypt, Canaan, and Israel, 283–311.
194 Biblical studies and the failure of history

indeed, few. Perhaps there were other documents yet to be found (also an argu-
ment from silence!)? It may be that the biblical historiographer is somewhat
exaggerated. David’s kingdom may have been great and important, though
hardly as large as imagined by biblical writers (again, an argument from silence
implied by this rationalistic paraphrase!15).
The argument in favour of the existence of a reduced Israelite kingdom,
provoked by a methodologically questionable discussion, may indicate that
the question about this kingdom may have been engaged from the wrong per-
spective, as the Old Testament has always been the point of departure for such
discussions. The problem is the same as those presented for earlier periods of
Israel’s history – namely, that it is not possible to bring information concern-
ing this history in the Old Testament into harmony with extra-biblical – mostly
archaeological, but also textual – evidence. The case of a ‘Davidic Empire’ is
hardly different. What has archaeology to add? For lack of something better,
we depend upon the review of material in the recent book of David Jamieson-
Drake, where it is argued that it is hardly legitimate to think of a centralized
state within the territory of Judah before the middle of the eighth century bce.16
According to Jamieson-Drake’s observations, there is no need to speculate
about a tenth century Israelite empire. If one were still to wish to save some of
the biblical tradition, one must present a rationalistic paraphrase that has little
to do with the Bible’s narrative.
Although such arguments have certainly not been received with unified
acclaim, it is easy to show that Jamieson-Drake’s evidence goes very well with
other sources related to a ‘time of David’, if for no other reason than that this
kingdom is not mentioned by a single source outside the Old Testament. There
is not a single reference to such a kingdom; nor is there archaeological evidence
for its existence at pre­sent. We may have to conclude that the historicity of
David and Solomon rests on an argument that is no different from those pertain-
ing to the historicity of Joshua.

15. Thus also Garbini, who reckons with a small Judean state of limited size (History and
Ideology, chapter 2). Speculations along this line can also be found in J. A. Soggin,
Einführung in die Geschichte Israels und Judas (Darmstadt: Wiussenschaftliche
Buchgesellschaft, 1991), 42–61, and J. Maxwell Miller and John Hayes, A History of
Ancient Israel and Judah (Philadelphia, PA: Westminster John Knox, 1986), 179–80
(with a map showing the ‘small’ Kingdom of David, 181!), but also outside the circle
of biblical scholars in Mario Liverani, Antico Oriente: Storia, società, economia (Bari:
Laterza, 1988), 669–72.
16. David Jamieson-Drake, Scribes and Schools in Monarchic Israel: A Socio-Archaeological
Approach (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991). Cf., especially, his résumé, 138–9: ‘There is
no evidence that Judah began to function as a state at any time prior to the tremendous
increase in population, building, production, centralization and specialization which
began the 8th century.’ See also Michael Niemann, Herrschaft, Königtum und Staat:
Skizzen zur soziokulturellen Entwicklung im monarchischen Israel (Tübingen: Mohr,
1993), 282, who concludes, evidently without knowledge of Jamieson-Drake’s book:
‘Mir scheint von den Ergebnissen der vorliegende Arbeit her, daß … für das Sudreich
Juda erst ab Ussia, für das Nordreich Israel ab Omri, von einem “Staat” gesprochen
werden kann.’
 Is it still possible to speak about an ‘Israelite religion’? 195

We have reached the tentative conclusion that the Old Testament is still
important for this period simply because we have no other written sources per-
taining to David and Solomon, or to anything related to an early Hebrew mon-
archy. Second, these biblical narratives are of questionable value, if not totally
useless historically. The ‘historical account’ of the Old Testament can hardly be
reconciled with the actual history of Palestine for the Iron I and II periods – and
certainly not with any history that predates the ninth century bce (in Israel’s
case), or the eighth century (in Judah’s).17 Apparently, the Old Testament cannot
be considered a historical source in the usual sense of the term. It might, rather,
be better to give up the idea entirely that the Old Testament includes a ‘history
of Israel’ (which, however, does not exclude the fact that we find historical
information here and there). The Old Testament does not describe the past ‘wie
sie gewesen’, but presents opinions of various writers about the past.
There now remains the question of the relationship between such opinions of
the past and what actually happened regarding the history of Israel in antiquity.
Can the biblical narrative be seen as, in some way, comparable to the actual
history of ancient Israel? Does the Old Testament contain history writing, or do
we find only more literary genres there?18 When we speak of biblical writers as
historians, we can only conclude that we are almost always wrong, both in great
perspective and in minor detail.19 It would, perhaps, be better to compare these
writers to fiction writers. It is obvious that they did not see historical reality as a
problem because they did not see it as their task to cast light over the past. Their
aims were different.
On the other hand, we definitely find a ‘history of Israel’ in the Old Testament,
although it is a history that has very little in common with a proper history
of Palestine. The biblical and real history forms two independent universes. It
needs to be understood that the universe created by biblical writers was cre-
ated entirely on the basis of their situation and time. The real past was only of

17. We need a survey, in the style of Jamieson-Drake, of Judean archaeological material and
of the material from the northern part of Palestine. It is of decisive importance to ascer-
tain whether or not the many monumental remains, including remains of fortress-like
constructions, belongs to the late tenth century (i.e. to the ‘time of Solomon’ or Jeroboam
I) or to the ninth century (i.e. to the ‘time of the House of Omri’). At least so much can
be said that the archaeological situation in northern Palestine is at this time very different
from the impression we get from the southern part of the country.
18. The dichotomy between our usually rather naive use of the Old Testament, which is
commonly merely paraphrased, and methods which have been developed to deal with
other sources is remarkable. Cf., for example, the evaluation of the rabbinic sources to
the early history of Judaism in Doron Mendels, The Rise and Fall of Jewish Nationalism
(New York: Doubleday, 1992), 5: ‘Rabbinic traditions were composed and put into writ-
ing centuries after the events took place, and therefore cannot be used as evidence for the
period under discussion’ (i.e. 200bce to 135ce). It can really be said as simply as that.
19. Cf. also my review of Baruch Halpern, The First Historians: The Hebrew Bible and
History (San Francisco, CA: Harper & Row, 1988), in JNES 50 (1991), 215–17. Halpern
tries to defend biblical historiographers and considers them historians in our sense of the
word. Halpern, rather, shows – against his own intentions – that biblical historiography
and modern history writing belong to two separate categories.
196 Biblical studies and the failure of history

importance if it helped to cast light over the fate of people living at the time
of the writers of the Bible’s historiography. This is very clear when it comes
to the early ‘history of Israel’. Although it is important to establish when such
historical narratives came into being, an exact date for such historiography is
not decisive. I will, therefore, merely express my opinion briefly.
It is not possible to argue in favour of an early date for Israelite historiog-
raphy. We are forced to look for an alternative, and dates in the late monarchic
period, the exile or even after the exile recommend themselves. Little can be
said in favour of a pre-exilic date, except from the wish of some modern schol-
ars to have at least something remain from the pre-exilic period. The same can
be said about the exilic date for this literature. Only the hope of modern scholars
that the historiography – or most of it – belongs to early periods keeps such
early dates in focus. This is especially relevant for the time of Josiah. In regard
to the exile, it is as if scholars are thinking of late pre-exilic Israelites as merely
waiting to be dragged away into exile in Babylonia so that they could find the
leisure to write their memoirs.
In favour of the third option, we might well refer to John Van Seters –
although he himself favours an exilic date for the biblical historiography. He
sees a marked mixture of Babylonian and Greek features in biblical historiog-
raphy.20 However, echoes of Greek historiography are hardly to be expected in
biblical historical writings that date from the time of the exile. It is much too
early, and it does not help that Van Seters refers to Hecataeus’s history writing,21
not least as that is to be characterized as no longer extant! If Van Seters’s obser-
vations are correct, they point, rather, to another period (i.e. the period when the
Greeks ‘ruled the East’ – namely, the Hellenistic Period). We should think of the
time of the Seleucid Empire, especially the early part of its history in the third
century bce. During this period we can expect an interchange between Greek
and Babylonian culture, much in the way we find a blending of traditions in the
Old Testament.22
It is still open whether this proposal of a Seleucid date for biblical histori-
ography will stand. We are in need of comprehensive comparative studies of
biblical and Greek historiography and they are still to be written.

‘Israel’ as a people?

The consequence of modern studies of Israel’s history is increasingly clear.

It is difficult to speak of an ethnic unity called ‘Israel’ in any ordinary way. A
number of scholars refer to the way in which we have been misled by biblical

20. Cf., already, John Van Seters, In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World
and the Origins of Biblical History (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983),
rephrased in an elegant fashion in John Van Seters, Prologue to History: The Yahwist as
Historian in Genesis (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 1992).
21. So, Van Seters, In Search of History, passim.
22. Cf. Chapter 8, this volume.
 Is it still possible to speak about an ‘Israelite religion’? 197

historical concepts. A pioneering work along such lines is Gösta W. Ahlström’s

study of the identity of the Israelites, published in 1986.23 Perhaps this study
– not always in harmony with itself – appeared too early and was, for that
reason, misunderstood. However, it is highly relevant as soon as a discussion
of the ‘ethnicity’ of early Israelites comes to mind because the common use of
such concepts as ‘the people of Israel’ and ‘Israel’s land’ is problematic.24 My
own study on the Canaanites from 1991 follows the lead set by Ahlström:25 a
deconstruction of the biblical idea that Canaanites of the Old Testament repre-
sent an ethnos. We are confronting an ideological concept that does not reflect
an ancient pre-Israelite people in Palestine before the Israelites. The Canaanites
of the Old Testament constitute an ‘anti-people’: a negative counterpart to ‘the
people of Israel’. Philip R. Davies is definitely correct when he argues that
Canaanites constitute an anti-model for Israel, the consequence of which is that
Old Testament ‘Israel’ is also a construct and certainly not a historical reality.
Although such views may seem foreign to the continental European tradition
of biblical scholarship,26 it is necessary to take them into account. Otherwise,
biblical scholarship is in danger of collapsing. A growing number of North
American scholars are adopting – although often only in a partial sense – the
position of Davies and his colleagues. It is accepted, for example, that the name
‘Israel’ refers to a historical reality, although this ‘Israel’ is not identical with
the ‘Israel’ of the Old Testament. Historical Israel did not always represent one
and the same thing. Thus, the ‘Israel’ of Merenptah, whose precise identity is
unknown, is not the same as the ‘Israel’ of Omri’s and Ahab’s time, and none
of these ‘Israels’ are the same as biblical Israel. Accordingly, the ‘Israel’ of
Merenptah has perhaps little to do with any system of early ‘Israelite’ tribes.
Likewise, it is difficult to see the ‘Israel’ of Omri and Ahab as identical with the
people of Israel as we find them in the Old Testament, although their kingdom,
the ‘House of Omri’, can be identified as the Kingdom of Israel of the Old
Testament during the time of Omri and Ahab.
On the other hand, the ideological concept of ‘Israel’ in the Old Testament
is to be identified with ‘the people of God’, embracing the twelve tribes of
Israel and having a ‘prehistory’ reaching back to the narratives about the patri-
archs. One only finds this ‘Israel’ in biblical literature, though it makes no sense
­outside of this literature. Biblical Israel – to put it simply – is the invention of
the authors who put the Bible’s historiography together.
Statements like this will, of course, lead to terminological conflicts (depend-
ing on different views of technical issues). Thus, J. Maxwell Miller argues that it
is impossible to write a history of Israel without recur­rence to the ­historiography

23. Gösta W. Ahlström, Who Were the Israelites?, (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1986).
24. Marit Skjeggestad, ‘Ethnic Groups in Early Iron Palestine: Some Remarks on the Use of
the Term ‘Israelite’ in Recent Research’, SJOT 6 (1992), 159–86.
25. Niels Peter Lemche, The Canaanites and Their Land: The Tradition of the Canaanites
(Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991).
26. Philip R. Davies, In Search of ‘Early Israel’ (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992).
198 Biblical studies and the failure of history

of the Old Testament.27 Amused by recent trends, he states that modern histori-
ans over the last generation have written a history of the landscape of Palestine
rather than a proper history of the Israelite people. His observation is correct. As
historians, we must decide whether we prefer to write a history of the Israelite
people (i.e. a history based on the Bible) or, as ordinary historians, to concen-
trate on the fate of the landscape of Pales­tine and its people(s).28

A history of ‘Israel’s’ religion?

When talking about the history of ‘Israelite’ religion, it is most important to

make a distinction between the two types of ‘Israel’ being discussed. A termi-
nological clarification is also called for.29 What are we talking about when we
discuss the religion of Israel? Is the history of Israelite religion that we recon-
struct identical with the religion of Israel as described by the Old Testament,
or are we talking about the religion found in the historical state of Israel that
existed between circa 900 and 722bce? Is this Israelite religion also the religion
of Merenptah’s Israel? What kind of connections existed between the religion
of the Northern Kingdom of ‘Israel’ and the religion of Judah before the exile?
Are we permitted merely to accept as our point of departure that there was total
agreement in the religion of these two small states? Would it perhaps not be bet-
ter to assert that the description of Israelite religion in the Old Testament reflects
a past created and nourished by later Jewish writers? Or should we rather speak
of these writers’ condemnation of a constructed pre-exilic religion?
We can, of course, speak of a history of Israelite religion in the same way as
we speak of a history of Israel. Both religious and secular history, as constructed
by biblical writers, are reflections of ideas of a past history and religion which
is current among (later) Jewish historiographers. The religion of Israel is part
of a worldview found in the Old Testament. However, we are not talking about

27. J. Maxwell Miller, ‘Is It Possible to Write a History of Israel without Relying on the
Hebrew Bible?’, in D. V. Edelman (ed.) The Fabric of History: Text, Artefact, and
Israel’s Past (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991).
28. The contributions by Ernst Axel Knauf, ‘From History to Interpretation’, and Thomas
L. Thompson, ‘Text, Context and Referent in Israelite Historiography’ in Edelman, The
Fabric of History (pp. 26–64 and 65–92, respectively) show that it is possible to continue
with this terminological problem.
29. We must reckon as paradigmatic in character, exactly because of its lack of clarification,
the verdict of Mark Smith relating to the religious conditions of early Israel: ‘In sum,
the Israelites may [or may not?!] have perceived themselves as a people different from
the Canaanites. Separate religious traditions of Yahweh, separating traditions of origin
in Egypt for at least some component of Israel, and separate geographical holdings in the
hill country contributed to the Israelite sense of difference from their Canaanite neigh-
bors inhabiting the coast and the valleys. Nonetheless, Israelite and Canaanite cultures
shared a great deal in common, and religion was no exception’ (Mark Smith, The Early
History of God: Yahweh and the other Deities in Ancient Israel, San Francisco, CA:
Harper & Row, 1990), 7.
 Is it still possible to speak about an ‘Israelite religion’? 199

anything that existed apart from their current Sitz im Leben – namely, of the Old
Testament. Religious life in ancient Palestine can be considered a Palestinian
variation of religion as generally found among the people of western Asia and of
the Levant, in particular. For these reasons, I concur with the remark by William
G. Dever: ‘there was little distinction between Canaanite and Israelite religion,
at least in practice. The rituals were virtually the same, even if one assumes that
Israel’s Yahwistic theology was an innovation – and that is not always evident.’30
Perhaps religion in Israel and Judah was generally the same because the god
Yahweh was the dominant deity in both countries. On the other hand, it is not so
easy to determine whether or not this Yahweh was identical with the Yahweh of
the Bible, as he may have changed character as time passed (something which
seems likely with regard to his marital status).
Although it is recommended that studies of Israelite religion change their
orientation, we need a series of studies dealing with individual aspects of that
religion because it is no longer relevant to study religious phe­nomena in isola-
tion. As an example, I refer to Herbert Niehr’s recent study of the develop-
ment of monotheism in the ancient Near East.31 It would also be rewarding to
present overviews of Palestinian religion in pre-exilic times along the lines of
Frederick H. Cryer’s book on divination, describing ancient Palestinian society
as ‘magical’.32 Against the impres­sion of a Palestinian magic society, we have a
description of Israelite religion as offered by writers of the Old Testament. In the
future, we will most likely see more studies of this kind, bolstered by archaeo-
logical observations. The demonstration of an ex­tended worship of the dead in
Judah under the kings by Elizabeth Bloch-Smith may serve as an example of
what to expect.33

A change of paradigm?

In order to return to the issue of a change of paradigm, we need to state that this
change is not automatically caused by concrete results from historical investiga-
tion or because of recent discoveries pertinent to the history of religion; nor is it
caused by new proposals for dating the sources of the Old Testament. All such
advances merely contribute to a modification of the ruling paradigm. It is not a
consequence of a new paradigm that modern scholarship is no longer interested
in talking about a conquest of Canaan by Israel or that it is becoming normal
to speak about post-exilic writers as composers of biblical literature (if this is

30. William G. Dever, Recent Archaeological Discoveries and Biblical Research (Seattle,
WA: University of Washington Press, 1990), 166.
31. Herbert D. Niehr, Der höchste Gott: Alttestamentlicher JHWH-Glaube im Kontext
syrisch-kanaanäischer Religion des 1. Jahrtausends v. Chr. (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1990).
32. Frederick H. Cryer, Divination in Ancient Israel and Its Near Eastern Environment
(Sheffield: Sheffield University Press, 1993).
33. Cf. Elizabeth Bloch-Smith, Judahite Burial Practices and Beliefs About the Dead
(Sheffield: Sheffield University Press, 1993).
200 Biblical studies and the failure of history

actually the case). Such changes belong within the old paradigm and are only
variations within that paradigm.
A new paradigm will only appear when an absolutely new under­standing of
the character of biblical narrative is accepted, seeing this no longer as historical
information about the past, but as literary fiction. The effort to excavate his-
torical information from such fictive literature has been characterized by Bernd
Jörg Diebner as ‘Offenbarungs-Archäologie’.34 As long as this kind of textual
study survives, the old paradigm survives. As long as it is believed that the Old
Testament is a source in itself, nothing changes. Only when we accept that there
are two worlds involved (on the one hand, the world of the Old Testament, and,
on the other, the world of ancient Palestine) can we speak of a new paradigm.
We need to respect the individuality of both worlds, though we need also to
introduce new methods to study such worlds. We need to introduce a dialectical
situation in which it is possible to transfer the results of the one world to the
other and thereby achieve a relevant synthesis.

34. Cf. Bernd Jörg Diebner, ‘Wieder die ‘Offenbarungs-Archäologie’ in der Wissenschaft
vom Alten Testament’, Dielheimer Blätter zum Alten Testament 18 (1984), 30–53.
 12

Kings and clients: on loyalty between the

ruler and the ruled in ancient ‘Israel’
1995

As described in Chapter 9, in the first scene of the movie The Godfather, the
old Don, Vito Corleone, head of an established mafia family in New York, gives
audience to whomever among his followers has a request to make. Among the
supplicants appears a very shy person, asking for revenge because some young-
sters have mishandled his daughter. They were arrested by the police, but in
their appearance before the judge they got a very mild and, according to the
girl’s father, absolutely insufficient sentence. The content of the dialogue which
follows is especially inter­esting. Don Corleone opens with a forewarning, first
of all, because the applicant had gone to the police and not to the Godfather. He
mentions that the applicant has been inattentive and has not shown him respect,
and, further, that he has never wanted his friendship because he never wanted
to owe the Godfather a service and be in his debt. As the scene continues, the
Godfather refers to the fact that the applicant needed no protection, because he
believed that the court would provide him with it. Only now, this being clearly
not the case, the applicant asks the Godfather to give him justice, but without
respect, as he still does not offer his friendship to the Godfather and is still not
prepared to address Don Corleone as Godfather. When the applicant offers to
pay for the service, the offer is simply refused as disrespectful. The applicant
should have come at once, when he was first offended and the scoundrels would
already have suffered. Finally, the Godfather offers his friendship to the appli-
cant and prompts that any enemy of the applicant will at the same time be enemy
of the Godfather and will therefore always fear the anger of the Godfather. The
scene closes as the applicant agrees to become the client of the godfather, a
relationship symbolized in his kissing the hand of Don Corleone and greeting
him as Godfather. The applicant is warned that, although the present favour
is given as a gift, the godfather may want his services at some later occasion,
which comes soon thereafter, as the movie continues.
This scene excellently embodies the essentials of the concept of patronage:
that special relationship that ideally exists between a patron and his clients or
between a ruler and the ruled of tra­ditional societies. Patronage is, briefly, the
type of relationship found between people of different standings in decentral-
ized, partly centralized political societies, as well as in centralized states, on the
202 Biblical studies and the failure of history

verge of collapse. It is my conviction, accordingly, that the patronage system

governs the political interplay between various members of such societies.
Formerly, patronage was considered peculiar to ancient Roman society,
being, indeed, a lawful and accepted ingredient of that society.1 As is well
known, the great families of Rome collected a vast following of retainers, not
only to promote their own interests but also to fight rival families, with their
retainers. The patronage system was evoked, even at the highest level, when
the Roman state introduced and made use of the con­cept on a large scale, as
its veterans were promised land and safety in foreign, often newly conquered,
provinces. They were to create colonies, directly subordinate to Rome rather
than local au­thorities, thus establishing centres of Roman influence all over the
empire, places that were particularly loyal to the Roman state. However, client-
ship could also be used to bind selected communities, primarily in the form of
cities or city-states, directly to the Roman authorities in a friendship pact that
existed between these cities and the city of Rome.
It should not, however, be argued that Romans had invented this system.
They merely organized it on a large renowned scale. The influence of great
and noble Roman families was so extensive that the system on the private
level obtained official recognition, not just as a subsystem below the surface
of official society and its authorities. The intention behind the system was not
exclusively to provide the members of the Aemilian, Julian, Claudian or other
families with advantages. It provided security and safety also to the common
person who, when in trouble, could appeal to the patron family for help. As
such, membership in this political system made life tolerable under conditions
that would other­wise be unbearably harsh and difficult. Particularly in con-
nection with the distribution of justice, patrons were extraordinarily important
because they could secure the rights of the poor members of their clientele,
includ­ing payment of expenses, connected with the judicial process or fines
imposed. On the other hand, without a patron, the poor stood alone and no
official institution was readily available that could ensure fair treatment in any
conflict with an influential member of society.
It is obvious that the mafia, referred to at the beginning of this chapter, should
be considered a late form of patronage. Don Corleone precisely diagnoses the
situation of the person applying for help. The man asks for justice because he
could not – in his own opinion – obtain it when he turned to the authorities. In
this manner, the Godfather was obliged to act as substitute in the role of a good
judge, a role the supplicant at first had believed belonged to the officers of the
state in which he lived.
The problem connected with modem patronage organizations as they are
still found in the Western world is, first of all, that state authorities generally
provide the services and safety arrangements that were formerly an essential
part of the patronage system. Second, the patronage system of modem times

1. An excellent though dated description of the Roman system on all levels of society
can be found in Ronald Syme, The Roman Revolution (revised edn, Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1951).
 Kings and clients 203

has developed into a caricature (criminalized to a great extent – indeed, crime is

nearly its sole object today). In this regard, the patronage system is no longer a
protective organization, providing justice for its mem­bers, but a criminal insti-
tution, harmful and disastrous to the greater society around it. It is obvious that
the system has been marginalized and is no longer at the centre of the socio-
political organization of life. It has been moved to the fringe of modern society.
It is, nevertheless, also clear that the system will continue to operate – at least
theoretically – to the benefit of its members, according to rules that are essential
to its system.
Another factor inherent in this system is the notion of loyalty, which must be
considered fundamental to the system and which should not be limited to the
notorious omertá (according to my Italian dictionary: the ‘soli­darity that exists
among criminals’); the essence of the concept is actually the obligation placed
on members not to talk. Loyalty is a governing concept and without it a patron-
age organization will have no chance to survive. In this respect, it is important
that Don Corleone ex­pressly demand to be called ‘Godfather’ because, like a
real god, he promises to fulfil his obligations and expects to be obeyed with-
out question. As usual, when loyalty forms the basis of a relationship, with its
obligations publicly expressed by both parties in the form of a vow, the penalty
imposed on members who do not live up to their duties will be severe, more
often than not the death penalty, frequently in combination with torture, corporal
molestation and the like. Such pains are inflicted not to be cruel so much as to
frighten ‘faithful’ members of the organization and prevent them from deserting.
It is my conviction, however, that this system, which has sometimes been
called a Mediterranean social organization, is likely to be present in most if not
all societies that are not governed by strongly centralized institutions belonging
to a state. Moreover, it is the organizing principle that appears in many kinds
of societies, including embryonic states similar to the ones we often confront
when dealing with the history of Palestine in antiquity, also including, in some-
what altered form, the feudal organizations of the Near East and Europe in the
Middle Ages.
It is a system in which both parties, patron as well as client, are bound by
mutual oaths of loyalty. It is a system that, in principle, works to the benefit
of both parties. Yet, it is a system that has hardly been adequately described
by students of the ancient Near East and modern sociologists, working in the
Middle East. Only occasionally do we get a hint of how this system today can
serve as a subsystem below the surface of modern states in that part of the world.
It shows up whenever such states are torn apart by conflicts as, for example,
recently in Lebanon.
The shortage of studies on the extensive patronage systems to be found in
most, if not all, modern Middle Eastern societies points to negligence on the part
of social anthropologists, working in this part of the world. I would maintain
that it is precisely their presuppositions and their methodological assumptions
that have prevented them from accepting the presence of a system that runs
counter to their general notion of the dominant factor in traditional society being
the family system. If one is prepared to get involved in a survey of post-World
204 Biblical studies and the failure of history

War II ethnographic treatises on Middle Eastern society, one will be struck by

the importance attached to the family system. Most descrip­tions contain an
extensive survey of the family under the rubric of ‘social structure’, providing
a fair impression of the life and whereabouts of the nuclear family and the line-
age, together with some, often vague, comments on the clan system, if such is
present, which is not always the case (or so the ethnographers frequently main-
tain). Such treatment of the family system will close with an extensive but not
well organized discussion of the importance of tribes. Generally, family and lin-
eage are invariably considered the most important basis of the life of a Middle
Eastern person, constituting the solidarity group on which each individual can
count in times of crisis.
Although the nuclear family certainly plays a central role, such a group is far
too small to provide effective protection for its members apart from the most
commonplace problems. On the other hand, it is a strange fact that among the
members of one and the same lineage, it is difficult to point to practical exam-
ples of a ‘solidarity’ which putatively binds members together; indeed, solidar-
ity is far less pronounced than might be expected if this organization really
were to function as decisively as is assumed. Most anthro­pologists stress that
the individual family forms an economically independent group in traditional
societies, regardless of whether we are speaking of a tribal or a centralized
society. There are, of course, examples of impoverished lineage members who
may get some help to survive physically, but can hardly count on assistance
from the lineage to restore their fortune or support their survival for long. A
very conspicuous process found in nomadic tribal societies, which otherwise
is considered to epitomize tribal solidarity, is the fate of those who have lost
their livestock, and who are forced to settle and survive as hired workers. Some,
indeed, may be ‘luckier’ in finding employment as herders for rich members of
their own lineage – often, however, without being properly paid.2
In descriptions of such societies, it is very unusual to find comments on other
kinds of political organization than that based on family relationships. I cannot

2. This section builds on arguments in N. P. Lemche, Early Israel: Anthropological and

Historical Studies on the Israelite Society before the Monarchy (VT supplement, 37;
Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1985), especially 209–44, where the relevant anthropological studies
are discussed. The analysis presented there seems to have gone unchallenged by Hebrew
scholars. A sad fact of negligence on part of Hebrew Bible scholars when it comes to
social-anthropological matters – and this is still to be found in current work – is the
attention that continues to be paid to the stereotype of the extended family suppos-
edly encompassing scores of members. As was already explained in 1985, such families
simply do not exist except on the dynastic level or among the few rich families, likely to
be present in a traditional Middle Eastern society, the reason simply being that no poor
family can afford to support so many members. As I have previously described, it is
truly remarkable that general confusion persists among modern scholars concerning the
difference between, for example, an extended noble family, counting as many as twenty
persons, and the lineage. For an archaeologically based study that differs with various
of my arguments, see Lawrence E. Stager, ‘The Archaeology of the Family in Ancient
Israel’, BASOR 260 (1985), 1–35.
 Kings and clients 205

remember having found a proper discussion on patronage, except very general

comments on the relationship between rich and the poor. Some anthropologists,
such as the late Jacob Black-Michaud, have questioned the importance of fam-
ily solidarity and have, at the same time, referred to other political structures
that are more important. However, not even Black-Michaud, who presents us
with vivid descriptions of the ‘tyrannical’ use of family solidarity to suppress
unlucky members of family and lineage,3 has ever discussed the subject of
patronage to any satisfac­tory extent.
There are several reasons for this state of affairs. By comparison, it is much
easier to describe the family, and local informants are generally ready to offer
explanations about the tiniest details of the family system or to present the all-
too-happy ethnographer with lengthy genealogies, tracing such societies and
their lineages back to ancestors living at the beginning of history. However,
when it comes to the more clandestine lines of patron–client relationships,
these informants generally have very little to say – if they have been asked.
Minimally, they may not have been prepared to guide the ethnographer into
the various political alliances of their communities simply because it is an ele-
ment of the system itself that it not be openly known, and certainly that it not
be known to persons outside the given society. Another reason for this situation
may rest in the fact that anthropologists have generally not been interested in
ideological matters. A system as important as patronage will most likely be
present on the ideological level, and if scientific caution prohibits tracing its
presence in the communities of the Middle East, it should at least have left its
mark on the tradition, though not necessarily in the form of fully developed
systems. One should not expect to find the system described ‘sociologically’
or systematically in Middle Eastern traditional folklore, but one should at least
be able to discover vestiges of it in literature and tradition. As a matter of fact,
such indications will be plen­tiful as soon as one realizes that they are present.4
We limit ourselves to the situation in the Hebrew Bible. Nowhere in the text
do we find a full description of the structure of so-called ‘ancient Israelite’ soci-
ety, but merely schematic and superficial layouts – for example, in the short text
of Joshua 7:16-18, which divides soci­ety into, respectively, families, lineages
and tribes, or in the exten­sive reports of a census such as Numbers 26. However,
if we move to the ideological level, another world opens up before our eyes: ref-
erences to concepts are readily available that can be joined together to form the
basis of my hypothesis – namely, that the society that produced the biblical lit-
erature was organized according to lines following patron–client relationships.
As already described, at the very centre of the system, we find the notion
of ‘loyalty’, which binds patron and client together, at least on the ideological
level, in an unbreakable relationship. In com­bination with this idea of loyalty,

3. Jacob Black-Michaud, ‘Tyranny as a Strategy for Survival in an “Egalitarian” Society:

Luri Facts versus an Anthropological Mystique’, Man 7 (1972), 614–34.
4. As an example of what can be done in this field, see Michael E. Meeker, Literature
and Violence in North Arabia (Cambridge Studies in Cultural Systems 3; Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1979).
206 Biblical studies and the failure of history

other sub-concepts such as friend­ship, respect and fear appear. The patron asks
the client to be a friend, to ‘love’ and to show the patron respect, which is cer-
tainly not passive, but a very active expression of subordination to the patron.
On the other hand, ‘fear’ is not a part of the relationship between patron and
client but the general attitude of foreigners who experience the negative effects
of the system – for example, in a con­fron­tation between two rival patronage
groups. Fortunately, we do not need to break entirely new ground in the present
context, although we will need to limit our discussion. Several scholars (e.g.
Glueck,5 Sakenfeld6 and Clark7) have already pub­lished analyses of a few tech-
nical Hebrew expressions that obviously refer to the ideology underlying the
patronage system. Among such studies, Nelson Glueck’s old German disserta-
tion from 1927 on the term ‫ חסד‬may count as a major contribution and should
still hold its position in spite of Gordon R. Clark’s new examination of ‫חסד‬.
Glueck’s study is divided into three parts, the first devoted to the human sphere
alone, the second to the attitude of humans toward God, and the third to the use
of ‫ חסד‬to express the attitude of God towards humans. While Glueck does not
explicitly address patronage in this small volume, some of his conclusions point
directly towards it. Let me quote from his first section of conclusions: ‘‫ חסד‬ist die
einem Rechts-Pflicht-Verhältnis entsprechende Verhaltungsweise. … Versteht
man ‫ חסד‬als eine solche Verhaltungsweise, so erklärt sich die früher festgestellte
Tatsache, daß nur diejenigen, die in einem Rechts-Pflicht-Verhältnis stehen ‫חסד‬
empfangen und erweisen können.’8 These statements precisely articulate the
essence of patronage! The rest of his book simply elaborates upon this theme;
the essentials are all contained here. It is self-evident that a number of con-
cepts can be introduced as components of Glueck’s relationship characterized
by obligations and duties; he himself immediately points to the concept of ‫אמת‬.9
It is also obvious that his two subsequent chapters, which broaden the perspec-
tive to include the world of the divine being, contribute in fundamental ways
to understanding the concept. They do not change its content in any important
respect, apart from the fact that the relationship between patron and client will
necessarily be clearer under such circumstances where one party is God and the
other his creature.
It is meaningful and perceptive, however, that Glueck also includes
the concept of ‘knowledge of God’ (‘Gotteserkenntnis’) and ‘fear of God’
(‘Gottesfurcht’).10 Without difficulty, the first can be compared to the idea of

5. Nelson Glueck, Das Wort þesed im alttestamentlichen Sprachgebrauche als mensch-

liche und Göttliche gemeinschattmäß Verwaltungsweise (BZAW 47; Gießen: Alfred
Töpelmann, 1927).
6. Katharine Doob Sakenfeld, The Meaning of ÿesed in the Hebrew Bible: A New Inquiry
(HSM 17; Missoula: Scholars Press, 1978).
7. Gordon R. Clark, The Word Hesed in the Hebrew Bible (JSOT supplement, 157;
Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991).
8. Glueck, Das Wort þesed, 20.
9. Ibid.
10. Ibid., 34.
 Kings and clients 207

friendship as part of the system, and the second to the demand of respect for the
patron. A number of Hebrew expressions are close at hand, but I will only refer
to that of ‘knowing God’, expressed by the Hebrew verb ‫ידע‬,11 and, of course
and above all, the ‘fear of God’, ‫יראת אלהים‬.
When we direct our attention to the common function of these terms, our
attention is directed to the concept of covenant. As already explained by Glueck,
the establishment of ‫ חסד‬can be effec­tuated by a ceremony, which includes a
solemn oath. When two parties decide to establish such a relationship, what
is more natural than to conclude it formally in some kind of ceremony? As
soon as we speak of an agreement of this kind, combined with such symbols
as the pronouncing of oaths and claims, we are in the middle of a discussion
on the concept of covenant. It is no accident that during the 1960s, when the
discussion about the role of the covenant in ancient Israel reached its highest,
numerous technical terms and ideas relevant to the present argument, including
those mentioned above, were central to the debate. The discussion of patron-
age may thus stimulate a renewed interest in the importance of the covenant
concept among ancient Israelites. This enquiry can, however, now be kept on
a more realistic level than previously. The old debate closed in 1969 when
Lothar Perlitt published his study of ‘Bundestheologie’, which he identified as
Deuteronomistic.12 By and large, he was correct. In most places in the Hebrew
Bible, where we find the specific expressions of the divine covenant, they are
doubtlessly either Deuteronomistic or inspired by Deuteronomistic concepts.
How­ever, this Deuteronomistic theology is only con­nected in a limited way
to the Hebrew term ‫ברית‬, which is certainly a solemn technical expression for
‘covenant’. The debate has overlooked that this term may not be exclusive, to
the extent that all kinds of covenants must perforce include it. Other terms may
be sufficient as expressions of the essence of the covenant relationship, whether
between the divine and the human world or among human beings alone.
At this point, we can leave the basic question of whether or not ‫ חסד‬expresses
the essentials of the patronage system. The next step involves a broader view of
the old covenant discussion. Generally, ancient Near Eastern documents touch-
ing on the concept of covenant concern two different types of arrangement:
on the one hand, pacts that regulate the connection between persons of equal
standing, and, on the other, agreements that include persons on different levels.
As patronage explicitly belongs in the second category, this will be the more
promising subject to discuss in the present connection.
In 1955 when George Mendenhall started the discussion on covenant ideas,
he referred to parallels to the biblical concept found in Hittite international
­treaties of the second millennium bce, and rightly so, as such treaties – mostly
vassal treaties binding vassals in Syria or Asia Minor to their Hittite overlord
– can be considered expressions of the basic notions attached to the system of

11. See also Herbert B. Huffmonn, ‘The Treaty Background of Hebrew Yāda‛’, BASOR 181
(1966), 31–7.
12. Lothar Perlitt, Bundestheologie im Alten Testament (WMANT 36; Neukirchen:
Neukirchener Verlag, 1969).
208 Biblical studies and the failure of history

patronage.13 So considered, there can be no doubt that such a system existed,

at least between states of unequal standing. In formulating such covenants,
the patron, as king of H atti, imposed his will on the vassal, who for all future
� his personal retainers, to appear before his lord every
time was bound, among
year and to swear loyalty to his overlord. The vassal was obliged to perform a
number of ceremonies that expressed comparable notions.
In this way, the vassal treaties of H atti contained all the above-mentioned
�
elements. They firmly established a patronage relationship between local kings
and the great king himself. Such treaties can be considered arrangements that
curtailed the aspirations of the vassal. At the same time, they acted as guarantee
for the survival of the vassal and his family. It is well known to most Orientalists
that the Hittite System survived the fall of H atti. Much the same treaty system
also flourished in the first millennium bce, �not the least in areas governed by
Assur.14 There is no reason to assume that it would have been unknown to the
kings of the two petty states of Israel and Judah.15 Nor should we assume that
allusions to such a system in the Hebrew Bible should necessarily relate to the
Hittite evidence except in sharing its concepts. Mendenhall was certainly both
right and wrong.
The Hittites did not invent the system of patronage, which, in such a form,
existed, presumably, only at the highest levels and regulated affairs between
states. Rather, they elaborated upon a system that was already wide­spread and
well known. This cannot be inferred from the Hittite treaties themselves, but
becomes evident when surveying documents from other parts of the Near East,
which did not belong to the Hittite empire in the Late Bronze Age. The Amarna
letters, originating in the Egyptian sphere, are of special interest in this regard.
More than twenty-five years ago, in a marvellous article dealing with the
differences between the political ideas of Egypt and the political habits of its
provinces in Asia, Mario Liverani demonstrated how this dif­ference had been
the cause of many misunderstandings between the Egyptian administration and
their Palestinian and Syrian subordinates.16 It is clear that the local Palestinian

13. George E. Mendenhal, Law and Covenant in Israel and the Ancient Near East (Pittsburgh,
PA: The Biblical Colloquium, 1955).
14. The Assyrian treaties are now available in Parpola, Simo and Kazuko Watanabe, Neo-
Assyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths (State Archives of Assyria; Helsinki: Helsinki
University Press, 1988).
15. In fact, the terrible fate of Zedekiah, contrasting with the lenient treatment of Jehoiachin,
may be a consequence of what was likely to happen when a Judean king deserted his
overlord. While Nebuchadnezzar merely confined Jehoiachin to a ‘golden prison’ in
Babylon, Zedekiah was treated by the same Babylonian king in the harshest possible
fashion. In contrast to Zedekiah, Jehoiachin was no vassal of Babylon, having been
installed by the Egyptian king, whereas Zedekiah had been placed on the throne by the
very king who was later to dispose of him. Nebuchadnezzar, therefore, had no legal
rights to punish Jehoiachin and he certainly treated him in a most gentle way – con-
sidering the manners of the time – whereas he may have felt it quite correct to destroy
Zedekiah, who had betrayed him.
16. Mario Liverani, ‘Contrasti e confluence di concezioni politiche nell’età di El-Amarna’,
RA 61 (1967), 1–18.
 Kings and clients 209

kings all considered the relationship between themselves and their overlord,
Pharaoh, to be a form of patronage: they being the clients and Pharaoh the
patron. They expected Pharaoh to protect them once they paid their dues. It is,
however, also clear that the Egyptian ruler had another idea of their relationship:
the Palestinian princelets were mere low-ranking Egyptian bureaucrats and were
treated as such – that is, they were employees who needed to fulfil their duties
and would receive compensation accordingly, a compensation quite different in
kind than what was usual in a West Asiatic patronage system, where the patron
owed his loyal client a recompense. It is impossible in the present context to
continue much further along this line. However, I believe that I have formulated
a theory of one of the governing ideas of political life – and perhaps, indeed,
the central one: the relationship between client and patron. If this system was in
force in Palestine in the first millennium bce – and I believe that a fairly strong
case in favour of such a suggestion can be made – the relationship between the
kings of Israel and Judah and their subjects must have been regulated along
such lines, as the kings were patrons of their state, whereas commoners acted as
their clients, from whom the kings were entitled to expect and demand absolute
loyalty, but to whom they also needed to give recompense for their services.
A number of ideological matters concerning the status of the king point in
the same direction, not the least being the notion of the ‘just king’ who had his
place at the city gate, where he distributed justice among his people. Although
this is rather impractical for the ruler of a state, it belongs to the image of the
just king in Israel and elsewhere in the ancient Near East. Supporting this ideal
of the king as high judge, acting as personal patron of every single citizen of
the state, seeking help in critical situations, is the peculiar fact that no laws
have ever been uncovered in Israel, other than the clearly non-royal sections of
the Book of the Covenant in Exodus, with all its Near Eastern parallels. It is,
indeed, strange that no written law has ever appeared in the archives of a city in
Western Asia, not even from the highly centralized states of the Bronze Age.17
The reason for this is obviously that no one could force patrons to act against
their own judgement. The patron was, in this respect, surely a despot in Marx’s
meaning of the word and the system may be called despotic because the rulers
were the only people who had the ability to make final indisputable decisions.
At the same time, it was believed that the good ruler would act as a just arbiter
between his subjects. This faith was rooted in the understanding that the king
of Israel, like his colleagues in other parts of the ancient Near East, was a client
himself, not necessarily the client of some great king (although this was often
the case), but always the client of the God of Israel. It is a well-established
fact that from at least the days of the Amorite dynasties, at the beginning of
the ­second ­millennium bce, this notion formed a central part of royal ideology
both in the Levant and Mesopotamia, but not in Egypt, where the king was
believed to be the god himself. The god – whoever he might have been – was
the personal patron of the king and royal family. The deity did not accept such

17. See also Gerhard Liedke, Gestalt und Bezeichnung alttestamentlicher Rechtssätze
(WMANT 39; Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1971), 57.
210 Biblical studies and the failure of history

obligation for nothing. On the contrary, the king was forever in his god’s debt
and needed to fulfil duties imposed upon him by his patron. Such a relationship
between god and king was a covenant relationship – echoing that described in
the Hebrew Bible, where we find ample evidence that such a royal covenant
must have formed the basis of the Davidic dynasty’s claim to be the rightful
royal family of Judah and Israel. There is no reason to elaborate further. It is
enough to maintain that this relationship between king and god is the reverse of
a normal relation between king and subjects. The clearest example of the inter-
changeability of such roles, is perhaps the description of the royal covenant in
2 Kings 11:17, which concludes the story of Athaliah’s reign. According to this
narrative, the high priest Jehoiada made a covenant between YHWH and the
king and between the king and the Judean nation.
What happened when the patronage system failed to operate according to
expectations? We have no hard evidence of a commoner’s reaction against the
king in such circumstances, although the Deuteronomistic history contains a
number of passages that open to this question, such as the story of Naboth’s
vineyard (1 Kgs 21) or of the confiscation of grazing land for the royal horses
in a time of famine (1 Kgs 18:3-6). A just king does not react in this way and
the complaints against the king are in these stories very severe. However, Psalm
89 represents a much more vivid example of the reaction of the client when
the patron–client relationship breaks down, though, here, the relationship is
between God and king. Without doubt, Psalm 89 provides a first-rate impression
of what may have been the usual reaction under such circumstances and there
is reason to pay special attention to the psalm’s use of the Hebrew word ‫חסד‬.
Indeed, ‫ חסד‬may be considered the dominant issue of the psalm, from the very
first word of the psalm’s text to its closure. At the beginning, the divine ‫ חסד‬has
been established in heaven as an everlasting quality, on which basis the cov-
enant between YHWH and David was concluded. The hymn that follows (vv.
6-19; English: 5-18) merely stresses that ‫ חסד‬is a creation of the divine being
and, as such, should forever be considered an established fact. The plot engaged,
however, is that God, the patron, has deserted his client, who had done him no
harm and had neither broken his oath nor covenant. The hope for the future is
that the correct relationship will someday be re-established, thereby securing
the right of David’s dynasty to sit on the throne of Israel. I cannot say whether,
in ancient belief, the normal expressions of patronage were also considered as
founded in heaven; but such a likelihood can be argued since kingship, as the
Babylonians expressed it, was established in heaven and justice was a matter
for the gods. Be this as it may, the best conclusion to the present discus­sion
might be drawn from the famous words of Hammurabi of Babylon, who, in the
�
prologue to his codex, states:18

18. ANET 164, translation by Theophile J. Meek.

 Kings and clients 211

When lofty Anum, king of the Annunaki,

[and] Enlil, lord of heaven and earth,
the determiner of the destinies of the land,
determined for Marduk, the first-born of Enki,
the Enlil functions over all mankind,
made him great among the Igigi,
called Babylon by its exalted name,
made it supreme in the world,
established for him in its midst an enduring kingship,
whose foundations are as firm as heaven and earth –
at that time Anum and Enlil named me
to promote the welfare of the people,
me Hammurabi, the devout, god-fearing prince,
�
to cause justice to prevail in the land,
To destroy the wicked and the evil,
that the strong might not oppress the weak,
to rise like the sun over the black-headed [people],
and to light up the land.
 13

Justice in western Asia in antiquity,

or why no laws were needed!
1995

Law seems to play a great role in the Old Testament. The central part of the
Pentateuch, the five Books of Moses, consists of several collec­tions of law mate-
rial, among which we could mention the Book of the Covenant, Exodus 21:23,
and the so-called Holiness Code, Leviticus 17–26. Also in Deuteronomy, the
fifth Book of Moses, we find an­other extensive collection of laws, from Chapter
12 to 26. How on earth can any person be induced to believe that no laws were
needed? A close look at the laws of the Old Testament, however, immediately
changes that perception, as it becomes clear that only a limited part of the laws
are laws in any normal sense of the word. In the Book of the Covenant, only the
first part, Exodus 21:2–22:16, contains what are juridical laws; the second part
(Exod. 22:17–23:16) is devoted to religious rules and regulations. Or, as it has
often been maintained, the first part of the Book of the Covenant belongs in the
realm of jus, while the second part represents fas.
Whether this distinction is absolutely clear – or was clear to people in
Antiquity – may, of course, be questioned, but a fundamental difference of style
between the laws of the first part and the religious regulations of the second can-
not be disregarded. Apart from the very first law, that concerning the Hebrew
slave (Exod. 21:2-11), which opens with ‘When you purchase a Hebrew as a
slave’,1 the laws are all in the third person singular and all should, according to
normal usage, be styled simple casuistic laws. They open with a description of
the case, while the second segment prescribes consequences to be drawn. The
above-mentioned law of the Hebrew Slave continues: ‘he will be your slave for
six years’. At the end, a special stipulation is attached to the simple law: ‘in the
seventh year, he is to go free without paying any­thing’.
In comparison, most of the laws or rules of the second part are phrased in
the second person singular or plural, and their form is less uniform than in the
first part. Accordingly, we find casuistic law in this section, but more dominant
are so-called apodictic laws. No situation is specified, only a prohibition against
doing or accepting something. For example: ‘You must not revile God, nor curse

1. Which is, however, hardly the original formulation. Cf. Chapter 1, this volume, and the
literature quoted there.
 Justice in western Asia in antiquity 213

a chief of your own people’ (Exod. 22:28) – a style strictly related to the form
of the Ten Commandments.
The two other large collections already mentioned, the Holiness Code and
Deuteronomy, both contain religious regulations; Deuteronomy, however, also
has rules regulating the office of the king (Deut. 17:14-20), of the judge (Deut.
16:18-20; 17:8-13) and functions of the court (Deut. 19:14-21). These cannot,
however, be understood as laws in the strict sense, though Deuteronomy also
contains passages much closer in style and content to ordinary law, not least laws
– or rules and regulations, concern­ing marital life and norms (thus, Deut. 24).
In spite of this, it is my thesis that written law did not play any role in
Western Asia, and the presence of such legal material in the Old Testament
cannot be used in support of such a role. This can be supported by the fol-
lowing observations. First of all, it should be stressed that, apart from the Old
Testament, no laws have survived from ancient Palestine. This verdict should,
perhaps, be modified in one respect, as the ‘Temple Scroll’ found among the
Dead Sea Scrolls can be compared in many respects to the law collections of
the Pentateuch, especially the religious regulations. Various explanations have
been put forward to explain such similarity in style and content; the proposal
that the Tem­ple Scroll was composed as part of the canonical laws of Moses is
one of the more fanciful, though not totally unreasonable.2 We do not need to
present a reasonable and ex­haustive explanation for this, but only say that the
Temple Scroll and its laws should be evaluated alongside the religious regula-
tions of the Old Testament, rather than as an independent witness of a written
legal tradition in Western Asia.
Neither has any law yet turned up in the documents of Western Asia, either
in the form of single laws or as collections of laws. To the contrary, it is aston-
ishing that none of the rather ample archives of the Bronze Age Syrian states of
Ugarit and Alalah have con­tributed to our knowledge of written law in Western
� correctly, they have, indeed, contributed to our knowledge,
Asia. Perhaps more
but by indi­cating that such laws did not exist. It is our task to explain why this
was so, especially as it is obvious that these societies were not lawless bandit
societies.3 How could people survive in fairly complicated societies without
recourse to fixed rules, which could serve in disputes among the members of
these small Syrian and Palestinian states? That they were quarrelsome is evident
from reading their letters, local as well as international. Can the missing law
texts be attributed to a lack of archaeo­logical luck or is there another way to
explain such absence?
I believe that a case can be made for the suggestion that such absence does,
in fact, reflect a specific attitude to law present in such societies and that this

2. See, thus, Hartmut Stegemann, Is the Temple Scroll a Sixth Book of the Torah – Lost
for 2,500 Years?, in Hershel Shanks, Understanding the Dead Sea Scrolls (New York:
Vintage Books, 1993), 126–36.
3. Although it could certainly be argued that most bandit societies have laws of their own,
though such laws are not normally written down, but should, nevertheless, be followed
by the members of the society in question.
214 Biblical studies and the failure of history

attitude is also reflected by the content of what is pre­served as legal texts from
the ancient Near East.
In Mesopotamia, quite a few collections of law, mostly in casuistic style,
much like those in the Book of the Covenant, rang­ing from the beginning of
the second millennium bce (even earlier speci­mens may exist) and down to
Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian times. Among the best preserved are those
of Lipit-Ištar of Lagash (nineteenth century bce) and Hammurabi of Babylon
�
(eighteenth century bce), along with the anonymous law collection from Ešnunna
which is probably a little earlier than Hammurabi’s collection.4 Altogether, they
� important material and give indication
provide the student of ancient law with
of the principles of redaction behind these laws.
The famous Code of Hammurabi should particularly attract attention as it is
�
often described as a law code in use in the days of this important Mesopotamian
king. A number of topics are taken up and dealt with in these laws: simple
crimes, family matters, slave laws, etc. A certain – if not altogether conspicuous
– arrangement also seems to structure the compilation. Would anything suggest
that this collection could not have been the manual of a judge? I am not speaking
about the clearly propagandistic presenta­tion, partly pictorial and partly in the
prologue and epilogue to this collec­tion.
I think a double case can be made for not accepting this collec­tion as a genu-
ine collection of laws to be followed in court. The first ar­gument – indeed, an old
one5 – based on the long-established fact that among the thousands of juridical
documents from the time of this king, not a single definite reference to the laws
transmitted by the Codex can be found. Although this argument is certainly not
absolute, as it must be said to belong among the more taciturn of argumenta ex
silentio – it may be one of the instances where one is provoked to ask whether
the ‘ex silentio’ part simply comes from the nature of these questions. If the
basic assumption is wrong, that the Codex Hammurabi contained laws in the
modern sense of the word, then proving that �this was not the case by referring
to missing references to this law collection would hardly be enough. Some may
just argue that this only shows the limited extent of the influence of these laws

4. This law material is easily accessible in the recent edition by Martha T. Roth, Law
Collections from Mesopotamia and Asia Minor (2nd edn; Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press,
1997). Quotations from the Code of Hammurabi will follow Roth’s edition.
�
5. Basically, the one made by F. R. Kraus, ‘In zentrales Problem des altmesopotami­
schen Rechtes: Was ist der Codex Hammurabi?’ Genava NS 8 (1960), 283–96. A more
recent general discussion of the character of the code of Hammurabi is to be found
�
in Horst Klengel, König Hammurabi und der Alltag Babylons (2nd edn; Darmstadt:
Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1992), 184–264. See also the recent discussion
in Eckart Otto, ‘Aspects of Legal Reforms and Reformulations in An­cient Cuneiform
and Israelite Law,’ in B. M. Levinson, Theory and Method in Biblical and Cuneiform
Law (JSOT supplement, 181: Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), 160–96,
and especially the summary in Johannes Renger, ‘Noch einmal: Was war der ‘Kodex’
Hammurapi – ein erlassenes Gesetz oder ein rechtsbuch?’, in Hans-Joachim Gehrke,
Rectskodifizierung und soziale Normen im interkulturellen Vergleich (Tübingen: Gunter
Narr Verlag 1994), 27–58. Cf. also the Introduction in Roth, Law Collections, 4–7.
 Justice in western Asia in antiquity 215

on actual jurisprudence in Hammurabi’s time. It could be argued that the Codex

�
could be compared not to modern comprehensive collections, valid for countries
and states as such, but rather to an example of European local law collections of
the Middle Ages, such as the ‘law of Jutland’ in my own country’.6
This counter-argument is, however, neutralized by a reference to the tra­dition
of issuing such collections of law in Mesopotamia, as we should at least expect
some reference to a collection, which need not be Hammurabi’s. If this is not
the case, and I have no knowledge of such references,� it would probably be best
to adhere to the viewpoint of F. R. Kraus, that these laws are not laws but deci-
sion of the court, if not sim­ply ‘wisdom’ literature, a form of academic tradition
collected by the king to prove his claim as the just king.
The second argument for such an understanding of codes from Meso­po­tamia
could be the limited number of laws which they contain. This is not a very
strong argument as it could easily be answered by referring to the fact that even
Mesopotamian society was fairly basic compared to modern times. A ‘simple’
society, mostly agricultural,7 will need uncomplicated laws and we should not
be sur­prised at the limited extent and scope of even a fairly large collection of
such laws as are found in the Code of Hammurabi. While this is certainly true,
it does not address the actual content of� the laws, where, indeed, something is
missing, were they to provide juridical guidelines.
A casual glimpse at the beginning of the laws of Hammurabi indicates why
� man and charges him
this is so. The first law states: ‘If a man accuses another
with homicide, but cannot bring proof against him, his ac­cuser shall be killed.’
This is understandable, as false accusations and false witnesses are surely fac-
tors which any court must know how to deal with and defend against. As a
matter of fact, this paragraph intro­duces a small section devoted to false accu-
sations, partly such that lead to capital punishment, and partly such with less
se­vere consequences for the offender. At least one law is miss­ing, however. The
Codex does not say what is to happen to a person who has killed another person,
as any decent collection of laws would. Why? Probably because every judge of
the Kingdom of Hammurabi knew in advance how to deal with a simple murder;
� guidance from a written law. The murderer would have to
he had no need for
be put to death or so a ‘law’ – the accepted general opinion of that time – would
tell the judge.8

6. A royal decree of justice issued at the beginning of the thirteenth century ce, and only
valid for a limited part of the Kingdom of Denmark, whereas, at the same time, compa-
rable collections of law were issued to be valid in other parts of the kingdom. In fact,
Denmark was not to have a common law valid for the whole country before the end of
the seventeenth century ce, King Christian V’s so-called ‘Danske Lov’ (Danish Law, or
rather: The Law of Denmark).
7. This should be understood literally. Traditional societies of the Middle East will have had
more than 90 per cent of the population engaged in the production of food. In Western
Asia, the percentage would be even higher.
8. We shall later deal with examples from social anthropological literature where this may
not be as simple as that.
216 Biblical studies and the failure of history

If I am correct in maintaining this, I may also indicate that we hereby obtain

an impression of how legal tradition functioned in Mesopotamia. The judges
of that society must have had some source of knowledge of how to judge. This
would either be written tradition, such as the law codes – but we have just
concluded that such codes did not play an advisory role to the courts of ancient
Mesopota­mia – or unwritten legal tradition. A third possibility is that future
judges were trained in written law, much as in modern law schools, and that the
tradition of law codes originated in the demand of the edu­cational system for
‘school textbooks’.9

Western Asia

I am not going to continue with the Mesopotamian situation, but will in­stead
turn my attention to the situation in western Asia. Because the so­cietal situation
in western Asia was less complicated than that pre­sent in Mesopotamia, it may
be better able to tell us something about the general conditions of the enactment
of justice in ancient Near Eastern societies.
On one very specific point, there was absolutely agreement between the ide-
ology of justice in western Asia and Mesopotamia. Both traditions understood
the king to be a righteous and just judge who was considered the highest institu-
tion of appeal to all subjects: the one who would distribute law and righteous-
ness.10 This, of course, is part of royal propaganda as found in any corner of the
ter­ritory and is, in itself, not very interesting as nobody would imagine the king
to be unjust. It is only in the very late biblical account of the Hebrew kingdom
that a pronounced criticism of the king as right­eous can be found in the intro-
duction to the period of the kingdom in 1 Samuel 8:10-18, according to which
it should not be expected that the king will act as a just father of his country. To
the contrary, the king re­serves to himself the right of taxation and will force his
subjects – men and women alike – to work for him.
This evaluation of the king’s role can only be understood as a pro­logue to
the highly tendentious description of the history of the Hebrew kingdom that
follows from 1 Samuel to 2 Kings, and runs counter to another description of the
right of the king in Deuteronomy 17:14-20, which could be considered to coun-
terbalance 1 Samuel 8:10-18. On the other hand, expectations are pronounced
in some Psalms of the Old Testament, especially Psalm 72, of the righteous rule
of the king, according to which God shall give his laws to the king that the king
may provide for the welfare of his people:

God, endow the king with your own justice,

his royal person with your righteousness,

9. Cf. on this Otto, ‘Aspects of Legal Reforms’, 62f. (includ­ing literature).

10. On the notion of the righteous king especially in the Old Testament, see among other
studies Keith. W. Whitelam, The Just King: Monarchical Authority in Ancient Israel
(JSOT supplement, 12, Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1979).
 Justice in western Asia in antiquity 217

that he may govern your people rightly

and deal justly with your oppressed ones.
May hills and mountains provide your people
with prosperity in righteousness.
May he give judgment for the oppressed among the people
and help the needy;
may he crush the oppressor.
(Ps. 72:1-4)11

The parallel between these verses and the prologue to the Code of Hammurabi
� used as
is striking and shows that the idea of a human law, written down and
a guide by the judge in court, was foreign to the mind of the population of the
ancient Near East. Justice was divine business given to man from the gods and
effectuated by their representative on earth, the gracious king. A human law
would border on blasphemy (i.e. to formulate a written law as sub­stitute of the
divine one would encroach on the pre­rogatives of the gods). What is written are
the practical interpretations of divine law, showing that its principles have or
will be followed.
A just king is not a very practical figure in daily life and the ideology of the
just king may be a kind of social myth explaining why it should be expected
that the enactment of law and order is per definition just and righteous, rather
than an explanation of the social placement of justice in an ancient society of
western Asia. The ideology of the righteous king not only legitimates king-
ship as such, but also the practice of law, regardless at what societal level the
practice is sought. The king is almost never part of an ordinary court case, these
being, rather, referred to in the administra­tive documents from Ugarit or in the
traditions of the Old Testament. Not even his administration seems to interfere
in the decisions of the court, if the case in question can be handled on a lower
– local – level.
It is true that in the Old Testament we have a story like the one in 1 Kings
3:16-28 which narrates the famous incident of the two women fighting for one
and the same child. The story is obviously not a reflection of any decision by
Solomon but stresses the importance of the king as – ideologically – the just
ruler. The concluding note to this incident is as follows: ‘When Israel heard the
judgment which the king had given, they all stood in awe of him; for they saw
that he possessed wisdom from God for administering justice.’ The king relies
on his godly overlord to provide him with the means of judging correctly.
Apart from such romances as the one in 1 Kings 3:16-28, most reflec­tions
of the practice of law in the Old Testament point to the fact that this was local
business and not the business of the royal court. To study the background of the
missing written laws from western Asia – and probably also Mesopotamia – we
should turn to the local level of society to investigate the conditions of law,
knowing well that outside the Old Testament very little if anything is re­vealed

11. Biblical quotations are here from The Revised English Bible.
218 Biblical studies and the failure of history

by administrative documents, mostly from royal admini­strations and reflecting

relations between the palace and the lo­cal community, whereas cases limited
to the interests of the local community never involved the palace if they, for
example, could be settled among the inhabitants of a certain village.12 The bib-
lical informa­tion is of a different kind, partly because it is not official, coming
from some state archive, and partly because they are narrative reflections on the
practice of law and order on the local level, and as such distort or mould the
evidence of real life according to the needs of the biblical writers themselves.
When this limitation of the biblical material is taken into consid­eration, the Old
Testament has probably a lot more to tell about locally administered justice
than the official documents of the ancient Near Eastern states. It also sometimes
provides what may be understood as a commentary on rules expressed in other
Near Eastern sources.
The above mentioned ‘law’ of Hammurabi, the Codex Hammurabi §1, the
� � in Deuteronomy
one about false accusations for murder, finds its commentary
19:16-19:

When a malicious witness comes forward to accuse a person of a crime, the

two parties to the dispute must appear in the pres­ence of the Lord, before
the priest or the judges then in office; if, after a careful examination by the
judges, he is proved to be a false witness giving false evidence against his
fellow, treat him as he intended to treat his fellow. You must rid yourselves
of this wickedness.

Although the text probably expresses the opinion of some Jew of the Persian
or Helle­nistic periods,13 there is, in fact, no reason to see the reference to the
evil and wickedness as a foreign element to the understanding of a text like that
found in the code of Hammurabi. Without this original distinction be­tween good
and evil, oriental law� would have lacked legitimation, whether in the Israel of
the Old Testament14 or in the historical societies of Syria or Mesopotamia.

12. On this, including the status of law and justice in the relations between the palace and
local community in Western Asia, see especially a series of studies by Mario Liverani,
‘La royaté syrienne de l’age du Bronze Récent,’ in P. Garelli, Le Palais et la royauté
(Paris: Geuthner, 1974), 329–56; ‘Communautés de village et palais royales dans la
Syrie du IIème millénaire,’ Journal for the Economic and Social History of the Orient 8
(1975), 146–64; and ‘Communautés rurales dans la Syrie du IIe millénaire a.C.,’ Recuils
de la Société Jean Bodin pour l’histoire comparatives des institutions 41 (1983), 147–85.
13. Cf. on this below.
14. This is not the place to discuss this ‘Israel’. It will suffice to say that a number of Old
Testament scholars today distinguish between different Israels’: The historical Israel
(i.e. the state called Israel, alias Bit Humriya or Samarina, which existed in central and
northern Palestine between, say, 950bce and 720bce), the biblical Israel (i.e. the Israel
as narrated by the Old Testament) and ancient Israel (i.e. the concoction of the histori-
cal and the biblical Israel which has been created by biblical scholars). Cf. further on
this distinction, Philip R. Davies, In Search of ‘Ancient Israel’ (JSOT supplement, 148;
Sheffield: Sheffield University Press, 1992).
 Justice in western Asia in antiquity 219

The code may also contain valuable information regarding the importance
of wit­nesses, when it is prescribed in Deuteronomy 19:14-15 that no case can
be de­cided on the evidence of a single witness; at least two or three are needed.
This case deals with a murder, committed in the countryside, though the mur-
derer cannot be found. Deuteronomy 21:1-9, which prescribes a special ritual
to cleanse the inhabitants of the village closest to the place of the crime, also
belongs in this category.
In looking for the social foundation of the distribution of law and justice on
the basic level of society, an explanation can be found for the missing written
legal tradition. It is a stereotype in biblical scholarship that although judges
were offi­cially appointed (by whom?), there was no official police force to
secure the enactment of a court decision. Neither did an official body exist
which safeguarded the interests of the poor and destitute. Finally, but not least,
access to court was limited to full citizens. No case was brought before a judge
on behalf of the society or state. Such a thing as ‘The State of California against
O. J. Simpson’ would be unheard of. The state did not interfere in the lives and
whereabouts of the ordinary man; it did not protect its unfortunate citizens from
being mal­treated or mishandled by more affluent members of the society. It is
therefore that the pages of the Old Testament abound with admonitions that the
rich should care for the poor and that judges should not accept or be offered
bribes. At times, the scholarly reconstruction of justice resembles a scene from
Hans Christian Andersen (or his Californian ‘translator’, Walt Disney). We are
confronted by a small-scale society where the judge – once appointed by the
king, his master – resides in court as an independent member of the local soci-
ety, as he is paid by his superior officers of the state administration and does not
have to think of his daily outcome as member of the local society in which he
is active. Before him, people of all sorts – or their representatives – will bring
their case aspir­ing for a fair and just decision made by this independent member
of the court.
This picture has hardly anything to do with the actual distri­bution of law in
an ancient oriental society. And, again, the explanation is that the royal adminis-
tration would not have any interest in in­terfering in local business if it were not
for tax issues or other cases, where its own interests are at stake. Why should
the royal court be in­terested in a simple murder if one destitute peasant had
killed an­other? It would have been an unrewarding enterprise for the officers of
the royal court and would have been understood by the local commu­nity as an
encroachment on its right to direct its own affairs.
If the usual way to proceed is to describe the forces which were operative
in such a society, where are we to look for the decisive institutions of such a
society: in the family or elsewhere? Let’s start with the family, because here we
are confronted with an­other stereotype of orientalist scholarship, according to
which the most important part of the socio-political structure on the local level
– that under the official level of the state – would be the family. It is suggested,
accordingly, that law and justice at the local level is a matter of a ‘family-
oriented’ society. This is, however, a loose definition, as the term ‘family’ is,
indeed, loose. In itself, it says little about the real centre of power in small-scale
220 Biblical studies and the failure of history

societies. We need to look for such centres where we find the founda­tion of the
administration of law and order. The term ‘family’ is, however, rather meaning-
less. What is intended by the term: the nuclear family or a greater entity? This
is not a reflection on oriental usage, but rather demonstrates how imprecise the
traditional orientalist expresses him or herself. The traditional oriental family
is – contrary to general opin­ion – not very large. According to social anthro-
pologists currently working, the family was between 4.5 and 7 persons and we
have indications that the average nuclear family in the ancient Near East may
not have exceeded the up­per limit.15 It is obvious that such a tiny group will not
represent any kind of power or economic and juridical security. The family, as
such, is much too weak for this. The nuclear family is, technically speaking, a
resi­dence group – people living together – but it is not economically, politi­cally
or juridically autonomous. It cannot guarantee the welfare of its members but
must leave this to a higher level of integration, such as the clan or lineage, two
concepts which have often been misun­derstood.16
A lineage is often considered by anthropologists to be the important polit-
ical and economic group in traditional Middle Eastern society – although it
says something about the level of sociological understanding among profes-
sional orientalists that we most often must look in vain for this term in modern
treatments of ancient Near Eastern societies. ‘Lineage’, however, is essentially
equivalent to the much less precise term extended family, supposedly consisting
of as many as twenty or more persons.17 A limited number of nuclear families
normally form a lineage and it is headed not so much by a chosen leader as by
some family member who, because of prestige, is considered the head of his
lineage.
It has often been described how the lineage be­comes important in juridi-
cal matters since it is reckoned to be the level on which such mat­ters can be
decided without the interference by state officials. The extent of the authority
of the lineage in this respect is, on the other hand, amazing and might include
even capital crimes.
Even murder may be resolved by the lineage. It is interesting that, in tradi-
tional Middle Eastern society, the saying in the Qur’an would normally be cited

15. Cf. Niels Peter Lemche, Early Israel: Anthropological and Historical Studies on the
Israelite Society before the Monarchy (VT supplement, 37; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1985),
231–32. In general, the description of the traditional oriental family-structured society
will follow what has already been said in this volume, especially 202–44.
16. The lineage, according to the popular anthropological definition, is a kinship group,
consisting of relatives with a fair knowledge of how the single members of the lineage
are attached to it. The genealogy of the lineage should therefore be clear to all genuine
members of one and the same lineage. A clan, by contrast, is also considered a group
based on the notion of kinship. However, the single members of the clan may not know
in detail how they relate to the clan itself, or how other members of their clan relate to
it. Personally, I never found this explanation of the difference very useful, as it seems to
indicate either good or bad memory, rather than a completely different organization, as
the criterion for making the distinction.
17. Stereotypes describing up to 100 persons are more fantasy than reality.
 Justice in western Asia in antiquity 221

to indicate that the murderer should die. This rule is accepted but not practised
in many places, as every­one can see that such a demand could easily lead to
blood vengeance and destructive vendettas. Instead, according to the testimony
of an­thropologists, even such serious cases are solved at the level of the local
society in order to avoid that the society itself should be fractured be­cause of
the criminal acts of one of its members.18
In reality, this would imply – according to such authorities – that in case of
manslaughter, the leaders of the lineages involved will meet in the house of
some chosen arbiter, acknowledged by both line­ages, in order to settle the mat-
ter. The claim would be that the murderer should die (or a close male relative
of his) in order to re-establish the bro­ken balance between lineages, belonging
to one and the same village. That two persons should die is, however, from the
perspective of the village, an undesirable consequence, so another solution must
be found. Therefore, negotiations start in an effort to establish the value of the
deceased and the amount of compensation to be paid by the offender’s lineage.
In general, or so we are induced to believe, such a solution will be found, after
which the tranquillity of the village is re-established.
Anthropologists are not specialists in law, and their descrip­tion of how the
juridical system works in traditional societies may lack detail and precision.
However, their indications are that such societies have no use of a written law.
In general, people know what is going to happen to a murderer and that there is
no need to have this in writing. On the other hand, the demands of the ‘unwrit-
ten law’ may only occasionally be fol­lowed, which indicates that the unwritten
law, in this case, is best considered a ‘metaphor’ rather than a practical guideline
for how to act.
If even a murder be solved without resort to anything written, most juridical
cases would also be solved in the same fashion. In traditional Middle Eastern
society, it is likely that it was uncommon that state authorities should be involved
in local affairs if public interest was not directly involved. Furthermore, the
stable character of such local communities makes it absolutely unnecessary to
introduce changes to what may have been a very simple unwritten law code,
consisting of just a few practical guidelines, which would not be followed slav-
ishly, but indicated a minimal level of compen­sation.
We have, here, found the background of the missing written laws of west-
ern Asia in ancient times. On the local village level, where the majority of the
population should be sought, no written law was ever needed. Life was simple
and so were the basic rules of soci­ety. The lack of written prescriptions for how
to behave when even a se­vere crime was committed was not a hindrance to the
enact­ment of a form of retribution, whether this consisted of direct punishment
or resulted in compensation paid by the lineage.

18. Emrys Peters, in his article ‘Aspects of the Family Among the Bedouin of Cyrenaica’,
in Meyer F. Nimkoff, Comparative Family Systems (Boston: Houghton-Mifflin, 1965),
121–46, has described the devastating effects when such mediating forces are not at
work.
222 Biblical studies and the failure of history

A hypothesis like this suffices to explain the character of the administra-

tion of justice among 90 to 95 per cent of the population of an ancient state.
However, was this the only explanation or should it be broadened, and – finally
– is it true that the lineage is to be considered the decisive level for the distribu-
tion of justice? How, for ex­ample, would such a system guarantee the welfare
of the orphan, the widow and the poor, as are so often mentioned in juridical
language, not only of the ancient Near East – Mesopotamian as well as western
Asia – but also in the Old Testament?19
Against a too positive evaluation of the importance of the lineage, a couple
of observations should be called upon. It should be stressed, first of all, that,
generally speaking, the lineage does not care for the economic welfare of its
members. It is an astonishing fact, often referred to, that poor lineage members
normally find only very limited sup­port among their relatives.20 Second, lineage
members may not live to­gether. It is, accordingly, not unusual to observe that
the members of one and the same lineage are distributed among more than a
single village and segments of the same lineage may dwell in different villages
belonging to the same region. It is even known that such segments do not share
the same occupations: some may be nomadic, others peasants. Nevertheless,
from a genealogical point of view, they are members of the same lineage. Other
examples indicate a distribution of a lineage in a single village, in which case
the lineage seems to be segmented in differ­ent parts of the village.

Patronage

Such observations indicate that another power system may be operative in these
societies, a power system that does not necessarily follow lines of kinship or, in
which, kinship may be more a metaphor than a reflection of the realities of the
people embraced by this ideology.
Many years ago a note in a study on a Lebanese village community by the
well-known American social anthropologist John Gulick struck me as impor-
tant. After having explained the social structure of his village, he had to confess
that al­though it should be supposed that this social structure would also mark
the power structure in this village, there were indications, which were not to be
overlooked, that the real power structure was different from the social struc-
ture. He was, however, unable to trace the details.21 It seems likely to me that
Gulick was blocked from doing further ob­servations by the infamous omertà, an

19. Cf. on this ‘triad’ F. C. Fensham, ‘Widow, Orphan and the Poor in Ancient Near Eastern
Legal and Wisdom Literature,’ JNES 21 (1962), 129–39.
20. The late Jacob Black-Michaud dealt with aspects of this issue in his very per­ceptive
contribution, ‘Tyranny as a strategy for survival in an “egalitarian” society: Lurid facts
versus an anthropological mystique’, Man NS 7 (1972), 614–34.
21. John Gulick, Social Structure and Cultural Change in a Lebanese Village (Viking
Fund Publications in Anthropology 21; New York: Wenner-Gren Foundation for
Anthropological Research, 1955), 131.
 Justice in western Asia in antiquity 223

expression well known from Sic­ily, meaning – according to Cassell’s Italian–

English Dictionary – ‘con­nivance’. My Italian–Danish dictionary has it as
‘solidarity between criminals’. However, it is a well-known mafia expression
often translated as ‘the obligation not to talk’, meaning that the members of a
certain ‘fam­ily’ should not disclose the secrets of their organization to outsid-
ers. The mafia, of course, is a criminal organization; but, nevertheless, it is well
known that, in its present form, it is also the result of a special socio-political
development which took place in Sicily over the last two centuries. Before the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, its basis was already present but had not yet
developed modern criminal tendencies. The system developed out of what has
sometimes been termed the ‘Mediter­ranean social system’, according to which
the population is divided between patrons and clients. The system seems almost
omni­present in the Mediterranean world, reaching from the Middle East and
through North Africa, embracing (of course) Italy, the islands of Sicily, Sardinia,
Corsica and even France (at least before the Revolu­tion of 1789).22
Indeed, it seems almost omnipresent and should be looked for, according to
the definition of the sociologist S. N. Eisen­stadt, in societies which are no more
simple tribal societies but embryonic states with but a rudiment of bureaucra-
cy.23 In fact, bureaucracy is described as the enemy of the system. Wherever a
well-func­tioning bureaucracy appears, with officials who cannot be bribed, as is
the case, if nowhere else, in Northern Europe, including all of the Scandinavian
countries, this alternative power system seems either to disappear or to lose its
importance.
To be brief, we are speaking of the patronage system as perhaps the most
important power structure in traditional Middle Eastern society. The basis of the
system is the fundamental division of the popu­lation in such societies between
a wealthy and independent segment, the ‘patrons’ and a far larger, poor and
destitute segment, the ‘clients’. In pre-industrialized times, a third class never
existed (i.e. an influential class of bureaucrats running the society on behalf of
their king).24

22. The classic collection of studies was published by Ernest Gellner and John Waterbury,
Patrons and Clients in Mediterranean Societies (New York and London: Duckworth,
1977). Another relevant collection would be Julian Pitt-Rivers, Mediterranean
Countrymen. Essays in the Social Anthropology of the Mediterranean (Récherches
Méditerranéennes. Études I; Paris: Mouton, 1963).
23. Smuel N. Eisenstadt and Luis Roniger, Patrons, Clients and Friends (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1984).
24. Although this may be questioned as far as the Hellenistic-Roman period is concerned, as
in the enormous cities of that time, such a segment must, of course, have been present. Its
importance may, however, have been restricted to the Greek-speaking cities of the Near
East, whereas in the countryside, still mostly unfamiliar with Greek, this class could
easily have acted as local patrons. Parallels from modern Syria are well known, where,
for example, rich people from Aleppo may turn out as the local patrons in villages in the
countryside. Cf. Louise E. Sweet, Tell Toqaan. A Syrian Village (Anthropological Papers,
no 14; Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan, 1960), and the commented review in
my Early Israel, 171–3. It should, on the other hand, not be overlooked that the practi-
224 Biblical studies and the failure of history

It may be premature to present the full lay-out of such a system, the presence
of which is almost uniformly overlooked,25 although the con­cept of patronage
has begun to gain importance especially in biblical studies in recent times.26 The
basic problem for the poor is simply to survive in an inhospitable environment.
In general, the Middle East is un­kind to its inhabitants. Only comparatively
small stretches of land are suitable for agriculture, and rainfall is always haphaz-
ard. Droughts are common and leave ordinary man almost defenceless in times
of stress. In spite of the official propaganda of ancient times, no ‘Scandinavian’
wel­fare system ever existed. If one belonged to the hapless group of ordinary
beings, how does one survive in a time of crisis?
As already mentioned, the support to be drawn from family mem­bers –
and here the nuclear family is unimportant – (i.e. from the lineage) is hardly
enough to save a person from servitude, well known for being the ultimate
way of saving one’s life in Antiquity.27 Turning to some ‘benevolent’ person
might be necessary if the poor person wanted to survive. It is, therefore, my
thesis that the ancient societies of western Asia were, in fact, patronage socie-
ties and that patronage played an ex­tremely important (though not exclusive)
role in maintaining the welfare of the inhabitants of this region of the world.
The system is never described in any detail in any source from Antiquity, prob-
ably because it was too well known.28 Its effects and especially its ideology are
almost ­omnipresent. In the Old Testa­ment, it is immediately apparent when you

cal Romans turned the system into a fully developed and acknowledged element in
their state organization, and that to such a degree that it has been maintained that the
system is a Roman invention. See, on this, the classic description in Ronald Syme, The
Roman Revolution (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1939), 369–86 (‘The Working of
Patronage’).
25. An exception is the Italian Assyriologist Mario Liverani, who seems always to have been
aware of its presence and importance for molding the ideology of the ancient societies
of Western Asia. See, thus, his Prestige and Interest. International Relations in the Near
East c.1600-1100 bc. (History of the Ancient Near East. Studies, 1; Padova: Sargon,
1990).
26. In the field of New Testament studies, the importance of the concept has been stressed by
Bruce J. Malina in his The New Testament World. Insights from Cultural Anthropology
(revised edn; Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox, 1993). In Old Testament studies,
I have dealt with the issue in a number of essays; see Chapters 12 and 14, this volume,
and also my ‘On Doing Sociology with ‘Solomon”,’ in Lowell K. Handy (ed.) The Age
of Solomon: Scholarship at the Turn of the Millennium (SHCANE; Leiden: E. J. Brill,
1997), 312–35.
27. On this, cf. now the comprehensive study by Gregory C. Chirichigno, Debt-Slavery in
Israel and the Ancient Near East (JSOT supplement, 141; Sheffield: Sheffield: Academic
Press 1993).
28. Ancient sources never systematically deal with social or political structure, allowing for
a concise picture of the organization of society to be reconstructed. We do not know a
single word from Western Asia to be translated ‘peasant’ or ‘nomad’, probably because
there was no need to find a specialized word covering some 95 per cent of the total
population. Everybody was assumed to be a peasant (or a nomad) if nothing else was
said about him.
 Justice in western Asia in antiquity 225

are prepared to look for it and it turns up in the most unexpected places. The
central biblical concept of the covenant between God and Israel should probably
be in­terpreted in the light of patronage ideology (it is hardly due to co­incidence
that the capo di capi in the mafia is called the ‘Godfather’!).29
When, however, we return to the specific subject of this contribution, the
missing laws of western Asia in Antiquity, we have some clue as to how the
administration of justice took place. It was the duty of the rich to care for the
widow, or­phan, poor and destitute. This has generally been taken to mean per-
sons who had not obtained juridical status because they were without a father or
a husband to defend them in court, or they were without lands and therefore not
fully recognized as citizens of the state.30 They could not register a complaint
against a full citizen before a judge if they were not supported by another full
citi­zen, who would take upon himself the safeguarding of their rights. This may
be the grim background of the life of ordinary man in ancient times. If a person
was not a grown male, owning his own land, this person would not be reckoned
a full citizen of his community and therefore was helpless if accused or attacked
by one of the ‘seign­iors’ of his society. There was no help to be found, no court
of appeal, if such a person felt himself injured or his rights infringed by a land-
lord. There was, in fact, only one possibility left to the poor, either bow your
neck to the inevitable or find a patron to protect you and, in practice, ‘own’ you.
The difference between this practice and proper debt-slavery may have been
marginal and, probably, hardly recognized and the terminology would, likely, be
the same. As is well known, the Hebrew word ‘ebed (the Akkadian counterpart
is wardum) normally translated ‘slave’, also means ‘de­pendant’ (i.e. a person
dependent on another). It is obvi­ous from the international correspondence of
the Late Bronze Age that any high officer of the king would term himself an
‘ebed (or wardum) when directing his message to his lord, the king. To this
officer, the king would be reckoned not only as superior but as his most impor-
tant and ultimate patron, apart from the divine.
It is just as important that monarchs, generally, used family terms when
addressing each other. Monarchs of the same standing – for example, imperial
rulers of Egypt and H atti, the Hittite kingdom of Asia Minor – would use the
�
term ‘brother’. A mightier king would be likely to call another king, not quite in
his class, ‘son’ (and, conversely, ‘father’).31

29. Cf. on this Chapter 12, this volume.

30. The Akkadian awilum, ‘man’, used in the already quoted §1 of the Code of Hammurabi,
�
means something more precise than just ‘man’, In Theophile E. Meeks’s translation of
the paragraph in James M. Pritchard, Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old
Testament (ANET) (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1955), 166, awilum is
rendered ‘seignior’. According to CAD A/2, 48 ff., it should be rendered as either, first,
‘human being’; second, ‘grown man, male’; or, third, ‘free man, gentleman’. In this
context, awilum may here denote the patrons only, or at least the landowning part of the
population.
31. Cf. the above-mentioned study by Liverani, Prestige and Interest, especially 197–202
(‘The Ideology of Brotherhood’).
226 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Whatever it was, survival demanded that a tie be established between poor

and rich, between client and patron. There is no need to proceed with the more
specific details here.32

Patronage and law

When we return to the administration of the court and take this structure of
society into consideration, an avenue opens to us to better understand quite a
few problems related to jurispru­dence in the ancient Near East.
In Deuteronomy 16:18-20, we read:

In every settlement which the Lord your God is giving you, you must appoint
for yourselves judges and officers, tribe by tribe, and they will dispense true
justice to the people. You must not pervert the course of justice or show favour
or accept a bribe; for bribery makes the wise per­son blind and the just person
give a crooked answer. Justice, and justice alone, must be your aim, so that
you may live and occupy the land which the Lord your God is giving you.

This quotation is, of course, embedded in the ideological phrasing of the editor
of this part of the Old Testament, the so-called Deuteronomistic movement.33 It is
their ideology that carries the day. On the other hand, not even Deuteronomistic
‘welfare-theology’, as it has been styled (the Deuteronomists being especially
concerned about the poor and weak in the Jewish society) can hide the fact that
the per­son to whom they address their admonition, the ‘you’, is not himself a
poor person, but a representative of the influential citizens – or this group as
a whole. Without mentioning it expressly, it is therefore the ob­ligation of this
group to care for the administration of justice and it is their duty to appoint
judges who can be trusted as impartial and right­eous and do not accept bribes.
Does this make a judge independent – the mark of honour of every judge in
this world? Can it be assumed that such a judge should decide against the inter-
ests of the group that appointed him to his office and side with the weak? This

32. Basically, my studies from the 1970s, reprinted as Chapters 1–3 of this volume, will still
be valid in this regard, though the interpretation of the Akkadian term hupšu – Hebrew
�
þophšî, as ‘Client’ (see Chapter 1) may be too broad (cf. Chirichigno, Debt-Slavery, at
210ff.). It is obvious, however, that the term denoted a person in a special relationship to
his former master – whether client in the technical sense or something else.
33. This is not the place to discuss Deuteronomism and whatever at­tached to this phenom-
enon. Suffice it to say that it is likely a Jewish intellectual movement of the Persian and
Hellenistic periods – probably the forerunners of later Jewish parties of the Hasmonean
period – which left their impression on large stretches of the Old Testament. Other schol-
ars would place them in the late pre-exilic period (roughly the seventh to sixth centuries
bce), but this is immaterial here. Cf., for example, in an argument about the dating with
this author, Eckart Otto, ‘Programme der sozialen Gerechtigkeit. Die neuassyrische (an-)
durāru-Insti­tution sozialen Ausglichs und das deuteronomistische Erlaßjahr in Deut 15’,
Zeitschrift für Altorientlische und Biblische rechtsgeschichte 3 (1997), 26–63.
 Justice in western Asia in antiquity 227

is a totally improbable suggestion and if it were to happen, the judge would be

thrown out of office.
However, this perspective is distorted. The judge would never go against the
interests of the group behind his appointment because there would be no occa-
sion for him to do so. No poor man would drag his seignior before the judge to
ask for justice, only a seignior could bring accusations against another seignior.
This is a fundamental and all-important principle of justice. The judge is there-
fore not a judge in the usual modern sense of the word; he is an arbiter chosen
by patrons to act as an inter­mediary, whenever a problem arises between two
or more patrons or pa­tronage groups. The safety of the poor and destitute can
only be guaran­teed within this system, as only the personal allegiance between
a patron and his clients provides the protection needed for survival.
It is also obvious why it is stressed in Deuteronomy that the judge should be
impartial and fair; only an arbiter, whom both parties trust, is able to mediate
between patrons and their clientelae. For his own sake, a patron standing behind
the appointment of a certain person to the job of arbiter must, for the sake of the
survival of the system as such, accept the risk that the decision may occasion-
ally go against his interests. The integrity of the office of the ar­biter must be
safeguarded or it will be valueless.
The risk that the decision go against the interest of one patron may not have
been as great as such. After all, most cases were handled in ‘court’ through
a negotiation led by the arbiter, the ‘judge’. Whenever possible and to avoid
societal disruption, a compromise should be looked for and found, even when a
severe crime had occurred. If we return to our ‘case study’ of the murderer who
was not killed but charged with an indemnity, this murderer might, of course,
have been an important person under protection. It is most likely that, in the case
of an offender belonging to a lower group, he may have lost his life if it were
not worth the indemnity.
All of this shows – I hope sufficiently – why written laws were not needed in
traditional communities of western Asia in ancient times. Such laws would have
been a hin­drance to the administration of justice, as they would have created
an obsta­cle to the function of power. No law was needed to inform a patron of
his rights and duties; in principle, he decided what was right and what wrong.
Nobody could interfere with such rights, unless the intruder was himself a patron
of higher standing and, ultimately, a king and patron of a state. As everyone
knew, the king was unlikely to interfere if his own interests were not at stake.
There is thus no reason to wonder why no written law has survived. There
was no use for such laws. What was needed was a broad understanding of what
was considered right and just. A collection of ‘rules’ such as those listed in the
Ten Command­ments would be sufficient to express the basics of this under-
standing. Such a ‘code’, printed twice, in Exodus 20 and Deuteronomy 5, is
introduced by religious admonitions, connected with the specifics of the Jewish
religion. They do not need to occupy us now. Neither is the admonition impor­
tant – although basic to the societies in question: ‘Honour your father and your
mother’ – the next five (according to some, six) categorical prohibitions tell us
all we need:
228 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Do not commit murder.

Do not commit adultery.
Do not steal.
Do not give false evidence against your neighbour.
Do not covet your neighbour’s household.

Most of the ‘laws’ found in collections such as Hammurabi’s will, in some

� principles of what is right
respect, have to do with either of these five aspects or
and wrong in a traditional society: manslaughter, adultery, theft, false testimony
and encroachment on possessions belonging to another. Such ‘prohibitions’
were in one form or another known to every member of the traditional societies
of the ancient world and there is no reason to explain why the Old Testament is
the only place where they were written. They rep­resent common knowledge and
sentiments. Everyone knew them and there was no reason to write them down.
Only one issue remains: the status of the Book of Covenant. How does the
existence of this collection square with the argument of this chapter? Do we or
do we not have a case of written law from western Asia – though this ‘western
Asia’ is, of course, confined to the Old Testament?
In spite of a never-ending attention from biblical scholars on this part of the
Old Testament and its relation to the Babylonian tradition of law codes,34 the
presence of the secular laws in the Book of Covenant in Exodus 21:2–22:16
does not prove or indicate that a written law ever existed in Western Asia. First
of all, we cannot forget the problems of Babylonian law codes, whether or not
they were collections of laws or something else. The same can be said about the
rules of the Book of the Covenant. Were they intended to be laws or were they
just a collec­tions of court decisions, arranged so that they now look like a judi-
cial commentary on the five prohibitions of the Ten Command­ments which are
placed just before the Book of Covenant – hardly a coincidence. Or were they
composed in order to form such a com­mentary on the Ten Commandments?
How far does the Book of the Covenant represent an independent biblical – not
to say, Israelite – tradition?
To deal properly with these questions would carry us through the entire field
of Old Testament studies as it appears today: hardly a promising perspective
at this point and quite unnecessary. It is only necessary to note that the part of

34. To mention just a few of the more recent major contributions: Shalom M. Paul, Studies
in the Book of the Covenant in the Light of Cuneiform and Biblical Law (VT supplement,
18; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1970), and Eckart Otto, Wandel der Rechtsbegründigungen in
der Gesellschaftsgeschichte des antiken Israel (Studia Biblica, 3, Leiden: E. J. Brill,
1988), and Rechtgeschichte der Redaktionen im Kodex Eschnunna und im ‘Bundes­buch.’
Eine rechtsgeschichtliche und rechtsvergleichende Studie zu altbabylonischen und altis-
raelitischen Rechtsüberlieferungen (OBO, 85; Fribourg: Universitätsverlag Freiburg/
Schweiz–Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1989). In fact, over the last decade,
E. Otto has published an almost unlimited but extremely valuable series of articles
and books dealing with the relations between ancient Near Eastern and Old Testament
law, and, since 1995, he has edited a journal devoted to this subject, Zeitschrift für
Altorientlische und Biblische Rechtsgeschichte.
 Justice in western Asia in antiquity 229

Old Testament scholarship to which this author belongs generally favours post-
exilic dates of composition. The Old Testament was not an old Israelite book
with a written history going back to the beginning of the first millennium bce. It
was, rather, a late composition brought about at the beginning of Jewish history,
which cannot predate the formation of Judaism as a re­ligion and ethnic term – a
thing that certainly did not happen before the Babylonian exile. Most likely we
have to look for a much later date.35
In this light, a new understanding of the Book of the Covenant seems likely,
according to which this collection does not reflection ancient Israelite society,
but is, rather, to be attributed to the understanding of exiles – or in any case, of
former exiles – being brought up in Mesopotamia and drawing on a Babylonian
legal tradition. The sons of exiles became acquainted with the Babylonian codes
during their education or, better, with the tradition of writing such codes – a
peculiarity of the Babylonian tradition. At some stage of the composition of the
Old Testament, they chose to introduce such a collection in their tradition as
evidence of the importance of law and order for keeping the covenant of Israel’s
God – in fact, much like Hammurabi, in collecting his code, had tried to dem-
onstrate that his reign had� been lawful and righteous. In this way, the Book of
the Covenant does not belong in the tradition of law and order in Western Asia,
so much as to the Babylonian tradition. References in the Book of the Covenant
which have been understood to reflect old practices in Israel, but which are also
close to Babylonian tradition,36 should be considered ‘Babylonian’ literature in
a Jewish context. They are not reflections of Israelite tradition, inherited by late
post-exilic Jews.

35. In favour of an exilic date, see John Van Seters, Abraham in History and Tradition (New
Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1975). A post-exilic date in the Persian Period is
proposed by various members of the so-called Second Temple Group, sponsored by the
Society of Biblical Literature, and among others by Philip R. Da­vies. See his In Search
of ‘Ancient Israel’. Cf. now also E. Theodore Mullen, Eth­nic Myths and Pentateuchal
Foundations: A new Approach to the Formation of the Pentateuch (Atlanta, GA:
Scholars Press, 1997). A Persian date was also the one offered by my Copenhagen col-
league, Thomas L. Thompson, in his Early History of the Israelite People: From the
Written and Archaeological Sources (SHANE 4; Lei­den: E. J. Brill, 1992), who is now,
however, siding with this author in that the Hel­lenistic Period may provide an even more
promising background for biblical literature. See Chapter 8, this volume.
36. Cf. among the more glaring examples the law of the goring ox, Exod 22.28-32, and the
commentary in J. J. Finkelstein, ‘“The Ox that Gored”’, TAPhS 71 (1981), 1–89. Among
such contributions, Chapter 1 of this volume should also be reckoned. Cf., however,
the criticism against that the law of the He­brew slave should reflect second millennium
language levelled by Oswald Loretz, Habiru-Hebräer (BZAW 160; Berlin: De Gruyter,
�
1984), 259f. It is difficult to escape the conclusion that Loretz is right.
 14

From patronage society to patronage society

1996

At a meeting of the Nordiberische Arbeitsgemeinschaft in the spring of 1993, as

I presented the first draft of the article ‘Is It Still Possible to Write a History of
Ancient Israel?’,1 Klaus Koch correctly drew the conclusion that, after having
removed most if not all of Israel’s pre-state history, it was natural and logical
to take aim at the so-called United Monarchy. There is no longer any reason to
consider this a period, which, from a historian’s point of view, is acceptable as
presented in the Old Testament.
At this conference, several contributors had already addressed the ques-
tion of how Israel became a state. The sophistication of their ap­proach differed
from scholar to scholar, but the general outcome was that a naive acceptance
of the biblical story as history cannot be accepted anymore. Scholars, espe-
cially, should no longer be dragged around by the nose by pietistic colleagues,
or even by biblical storytellers who, far better than modern readers, knew the
importance of a story, and who probably never had been interested in giving us
historical facts about the ‘days of old’.2
As I wrote this paper, I did not have more than a vague idea of the other con-
tributions to this conference and, accordingly, I will here only refer to what has
already been published elsewhere. The two studies of David Jamieson-Drake
and Michael Niemann are of special interest as they both reached almost the
same conclusion – though by different approaches – that there was no state in
Judea during the tenth century bce.3 It has been interesting and depressing to
be a witness to the near total silence about Jamieson-Drake’s study in scholarly
literature. It would also be wrong to say that Niemann’s study has attracted
the public interest it deserves and, as Niemann’s approach is obviously tradi-
tional and biblicist, I see little reason for this, except that the language of the

1. See Chapter 10, this volume.

2. Here I have hardly moved since my settlement with Abraham Malamat, ‘On the
Problem of Studying Israelite History-Apropos Abraham Malamat’s View on Historical
Research’, BN 24 (1984), 94–124.
3. D. Jamieson-Drake, Scribes and Schools in Monarchic Judah: A Socio-Archeological
Approach (The Social World of Biblical Antiquity 9; JSOT supplement, 109; Sheffield:
JSOT Press, 1991); H. M. Niemann, Herrschaft, Königtum und Staat. Skizzen zur sozio-
kulturellen Entwicklung im monarchischen Israel (Forschungen zum Alten Testament 6;
Tübingen: Mohr, 1993).
 From patronage society to patronage society 231

p­ ublication may be an obstacle to readers outside Germany. However, another

explanation may be more correct: that whereas quite a few col­leagues have
accepted – after more than thirty years of discussion – that there was noth-
ing like the biblical early Israel, the dismissal of the biblical United Kingdom
of David and Solomon wreaks havoc among Jews as well as Christians. The
pain threshold, so to speak, has been crossed because of the theological conse-
quences of the possibility that there never was a David of history. People may
instinctively react against such a suggestion with a hostility that was not dis-
played when we began demolishing biblical Israel’s early history.
At a seminar in Copenhagen in April 1995 on ‘Jerusalem in Archaeology’,4
it became apparent that Jamieson-Drake’s book was not a major piece of work.
This was not because of its methodology, which is fault­less, but because of the
material on which he based his theories. Seemingly, Jamieson-Drake relies on
material of low scholarly value, dated archaeological reasoning, wrong or simply
bad archaeological sources, misleading conclusions, and so on.5 Nevertheless,
it is still an obvious hypothesis that as far as material evidence from Judea in
the Iron Age is concerned, there are few traces of anything which can be com-
pared to a state organization before the eighth century – which, in fact, was the
conclusion that was also reached by Niemann. It is sometimes maintained that
this is immaterial, as we are not looking for a modern state, but an ancient one,
which was certainly otherwise organized than modern states.6 Judah, therefore,
may have been a state after all, in spite of the fact that its organization was, to
say the least, embryonic and rudimentary in comparison to anything that would
merit the name of a state in the present world. Although it is certainly true and
not to be disputed that states of the ancient Near East were not modern, the
argument is per se irrelevant as we, when attributing statehood to an ancient
Palestinian society, are not discussing ancient theories of states, but are present-
ing our understanding based on a modern definition of a state. It is immaterial
whether we accept one scribe as the sole and lonely admin­istrative officer in
ancient Jerusalem and maintain that an ancient state did not need more scribes to
run the business. The important thing is whether this scribe fulfils the duties and
obligations, which are parts of a society properly called a state. In this respect,

4. Among the participants were Margreet Steiner from Leiden, Patrick McGovern from
Philadelphia and John Strange from Copenhagen.
5. To an outsider, this must sound almost ridiculous as there is hardly a region in this world
which has been dug as extensively as Palestine. How can it be that, after more than 100
years of excavations, several experienced archaeologists are forced to admit that hardly
any certainty about the status of the Judean territory at the beginning of the first millen-
nium bce can be reached, that we still have a long way to go before any safe or enduring
reconstruction can be presented.
6. This argument was used against my idea of a Hellenistic origin for the Old Testament
(cf. N. P. Lemche, ‘The Old Testament: A Hellenistic booked’, SJOT 7 (1993), l63–93
– especially against my view of the kingdom of David – by F. Willesen, ‘Om fantomet
David’, DTT 56 (1993), 249–65. Cf. my answer to this criticism in my ‘Det gamle
Testaments, hellenismen og David. Svar til Eduard Nielsen og Folker Willesen’, DTT
57 (1994), 20–39.
232 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Niemann is absolutely correct: the few scattered references to administration in

the Hebrew Bible hardly imply the presence of a state. They are merely vestiges
of a rudimentary administrative system, which might have developed into a
proper one in a more complicated society. Any state definition must thus contain
a number of elements and graduations, as there is a very long way to go from the
primitive, or rather traditional, organization found in tribal societies to the fully
developed bureaucratic systems of state societies. From this perspective, noth-
ing from Judea during the tenth century bce indicates that more than the vestiges
of a state organization were present at that time and place. The implications of
this cannot be overcome by the argument that if its people had accepted their
community to be a state (how should that be?), it was, therefore, a state. This is,
of course, not true. From a socio-political perspective, a state can only be such
if it fulfils the requirements of an organized and administered society, including
protection both of citizens and the state itself.
On the other hand, it is obvious that biblical narrative leaves us with the
impression that Jerusalem was the centre of a mighty state and, thanks to
Niemann, that the author of the narrative about the United Monarchy did not
know much about what a real empire in the days of David and Solomon required.
The biblical narrator is not very different from other ancient authors who, with
the exception of Aristotle and perhaps also Plato and a few other Greek philoso-
phers, never display any deep comprehension of how societies are organized
and ruled. It is in this connection a truism that if the ancient authors were right in
maintaining that almost every Roman emperor was mad and incompetent, it is
hardly understandable that this huge political structure could survive for centu-
ries. None of these so-called historians – whether the gossip-monger Suetonius
or the supposedly more serious historian Tacitus – have really provided us with
an explanation for the durability of the Roman Empire. However, the orientation
of such writers is personalized. Suetonius and Tacitus see history as a series of
events relating to individuals: to rulers or other persons in direct contact with
the ruling few. This is the mode of narration to be found in the Greco-Roman
world, and it is certainly the same mode to be encountered in the Hebrew Bible,
not least in its description of the history of the United Monarchy.
The harshest criticism to be levelled against Niemann’s study on admin-
istration is that the authors are not likely to present such facts as will allow a
proper reconstruction of the central administration of the period of a David or
a Solomon. What we have is merely chitchat, remarks torn out of context. On
this basis, it could be argued that Niemann’s study is inconclusive. However,
he is probably right – as is also Jamieson-Drake – in main­taining that there was
no state in ancient Judah before the end of the eighth century bce at the earli-
est. Even though Jamieson-Drake’s pins and columns may have to be moved
around, corrected, or eliminated as one goes along, statistics are on his side,
and some of his conclusions may eventually survive even a major revision of
the single components of the statistics. Niemann’s problem is different, as his
conclusions are based on a rather historicist reading of his textual material.
However, his narrator did not show any awareness of what a state is all about –
that is, the biblical story offers us no evidence of a state.
 From patronage society to patronage society 233

There is, however, another way of entering this debate about the kind of soci-
ety to be found in the central highlands – especially its southern parts – during
the tenth century bce. That is to discuss the nature of the society supposed to be
around in those days. The normal method would be to discuss the progression
from a tribal society to a state: Die Staatenbildung der Israeliten, as Albrecht
Alt phrased it.7 This would require that we had a tribal society at one end of the
continuum, and at the other, a state. Neither of these points of departure is evi-
dent. Because of this, I decided to discuss the progression from a tribal society
to a patronage society. However, we must ask once again what we really know
about tribal societies in Palestine in the period, say, of 1300bce to 800bce? Tribe
is such a meaningless word because it embraces all kinds of traditional primitive
societies and because no conclusive definition can be reached as to what a tribe
really is except the conclusion that a tribal society is not a state.8
To avoid this problem, I have introduced the concept of patronage society as
more likely to cover the societal varieties of Syria and especially Palestine in the
Late Bronze Age (LBA) period. I am at the moment preparing a series of studies
on the nature of such societies.9 Political power structures are personalized as
the society is divided into two groups: the ‘haves’ and the ‘have nots’, the first
being so-called ‘full citizens’ known from the Hebrew Bible, and the others, the
many destitute to be cared for, the dalim, ebyonim, or whatever they may be
called in Hebrew. This model, often called ‘the Mediterranean social system’,
seems almost ubiquitous in – to use sociological terms – societies of a degree
of complexity, not yet, however, bureaucratic states. They are neither tribal nor
feudal societies, although they may develop into feudalism.10 Characteristic of
a patronage society is its vertical organization, according to which we find the
patron at the top. He is a member of a leading lineage. Below him are his cli-
ents, ordinary men and their families. The bond between patron and client is a
personal one: the client having sworn allegiance to the patron and the patron
having sworn to protect his client.
Once diagnosed, the effects of patronage can be found on all levels of soci-
ety. To mention a single example, I refer to my lecture at a recent conference
at the Robbins Collection, Berkeley University, in March 1995, dealing with

7. Cf. his article of the same name ‘Die Staatenbildung der israeliten in Palestinian’ (1930),
in his Kleine Schriften zur Geschichte Israels II (1956), 1–65 (English translation: ‘The
Formation of the Israelite State in Palestine’, in Essays on Old Testament History and
Religion, trans. R. A. Wilson; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1989, 171–237).
8. Cf. my Early Israel: Anthropological and Historical Studies on the Israelite Society
before the Monarchy (VT supplement, 37; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1985), 231–44 and the
literature quoted there.
9. See Chapters 9, 12 and 13, this volume.
10. See E. Gellner and J. Waterbury, Patrons and Clients in Mediterranean Societies (New
York and London: Duckworth, 1977). On the development towards feudalism in the
LBA period ; cf. M. Liverani, ‘Communautés rurales dans la Syrie du IIe millénaire a.
C.’, Recuils de la society Jean Bodin pour l’histoire Comparative des institutions 41
(1983), 147–85. Liverani describes how the independence of the village society is threat-
ened by the donation of villages as fiefs to privileged members of the palace community.
234 Biblical studies and the failure of history

ancient law.11 I traced the reason for the conspicuous absence of laws in Syria
and Palestine in the Iron Age to patronage systems, which made such laws
superfluous and unnecessary. Nobody tells his Godfather how to judge.12 It is
also obvious, from a closer juridical analysis, that passages on law and enact-
ment of justice in Deuteronomy 16:18-20, 17:8-13 and 19:14-21 do not speak
about court and justice in the normal Western sense of the word, but about the
instalment and function of an agent to act between patron families of the same
community.
The idea of a patronage as distinct from a tribal society is a very important
part of the argument for the absence of a proper state in Judah in the Iron Age
– or greater parts of Syria and Palestine in antiquity. The state is supposed
to care for its citizens and this has been part of the ideology of ancient states
since Sumerian times to Hammurabi and the Assyrian and Babylonian kings
�
of the first millennium. Famous in this connection are the social decrees from
Urnammu to Hammurabi and the prologue to the Codex Hammurabi, in which
�
the king programmatically states that he was introduced� to kingship in order
to make his subjects happy.13 This concern is conspicuously absent from the
­biblical ­material, whether the outspoken anti-royalist tirades of Samuel (1 Sam.
8 and 12), the criticism of an unjust society in prophetic literature, or the descrip-
tion of the juridical system itself, which did not allow for ordinary people to
find help and justice in court if they did not belong among the landowning ‘full
citizens’. Social security seems to have been utterly ‘privatized’ in those days.

11. Cf. Chapter 13, this volume.

12. The Book of the Covenant belongs, as has been effectively demonstrated by S. M. Paul,
Studies in the Book of the Covenant in the Light of Cuneiform and Biblical law (VT
supplement, 18; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1970), to the Babylonian tradition of law codes. Cf.
among other studies, R. Westbrook, ‘What is the Covenant Code?’ in B. M. Levinson
(ed.) Theory and Method in Biblical and Cuneiform Law (JSOT supplement, 181;
Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994), 15–36. It is certainly not old or part of ‘early Israel’s
heritage’. Contrary to these authors, I would, however, argue that the Covenant Code
is not an old collection going back to the early period of Israel’s putative history, but
rather a literary recollection of the Mesopotamian law tradition as represented by the
great codes of Lipit-Ištar, Hammurabi, etc. On the non-legal character of these codes in
�
the current view of Assyriologists, see, already, F. R. Kraus, ‘Ein zentrales Thema des
altmesopotamischen Rechtes: Was ist der Codex Hammurabi?’, Genava NS 8 (1960),
283–96. Modern statements: H. Klengel, King Hammurabi und der Altag Babylons
(Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, second edn, 1992), 184–264; E. Otto,
‘Aspects of Legal Reforms and Reformulations on ancient Cuneiform and Israelite
Law’, in Levinson, Theory and Method, 160–96, and especially J. Renger, ‘Noch einmal:
Was war der Kodex Hammurapi – ein erlassenes Gesetz oder ein Rechtsbuch?’, in H.-J.
Gehrke, Rectskodifizierung und sociale Normen im interkulturellen Vergleich (Tübingen:
Mohr, 1994, 27–58).
13. Cf. on the royal misharum act F. R. Kraus, Ein Edikt des Königs Ammisaduqa von
Babylonia (SDIO, 5; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1958), and also his Königliche Verfügungen
in altbabylonischer Zeit (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1984). Cf. especially the passage from the
Codex Hammurabi: ‘at that time Anum and Enlil named me to promote the welfare of
�
the people’ (ANET 164).
 From patronage society to patronage society 235

When we examine the development of political structure in the Palestinian

world from the Late Bronze to the Iron Age, the period of the so-called Hebrew
kings, it becomes obvious that social solidarity was not originally part of socio-
political ideology. A number of studies of LBA society in Syria and Palestine
have demonstrated that this system was formed around political centres, organ-
ized as palace states, with the king as the director of the business or industry
which was the palace, while the rest of the society were his slaves. On the other
hand, it is very clear that the palace state was not a welfare state and was never
understood to be such; it was a patronage society on the border of the feudal
system.
The ideology of petty kings of Syria and Palestine in the Bronze Age has
been extensively studied by Mario Liverani, who, being an Italian, did not over-
look what has almost always been overlooked: that the international political
system of the Amarna Age was understood as a patronage system (the Egyptian
Pharaoh seems to have seen it differently.)14 The political ideology of the kings
of Palestine and Syria was, briefly, that Pharaoh was their protector, as they had
been faithful to Pharaoh alone and had not been playing with other gods (kings).
Therefore, Pharaoh would protect them and help them in distress. Pharaoh,
for his part, understood the system as bureaucratic. Petty kings in Syria and
Palestine were servants, employees, whom he might promote or sack as he
wished.
Pharaoh’s understanding of political relations was impersonal and state ori-
ented. The petty kings were Egyptian officials employed by Pharaoh to carry
out his orders and decrees; they were not to act on their own behalf. Loyalty to
Pharaoh therefore meant being true to the orders given, not the more compre-
hensive feeling among people from Syria and Palestine of personal allegiance
and loyalty.
The Egyptian system was, in fact, much closer to a modern concept of state,
although the idea of God being the incarnate ruler of his kingdom may seem for-
eign to modern citizens. Nevertheless, this ‘God’ provided security and welfare
for his subjects in the impersonal way that is usual for modern welfare states.
In Syria, on the other hand, things were different, as relations between indi-
viduals were understood in a personal sense. The subjects of, say, Abdihepa of
� sub-
Jerusalem were allied to their ruler personally. They were not so much his
jects as his clients. He was their protector (as was Pharaoh for his subjects), not
because he was king, but because he was patron. If the peasant was ­dissatisfied
with his patron, he could switch patrons and find a better one – at least in theory,
but sometimes also in practice, as shown by the burgeoning movement in this
period of refugees, people without patrons, known as the habiru. In Syria and
�

14. Cf. M. Liverani, ‘Contrasti e confluence di concezioni politiche nell’età di El Amarna’,

RA 61 (1967), 1–18; ‘Political Lexicon and Political Ideologies in the Amarna Letters’,
Berytus 31 (1983), 41–56, and Prestige and Interest. International Relations in the
Near East c.1600-1100 bc. (History of the Ancient Near East/Studies, I; Padua: Saigon,
1990), especially 187–96 (‘The Ideology of Protection’) and 197–202 (‘The Ideology of
Brotherhood’).
236 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Palestine, this political system of allegiance was supported by the homogeneity

of the population, comparable to the relative physical heterogeneity of the ter-
ritories, two factors which created both unity and discord. People of Syria and
Palestine were more or less the same wherever they travelled. They lived, how-
ever, in different environments, and especially in Palestine, which was divided
into many small self-contained units. In this territory, regionalism and interna-
tionalism survived side by side.
Of course, societal structure worked differently in different places. In a spa-
tially affluent Syrian state such as Ugarit, the village structure, which embraced
80 to 90 per cent of the population, probably encouraged a system in which
the king was reckoned the head patron – the capo di capi.15 The village itself,
however, provided a sub-system, which was also subject to a patron, who could
be the king or some local potentate, a high-ranking client of the king, entrusted
with this village as a personal fief.16 On the local level the village, on many occa-
sions, may have functioned as an acephalous tribal system, without officially
appointed leaders,17 where decisions were made on a communal basis.18 Some
juridical documents point in this direction, as in certain cases (infamous cases
of unsolved murders of merchants) they treat the village as a collective rather
than looking for an individual offender.19
In Palestine, the village system hardly existed during the LBA.20 Instead, we
encounter a system of small-scale townships (the normal scholarly term ‘city’
is unfortunate, as it directs our ideas in the wrong direction), ruled by so-called

15. On village and city in Ugarit (and other Syrian states of the LBA period), cf. M. Liverani,
‘Communautés de village et palais royales dans la Syrie du IIème millénaire’, JESHO
18 (1975), 146–64; ‘Ville et campagne dans la royaume d’Ugarit. Essai d’analyse
économique’, in Societies and Languages of the Ancient Near East in Honour of I.M.
Diakonoff (Warminster: Aris and Phillips, 1982), 250–58. Another valuable study is
M. Heltzer, The Rural Community in Ancient Ugarit (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1976).
16. On this, cf. Liverani, ‘Communautés rurales’. On royal agricultural estates in Ugarit,
cf. M. Liverani, especially his ‘Economia delle fattorie palatine ugaritiche’, Dialoghi di
Archeologia NS 1 (1979), 57–72.
17. From Ugarit three titles are known: the hazanu, the rab and the šakin (cf. Heltzer, Rural
�
Community, 80–83). The official headman, eventually imposed on the village by the pal-
ace administration, need not be the real head of the village itself, but just some intermedi-
ary who could represent the village in negotiations with the outside world, and to whom
the palace would direct its instructions for the villagers. A number of modern analogies
demonstrate that this office is neither much sought after nor respected. It is rather more
likely than not given to a non-important or junior member of one of the leading lineages.
18. See on this Heltzer, Rural Community, 75–7.
19. On this ibid., 63–5, Liverani, ‘Communautés rurales’.
20. Cf. T. L. Thompson, The Settlement of Palestine in the Bronze Age (BTAVO 34;
Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1979). Cf. also A. Mazar, Archaeology of the Land of the Bible
c.10,000-586 bce (New York: Doubleday, 1990), 239–41. Generally, scholars have con-
centrated on the supposed reduction of urban culture in Palestine in the LBA period; cf.
R. Gonen, ‘Urban Canaan in the Late Bronze Period’, BASOR 253 (1984), 61–73. Her
conclusions are, however, questioned by Mazar (Land of the Bible, 240).
 From patronage society to patronage society 237

‘kings’,21 tiny political structures which probably allowed for a personal system
of relationships between ruler and subject. No intermediary organization was
necessary and only a most rudimentary administrative system was needed. We
hardly have sufficient information to provide a secure picture of the political
system in the nooks and crannies of Palestine during the LBA, but apart from
Hazor – certainly not a typical Palestinian city in those days – and a few places
on the plains in the north, such as Tell Keisan – by all criteria a Phoenician city
– the walled settlements are tiny, so tiny that it is apparently impossible to find
Jerusalem of the LBA. Nothing comprehensive was needed to control these
societies: a scribe and a few soldiers were sufficient. Some years ago, I referred
to the petitions of the kings of Palestine to Pharaoh for military support: ‘send
me, not a thousand or a hundred soldiers, but twenty or thirty’. Even though
the political situation in the Amarna letters is often described as catastrophic to
the loyal vassals of Pharaoh, the problems were so limited that a dozen troops
could establish order!22
If we look for parallels to the structure of Palestinian society, I would sug-
gest that we leave out greater Syria, as well as – of course – Mesopotamia
throughout antiquity. I would rather suggest that better parallels can be found
in medieval Europe, in the Burg-Gesellschaften, the ‘fortress-societies’ of the
early Middle Ages. Embryonic, centralized organizations arose around the cas-
tles (strongholds) of the patrons, later to develop into cities. Denmark provides
fine examples not least because, in those days, it was a small-scale society and
the development is well attested in history – to such a degree that it is part of
the ordinary curriculum in primary schools. Around the fortress, villagers set-
tled for protection provided by the lord of the fortress, their patron. From this,
cities developed. The proof of this is the number of medieval Danish cities
with names such as Nyborg, Fåborg, Vordingborg, Skanderborg, and Aalborg.
The Danish word borg is the same as the German Burg. Other names would
be compounds with Danish hus (house), such as the second biggest city of the
kingdom, Aarhus, or gård (farmhouses, but often used also for royal houses),
often in the form of the name Nygaard ( ‘new farmhouses), like the Russian
Novgorod (which is a Scandinavian word as Novgorod was in fact founded by
Viking chiefs as a stronghold). Even Copenhagen traces its origin back to such
a development in the twelfth century ce, as the city arose around a fortress built
by an archbishop (Absalon) in 1167ce.
The end of the LBA probably relates to a societal crisis. It was, however, a
crisis that arose not so much because of internal structural problems in the small
political communities of Syria and Palestine; it was, rather, occasioned by an
international crisis related to a breakdown of trade relations23 or by ­changing

21. The Egyptians purposefully and realistically called these rulers mayors, hazanu.
�
22. Lemche, Early Israel, 419–20, including references to requests for support from Abdi-
Hepa, Rib-Adda and Abimilku.
�
23. The general thesis of R. B. Coote and K. W. Whitelam, The Emergence of Early Israel
in Historical Perspective (The Social World of Biblical Antiquity Series 5; Sheffield:
Almond Press, 1987).
238 Biblical studies and the failure of history

environmental circumstances, such as drought and famine.24 It is also well

known that the effects of the crisis varied enormously from place to place and
from region to region. Major cities such as Ugarit and Hazor – to stay with these
– suc­cumbed: Ugarit collapsed under a combination of factors (dissolution of
trade, destructions wrought by intruders and a natural catastrophe); Hazor under
as yet unknown factors, but, unlike Ugarit, which was abandoned, Hazor was
eventually substituted by a ‘Burg-society’.
Out of the patronage society of the LBA period in Syria and Palestine arose
a tribal society – though we may question whether we are really speaking about
tribes. Of course, we know from the Hebrew Bible about tribes of Israel, but
how far does such a description comply with reality? I argued several years
ago that the description of the tribes of Israel is formalized to such a degree
as to present a caricature of a living society.25 Biblical authors display very
little understanding of how such societies were organized and functioned. The
description of this tribal system in the Hebrew Bible seems to belong to what a
modern community of anthropologists would call arm-chair theory, so far is it
removed from any real world.26
We are often seduced by words and nothing but words. In the Bible, we read
about tribes and we immediately believe what we are told: Israel was a tribal
society, and – well – then, it was truly so. But we do not consider what this
means. We compart­mentalize our evidence: tribal society here, state society
there and patronage society in the middle – somehow. From a logical point of
view, we argue that we need a clear-cut boundary between the definitions of
such categories to establish a line of development between these. People move
from a tribal society to something else, perhaps a political system governed by
chieftains, only later to become kings when they established succession. We
create the rules for such ‘development’ from one structure to the next, with-
out recognizing that there perhaps was no development at all, or, rather, many
developments at one and the same time and in the same place and society.
Tribal society is but a metaphor for a society that is not organized as a state,27
and by state I refer to a modern definition. In the period leading from the LBA to
Iron II, the so-called period of the Hebrew United Monarchy, we find structures
not dissimilar from ones belonging to the preceding period and also much like
those yet to appear in the future. If we follow Finkelstein’s reconstruction of
Early Iron I society in Palestine, as – in the central highland region – mainly a

24. As preferred by T. L. Thompson, The Early History of the Israelite People: From the
Written and Archaeological Sources (SHANE 4; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1992).
25. Lemche, Early Israel, 274.
26. Which did not prevent this author – like so many of his colleagues – from presenting
another sophisticated but nevertheless speculative reconstruction of what an Israelite
tribe might have been. Cf. ibid., 274–90.
27. Cf. also – preliminarily – the discussion in my Ancient Israel: A New History of Israelite
Society (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1988), 98–9. A better definition would perhaps argue that
‘tribe’ is a metaphor that expresses the functions of a state in a non-state society.
 From patronage society to patronage society 239

village society,28 we may have a tribal society, but probably more likely a mix-
ture of tribal (rather, lineage) ideology and a patronage system.
This demands an explanation. Contrary to the opinion of many scholars,
but thoroughly discussed in my ‘Early Israel’, the governing structure in tradi-
tional Middle Eastern societies not yet totally embraced by a centralized state
is not the tribe but the lineage, defined as a patrilinear descent group of some
extent.29 The lineage survives political change (e.g. a shift from statehood to
chiefdom and vice versa) and it is dominant on all levels of society. An ideology
of belonging to a certain lineage dominates. Reality shows things to be differ-
ent in that only the well-to-do lineages are politically important. The rest have
to adjust their allegiance to a major lineage. This is the basis of the patronage
system, according to which members of unimportant lineages look for richer –
more influential, mightier – lineages for personal protection.
What may have happened in Palestine at the end of the LBA is that the walled
fortress of the patron, the city of the king, disappeared and was substituted
by local structures, villages, either organized without a protecting substratum
like the patron, the so-called ‘king’ – or with local influential patrons, now
impossible to trace in the remains of the villages. The presence of regional
patrons may be seen from the distribution of clusters of villages in the central
and Galilean highlands.30 In this way, the village culture of the central highlands
of Palestine simply represents an interval between two periods of more exten-
sive and well-formulated patronage systems, simply because what happened,
between 1000bce and 900bce was, in fact, the re-establishment of a system of
‘Burg-civilizations’, partly to be compared (but not identified) with the system
of the LBA of the same area. It is guesswork to present any kind of reconstruc-
tion of the history of this period, but several avenues of development are feasi-
ble. I point out only two:

1. The villages were part of a tribal society of some kind, the correct nature
of which is impossible to reconstruct. They were governed by tribal
­ideology31 according to the rules of such societies. However, at a cer-
tain stage and because of certain conditions – competition for dwindling
natural resources, warfare or whatever – they had to invent a more secure
organization, reuniting into chiefdoms run by families or lineages best
described as patronage families, who later assume the language of kings
and princes.

28. I. Finkelstein, The Archaeology of the Settlement of the Israelite Tribes (Jerusalem: Israel
Exploration Society, 1988).
29. Lemche, Early Israel, 223–31 and 245–74.
30. Cf. the charts in Finkelstein, Settlements, 95 and 189. Mittmann’s Gilead survey may
provide the same picture; cf. ibid., 115.
31. Perhaps rejected in traces of what is normally understood as tribal ideology, present in
much later biblical writings. On this, F. Lambert, ‘The Tribe/state Paradox in the Old
Testament’, SJOT 8 (1994), 20–44. It is, however, my opinion that this ideology is part
of the lineage system and that it does not necessarily reflect the previous or current
existence of tribes.
240 Biblical studies and the failure of history

2. The villages were from the outset part of small-scale patronage systems,
which, under the conditions mentioned (or others – none can really tell),
were forced to be incorporated within a major patronage system, sym-
bolized by the re-establishment of a centralized construction such as a
fortress – a ‘Burg’.

In the first case, the system of government changed, but the ideology and life
inside the lineage remained (almost) the same. In the second case, almost noth-
ing happened, except that a tendency towards centralized settlement may be
the reason for the building of fortresses such as Jerusalem and Beer-sheba in
the second half of the Early Iron I period and beginning of the first millennium
bce.32 The establishment of these centres has been related to the disappearance
of village culture or at least to a reduction of the number of villages and minor
townships. We probably see a movement towards centralization and a strength-
ening of the position of some village patrons towards regional patronage, the
people we have been used to calling kings.
In his 1995 article in The Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament, Thomas
Thompson directs his attention to the notion of a ‘house of David’ as evidence
of the presence of a patronage system, organized around the descendants of the
apical David, making the historicity of this David rather dubious and certainly
unnecessary.33 In this place, I will not repeat Thompson’s arguments, but only
supplement him by referring to the fact that the many dynastic political names
found in Western Asia in the Iron Age, stretching from such Mesopotamian
Aramaic states as Bit Adini, over Syrian Bit Gusi, down to Palestine’s Bit
H umriya and Bet David, may hardly be evidence of tribal societies which
�
changed into kingdoms. It is much more likely that they testify to the fact that
assumption of power was based not on single persons, but on major patronage
lineages, which arose among the small-scale lineages of the previous period. By
changing the origin of the Judean ‘royal’ family from a single historical person
into an eponymic ancestor of this lineage, we escape being entangled in the per-
sonalized mode of narrating history of the author of the books of Solomon. As is
well known from general anthropology, apical ancestors attract traditions with-
out themselves reflecting historical persons. A parallel to this would be the hero
kings of ancient Ugarit, Kirta and Danilu – again probably never living persons,

32. The archaeological chronology of the Late Bronze and Early Iron periods seems again
in jeopardy. According to M. Steiner (at the conference in Copenhagen in March 1995,
cf. note 4 above), no evidence of a Jerusalem in the Late Bronze period has been found
– apart from Abdi-Hepa’s six letters (EA 285–90) A fortress was built at this place in
�
the twelfth century bce, and some monumental structures were supplemented in the
tenth century bce. On this, see M. Steiner, ‘Redating the Terraces of Jerusalem’, IEJ 44
(1994), 13–20. Full evidence will be presented when her dissertation (Jerusalem in de
bronse en ijzertijd. De Opgravningen van de British School of Archaeology in Jerusalem,
1961–1967, Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1994) is published, hopefully in 1995. On the relationship
between Beersheva and its surroundings, see Finkelstein, Settlement, 37–47.
33. T. Thompson ‘House of David: An Eponymic Referent to Yahweh as Godfather’, SJOT
9 (1995), 59–74.
 From patronage society to patronage society 241

who, however, function as the ancestors of the reigning house of the Kingdom
of Ugarit in the LBA period. Liverani pointed out many years ago that there is
a huge distance between the imaginary presentation of the king in the epics of
Kirta and Aqhatu and the management and royal organization of the state of
Ugarit. The king of Ugarit needed such an ancestor to think of after finishing
the tedious business of his industrial organization. He was like a modern busi-
ness tycoon going hunting for the weekend.34 That is what dreams are made of.

Acknowledgements

This chapter originally appeared as a lecture given to the Conference on the

Origins of the Israelite States, held at the German Archaeological Institute in
Jerusalem in 1995. The discursive style of the original lecture has been retained
here.

34. M. Liverani, ‘L’epica ugaritica nel suo contesto storico e letterario’, La poesia epica e la
sua formazione (Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, Quaderno no 139; Rome: Accademia
Nazionale dei Lincei, 1970), 859–69, and ‘La royauté syrienne de l’age du Bronze
recent’, in P. Garelli (ed.) Le palais et la royalty (RAI; Paris: P. Geuthner, 1974), 329–56,
338–41.
 15

Are we Europeans really good readers of

biblical texts and interpreters of
biblical history?
1999

It is common to see the Hebrew Bible, played off against its environment in the
ancient Near East, as being on a higher level than, say, Mesopotamian sources.
An example of this may be the introduction to the story of the Flood in Genesis,
often compared to Mesopotamian mythological texts. These cuneiform texts
present a far more primitive explanation for the Flood. In the Old Testament,
God realized that the human race is corrupt and therefore decides to destroy
humankind, and so he does – with the exception of one person, Noah, who
was the only righteous man of his generation. Noah’s family is also spared. In
the Babylonian versions, we are told that, after the creation of humankind, the
human race increased to such a degree that the noise they made disturbed the
gods in their sleep. The gods therefore decided to destroy all human beings.
Humankind survived only because the wise god Ea betrayed his divine col-
leagues and disclosed the secret of the coming Flood to his hero, Utnapištim
(or Atrahasis).1
�
The decision made by the gods was certainly a foolish one. The gods were
starving for the duration of the Flood, since nobody survived to till the fields and
bring sacrifices. In the Babylonian version, the story of the Flood is obviously a
total disaster for both humankind and the gods. No wonder the gods could easily
agree after the deluge on never repeating this mistake of theirs.
In the Old Testament, the story of the Flood does not bring comfort to God.
After the end of the Flood, he accepts the fact that nothing can be done to teach
humankind to be righteous. ‘I will not again curse the ground any more for

1. The Mesopotamian story of the Flood is – as is well known – preserved in more than
one edition. Famous among these are the two more complete ones: Atrahasis (cf. W. G.
�
Lambert and A. R. Millard, Atra-Hasis: The Babylonian Story of the Flood, Oxford:
�
Clarendon, 1969; recent translations in S. Dalley, Myths from Mesopotamia, Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1991, 1–38, and in B. J. Foster, Before the Muses. I, Bethesda,
MD: CDL Press, 1993, 158–201; it is preserved in fragments going from Old Babylonian
to Late Babylonian times), and Gilgamesh (recent translation in Dalley, Myths from
Mesopotamia, 39–153), again in versions spanning more than 1000 years. In this con-
nection, see especially the epilogue to the Gilgamesh version is of interest.
 Are we Europeans really good readers of biblical texts? 243

man’s sake; for the imagination of man’s heart is evil from his youth; neither
will I again smite any more every living thing, as I have done’ (Gen. 8:21, KJV).
The two versions of the story of the Flood, Babylonian and biblical, are in
agreement as far as the general evaluation of the deluge is concerned. Both
agree that it was a mistake, never to be repeated, and both devote space to
guarantee that another deluge will never happen. However, the foolishness of
the God of the Bible seems to surpass that of his Babylonian colleagues. The
Babylonian Noah, Utnapištim, survived because of a defiant god, who did not
accept the decision of the assembly of the gods to destroy humankind. Only Ea
was guilty, not the members of the divine council, if humankind once more cre-
ated problems. In contrast, the God of the Bible is the same god who destroys
humankind, yet rescues one specimen of this accursed race from the impending
catastrophe and – at the end – is forced to accept that humankind will never in
the future improve. If anything, this story seems to prove that this god is not
in control; rather, the God of the Hebrew Bible is very ‘human’, making most
obvious blunders and occasionally losing his grasp on things to come.2
The Babylonian version of the Flood has a rather surprising epilogue, when
the gods convene in order to arrange for the new order of the world after the
deluge. Ištar is the first who accuses Enlil, the god who had brought the deluge
upon humankind, because he acted without reason (or, more likely, without
reasoning). When Enlil arrives, he is, however, addressed directly by the wise
god Ea, who asks him to respect the individual and not to punish humankind
collectively in the future. Only the sinner and transgressor should be corrected
because of his or her transgression (thus according to the version of the Flood in
Gilgamesh;3 in Atrahasis we have a dialogue among the gods on the same issue,
� 4).
but in a broken context
Instead of being a myth about the original history of man, and a story that
was primarily intended to suggest that another Flood will never occur, the
epilogue to the Mesopotamian version indicates another interpretation. This
narrative has to do with justice and argues that collective punishment is mean-
ingless; only individual criminals can and should be punished, rather than a
whole community.
This message has been placed within a narrative framework that seems not to
convey the message of the epilogue; it rather has been understood to be a myth
containing a cosmic message about the duration of the world. The gods failed,
but they are not going to repeat their mistake. The message of this narrative
does not concern the moods of despotic gods. It includes a message about right
and justice to human lords who have always been too willing to sacrifice whole
communities to settle a juridical case. The principle is that if we cannot find
and isolate the culprit, we shall punish everybody. In this way we can be certain

2. This writer is, of course, acquainted with the various ways of explaining away this blun-
der of the God of Genesis 6–8, but none of these explanations can be said to carry much
weight. Evidently,this god had to be taught a lesson as well.
3. Gilgamesh XI:159–85.
4. Atrahasis III v 34–vi 40.
�
244 Biblical studies and the failure of history

that the sinner will be punished! As it stands, there is only a slight resonance of
this theme in the biblical version of the Flood in the insistence that Noah is a
righteous person and therefore to be spared. In the Genesis version, this theme
is obviously not in the proper place, as the righteous person is to be the new
progenitor of a wicked humankind, no better than the antediluvian generations.
There is, however, a parallel to the story of the Flood – namely, the narrative
about of the punishment of Sodom and Gomorrah (Gen. 19). It is obvious that
this narrative also has to do with a flood, though the story does not involve the
world but only a part of it. Moreover, it is not a flood caused by rain and water,
but of fire and brimstone.
Now, it goes without saying that this narrative in Genesis 19 deals with the
punishment of the wicked. The inhabitants of Sodom have sinned in serious and
disgusting ways and have parted company with the human race by such acts.
They are obviously to be exterminated, rightly so.One person, Lot, has no part
in their transgressions and, therefore, has to be saved. On the other hand, the
salvation of Lot and his family does not form the essence of the narrative; rather,
the narrative concentrates on the dialogue between Abraham and God about
the collective punishment of the inhabitants of Sodom. This dialogue proceeds
in the usual way of bargaining as Abraham negotiates with God and persuades
him not to let the righteous perish with the unjust. If but ten persons among the
people of Sodom are just, the city shall be spared. In the end, only one person
could be found. He is saved because of his righteousness (together with his
family). The moral of the story is that God cannot accept that a righteous person
be punished with criminals. Every person must pay for his own crimes, not for
those of others!5
This narrative will describe a certain cosmic situation: the impending destruc-
tion of the world. It is a story with an intended message that has to be repeated
until it has been delivered and understood. The message is the vital part, the
narrative a kind of envelope used to send the message. The story of David’s Rise
in 1–2 Samuel provides another example that illustrates my point. Since I have
written about this narrative in different places,6 I can be brief. It is a story about a
young man who – although the youngest – rises to power. It is related to the fairy
tale about the young hero who, in spite of obvious shortcomings, is nevertheless
destined to conquer the world, the princess and at least half the kingdom. The
same story is told about King Idrimi of Alalah, a historical king from northern
�
Syria, who reigned around 1500bce. Like David, Idrimi (who commemorates
the events of his life in an inscription on his own statue) says that he was the
youngest son of his father, the former king of Aleppo who was exiled after a
putsch in the palace. Although the royal family settles in Emar on the Euphrates
among their maternal royal relatives, the youngest son decides to change his
fate and to conquer the kingdom of his forefathers. Young Idrimi leaves Emar

5. This interpretation of the story of the flooding of Sodom and Gomorrah I owe to the
Danish biblical scholar Hans Jørgen Lundager Jensen.
6. E.g. in my Ancient Israel: A New History of Israelite Society (The Biblical Seminar 5;
3rd edn: Sheffield: SAP, 1996), 52–4.
 Are we Europeans really good readers of biblical texts? 245

in order to accomplish this. His chariot driver is his only company. He passes
through the desert (in Europe he would have had to fight his way through a wild
forest, but these are in short supply in the Middle East), and arrives in another
country to become the champion of refugees (habiru) from Aleppo. After seven
years he returns to regain his father’s throne in� Alalah.7
�
Now, it is easy to recognize that something is absolutely ‘fishy’ about this
tale. Idrimi belongs to the royal house in Aleppo, and ends up as king of Alalah.
�
Alalah was the capital of the north Syrian state of Mukiš; it did not belong to the
�
state of Aleppo. In other words, Idrimi simply becomes king in the wrong place.
From the perspective of the inhabitants of Alalah, he was certainly a usurper; he
�
was not the legitimate heir to the kingdom of Mukiš.
The story of David also tells a story about an illegitimate king. It is a much
more complicated narrative than the story of Idrimi although the structure is
essentially the same. We need not in this place address the question – however
crucial it might be – of the historicity of this king of Israel.8 It does not concern
the plot of the play. The biblical narrator delivered his message about David’s
accession to the throne of Saul in the shape of a fairy tale. The story has a mes-
sage to deliver. It may not be the one most obvious when we read the narrative.
However, there can be no doubt that David – like Idrimi – was in possession of
a throne that did not rightfully belong to him.
These two stories – one about Idrimi and the other about David (more exam-
ples could be found) both belong to the genre of fairy tale. This fairy tale has

7. The autobiography of Idrimi was published by S. Smith, The Statue of Idri-mi (London:
British Institute of Archaeology in Ankara, 1949), and has been translated in J. B.
Pritchard, Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament:Supplement
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1969), 121–2 (557–8), and in W. W. Hallo
and K. L. Younger, The Context of Scripture. I.Canonical Compositions from the Biblical
World (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1997), 479–80. On the character of the Idrimi text, cf. M.
Liverani, ‘Partire sul carro, per il deserto’, Annali dell’Istituto Universitario Orientale
di Napoli N.S. 22 (1972), 403–15. The relationship between this text and the narrative
about David’s Rise was recognized for the first time by G. Buccellati, ‘La “carriera” di
David e quella di Idrimi – re di Alalac’, Bibbia e Oriente 4 (1962), 95–9. The attribu-
tion to the time of Idrimi himself has been questioned by J. Sasson, ‘On Idrimi and
Šarruwa, the Scribe’, in M. A. Morrison and D. I. Owen (eds), Nuzi and the Hurrians
(Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1981), 309–24. See also the discussion in T. Longman
III, Fictional Akkadian Autobiography: A Generic and Comparative Study (Winona
Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1981), 60–66.
8. On this theme I would like to refer to the minutes of the Conference on the Formation
of the State, held at the German Archaeological Institute in Jerusalem in June 1995. It
is published by V. Fritz and P.R. Davies, The Origins of the Israelite States (Sheffield:
Sheffield Academic Press, 1996). It was probably the general outcome of this meeting
that little can be said in favour of a Davidic kingdom in Judaea duringthe tenth century.
Here the results of D. Jamieson-Drake, Scribes and Schools in Monarchic Judah: A
Socio-Archeological Approach (JSOT supplement, 109; Sheffield: The Almond Press,
1991) and H. M. Niemann, Herrschaft, Königtum und Staat. Skizzen zur soziokulturellen
Entwicklung im monarchischen Israel (Forschungen zum Alten Testament 6; Tübingen:
J. B. C. Mohr, 1993), that no state arose in Judah before the eighth century, seem to be
confirmed.
246 Biblical studies and the failure of history

been transformed and used as a vehicle of so-called historical information.

These stories have little to do with the actual accession of their heroes to the
thrones of Alalah and Israel (again, it is not in this context important whether or
�
not David is a historical person). The storytellers did not intend to tell us what
happened; they knew their readers well, who would probably not have been
very interested in ‘the plain truth and nothing but the truth’ (i.e. a report about
what really happened). It is the deep structure of the narrative that interested
readers. When the fairytale was transformed in this way, it contained a message
of divine providence and guidance that protect the most unworthy – the young-
est son, the lowest member of the male hierarchy of the family.9 It is also pos-
sible to decode this widely known fairytale and show that it intends to tell the
reader that the hero of the plot may not be a legitimate king, but he is certainly
the most able person on the throne. If a historical king or governor intended to
persuade his subjects of his ability to rule, though without having a legitimate
claim to the throne, he should not tell the ‘truth’ in the modern sense of the word.
He should proclaim to his subjects the story of his life in a form of fairytale
that, even before it was transposed into a personalized narrative about the king,
contained a message of personal qualifications and divine providence.
We have two rather different examples of biblical texts by narrators who
were not interested in historical truth in our sense of the word. The narrators
probably never speculated much about historical ‘truth’. The true meaning of
the narrative is not the plot but what is hidden ‘between the lines’. In my first
example, the message was not part of the narrative. The biblical Flood story is
about divine abuse of power. The Flood must be a failure because the god of the
Old Testament is behaving improperly. People who abuse their power in the real
world are not gods but kings and governors. They consider ordinary people to be
like ants, to be wiped out at a whim. The biblical version of the flood, as well as
the Gilgamesh epic, explains this very clearly. In Gilgamesh, it is directly stated
when the gods convene after the Flood. In Genesis, Yahweh has to accept that
the Flood did not solve any of his problems. Perhaps the story could be told and
understood by ancient people without this moral being so explicitly underlined.
In Genesis, the moral is confirmed by the parallel version in Genesis 19.
Nothing was as unimportant to the ancient narrator and, accordingly, to his
readers than the historical truth (i.e. what happened in history, whether there
ever was a deluge). History, as such, carried no meaning. On the contrary, only
a narrative has a message that is meaningful, like the story of the old man,
drowsing in the shadow of a rotting roof somewhere in Africa, who is killed
as the roof falls down. The reason why this fellow was killed seemed obvious

9. It is only infairy tales that the youngest brother plays the role of the hero. The case of a
junior member of the family trying to assume power by removing his older brother is a
recurrent theme in such political documents as the Amarna letters. In EA 137 the exiled
king of Byblos complains that his brother, ‘younger than I’ (l. 16), has rebelled against
him (this brother is in the same letter nicknamed ‘the dog’). Another case is Yapahu of
�
Gezer who is complaining because his younger brother is plotting against him and has
allied himself with the habiru (EA 298).
�
 Are we Europeans really good readers of biblical texts? 247

to the European visitor. Nobody had repaired the roof! If this had been done,
the old man would be alive. The African reaction is different: though the vil-
lagers understood the point, they did not see it important. What was important
was, of course, why it happened exactly at the moment when the old man was
sleeping under the roof. Somehow, this must be a message: that this old man
had provoked the anger of demon or god, who wished to punish the old man.
What was important was not to repair the roof, but to prevent that such a thing
happen again: to sort out how and why the old man had angered the divine so
that his offence not be repeated. If this isthe case, the European visitor to the
foreign world of the ancient Near East or modern African traditional society is
at a disadvantage. The European might not be able to understand the meaning
of a narrative, though the plot issimple enough. Meaning may not be what you
see or what you hear. It can as well be implicit to the narrative without being
expressed. Such implied meaning can be found in Genesis 13, when Lot is
asked to choose his part of the country before his Uncle Abraham gets his share.
Abraham is believed by many readers to act in his usual gracious way, asking
the young person to step in front of him. As a matter of fact, Lot is breaking a
social code. A young person should never step on the toes of his superiors. Lot
seemingly chooses the best part for himself, but is, in the act, condemned, never
to return to the land of his fathers. After the destruction of Sodom, he moves
to Transjordan and, through his daughters, sires the nations of Moabites and
Ammonites.
It may be time for a preliminary statement. In a contribution about histori-
cal research written several years ago, I argued that there is a vast difference
between modern and ancient writers and readers of texts.10 The ancient authors
represent a pre-Aristotelian and pre-Kantian universe of logic which is not lim-
ited to the two categories of time and space. Instead, they included a third,
mythic category. If we consider our interpretation to be clear and limited as it is
to Kant’s categories and trained by the logic of Aristotle and his successor, the
third category available to the ancient storytellers may allow for a more rich and
variable interpretation. Although basically correct, I might have been wrong as
far as the ancient concept of time is involved. People of the ancient world prob-
ably had little sense of the modern concept of time.
There are many examples which show that the ancients had little understand-
ing of the importance of time as a logical category. It has been noted that no,
or only very few, official documents from ancient Syria and Palestine are dated
(I leave the Old Testament out of consideration as it is my conviction that this
document is not part of a pre-classical oriental world11). It is never indicated that
a period of time has elapsed since the death of a former king. Let me offer an
examplefrom the inscription of Mesha.12 This inscription states that, in the time

10. ‘On the Problem of Studying Israelite History-Apropos Abraham Malamat’s View on
Historical Research’, Biblische Notizen 24 (1984), 94–124.
11. Cf. Chapter 8, this volume.
12. Most extensive modern discussion in A. Dearman, Studies in the Mesha Inscription and
Moab (ASOR/SBL Archaeological and Biblical Studies 2; Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press,
1989).
248 Biblical studies and the failure of history

of Omri and his son, Israel oppressed Moab for forty years.13 We might question
the historical information. The report that Mesha liberated Moab in the time
of Ahab of Israel is not very likely in light of what is otherwise known of the
mighty King Ahab. This, however, is not the issueat present. More interesting
is the vague reference to time: the duration of Omri’s reign and half: the dura-
tion of his son’s reign.14 It equals forty years, which is, of course, a round or
‘mythical’ number, not a real date, comparable to the mythical reigns of David
and Solomon, each of forty years. I could, of course, also speak of the problems
caused by such a date for biblical historians, who have never been able to rec-
oncile this date with anything from the Old Testament.
Instead of proceeding further, I will return to one of my favourite cases, the
Amarna correspondence of King Rib-Adda of Byblus, seen through the lens of
the Italian Assyriologist Mario Liverani.15 According to Liverani, the seventy
odd letters of Rib-Adda to Pharaoh span a period of about ten to fifteen years.
None of them are, however, dated. This agrees with, for example, the admin-
istrative documents from Ugarit. They are never dated, apart from occasional
indications of the king who either issued the document, or during whose period
of reign a certain document was drafted. It is interesting that nothing really
happens in Rib-Adda’s letters. Some important events are repeated again and
again almost from the first letter to the last. Some of these events may belong
to the reign of Rib-Adda; others may precede him. This is not important. It is
possible to catch a glimpse of the realities behind the letters – for example, that
the last letters from Rib-Adda were written after he had been exiled from his
city. Otherwise, the correspondence has been structured on ‘mythic’ patterns,
most notably the theme of the righteous sufferer. This sufferer, of course, is
Rib-Adda himself. Another pattern is that of three ages. The past is the golden
period, the present a cruel reality and the future a revitalization of a golden past.
Nowhere does Rib-Adda show any interest in the ‘real world’, as we would put
it. It is always a world, seen through glasses very different from ours. The past
is interpreted in mythical patterns.
It is possible to continue this line. More examples could be taken into consid-
eration: the apology of King H attušiliš III of Hatti (a contemporary of Ramesses
II of Egypt).16 It would also� be possible to illustrate how unimportant space

13. Lines 7–8: ‘Now Omri had taken possession of a[ll the lan]d of Medaba. He lived in it
during his days and half of the days of his son(s) – forty years’ (in the translation of K. P.
Jackson, ‘The Language of the Mesha Inscription’, in Dearman, Studies in the Mesha
Inscription and Moab, 96–130, 97).
14. Evidently Omri is not primarily a name of a king in this text. It is the Bît Humriya of the
�
Assyrian inscriptions that pops up here. If Omri was seen as a person, how could he reign
for half of his son’s time?
15. Cf. M. Liverani, ‘Rib-Adda, giusto sofferente’, Altorientalische Forschungen 1 (1974),
175–205. I consider the contribution of W. L. Moran, ‘Rib-Adda: Job at Byblos?, in A.
Kort and S. Morschauser (eds)Biblical and related Studies Presented to Samuel Iwry
(Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1986), 173–81, to be not only a simplified version of
Liverani’s contribution; it is also more mundane and uninspiring.
16. Published by A. Götze, Hattušiliš. Der Bericht über seine Thronbesteigung nebst den
Paralleltexten (1925; reprint Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgeselschaft, 1967).
 Are we Europeans really good readers of biblical texts? 249

is to such writers. This also concerns narratives of the Old Testament, where
space is used merely as a literary device. Space is not mentioned because of any
interest in geographical circumstances in the real world, but as a remedy of the
plotline.17 I will, however, hold this discussion and address, first of all, the form
of society which produced such texts and, second, the problems or even fallacies
of Western readers, confronted with ancient texts.
My colleague Frederick Cryer, the author of a major work on divination
in the ancient Near East and Old Testament,18 once told me of his experi-
ence in teaching a class of mostly Asian and African students. For most of the
time, these students had problems following the logic of his modern Western-
dominated exegesis and historical explanations. This changed when, as part of
his description of ancient society, he used the phrasing that ancient societies
were ‘magic societies’ – this is the thesis of his book on divination. As he told
me, it was easy to see that this description immediately caught the interest of his
audience, especially as he broadened his argument by describing various forms
of magic employed by the diviners of Antiquity. It dawned on these students that
Old Testament literature does not reflect a society of the Western world. On the
contrary, the society reflected by biblical texts was one of their own. This world
could be retrieved in their own country, in its villages or cities. They suddenly
realized that they could read and understand biblical texts without the scientific
apparatus of scholars from the Western world. They did not need to know very
much about English or German grammar to read biblical texts.
In a recent book, the American/French New Testament scholar Daniel Patte
has described the core of the problem.19 When a scholar of the modern Western
world reads an ancient text, he or she adopts a white, androcentric Northern
European or North American perspective. The scholar ‘forgets’ that these texts
were not composed by any who shared our Western and European culture. When
we apply our terms and remedies to the interpretation of ancient texts, the text
has little chance to defend itself.
‘Deconstruction’ has been a major issue in recent analyses of the history
related by biblical storytellers. Such deconstruction, which may only have a
slight resemblance to the one intended by a modern philosopher such asJacques
Derrida, has effectively removed the history of ancient Israel from the agenda
of the modern historian. The historiographers of the Bible have narrated a story
about ancient Israel that it is not only jeopardized and in danger of being retold
without respect for the biblical version, it has disappeared.20

17. Cf. my Die Vorgeschichte Israels. Von den Anfängen bis zum Ausgang des 13.
Jahrhunderts v. Chr. (Biblische Enzyklopädie 1; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1996), 27–30,
English edition Prelude to Israel’s Past:Background and Beginnings of Israelite History
and Identity (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1998), 20–23.
18. Divination in Ancient Israel and its Near Eastern Environment (JSOT supplement, 142;
Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994).
19. Ethics of Biblical Interpretation: A Reevaluation (Louisville, KY: Westminster John
Knox Press, 1995).
20. After the effective removal of the patriarchs from the historical scene (T. L. Thompson,
The Historicity of the Patriarchal narratives. The Quest for the Historical Abraham,
250 Biblical studies and the failure of history

How can this be? It is hardly difficult to understand this in the moment we
address the problems caused by ancient texts being read by modern eyes. The
answer is simple: we have applied the wrong methodology. There can be no
doubt about it. It cannot be avoided that more than 100 years of an intensive
historical reading of Old Testament narrative has produced no more than a phan-
tom, which, among scholars generally, is called ancient Israel: a projection of
imagination.21
The reason is not that the Old Testament is, from a historical point of view,
imprecise. All ancient texts are imprecise when scrutinized by modern scholars.
We must look within ourselves; the fault is not in the ancient texts. When we
ask these texts to be historical sources for the past, we apply false categories –
namely, our concepts of ‘time’ and ‘space’.
In the modern sense of the word, history is an invention of the modern age;
it stands at the very entrance to modernity, without which the modern world is
hardly conceivable. As a concept, history hardly predates the romantic period
(i.e. the beginning of the nineteenth century), although it would be foolish to say
that it had no forerunners. Its origins should be sought in literature, not in the
actual world, as becomes clear when we approach the question of terminology.
Most modern languages cannot distinguish between ‘history’ and ‘story’, as in
English. The situation in German is typical. In German, ‘history’ is translated
as Geschichte but Geschichte also means ‘narrative’, ‘story’, though not, in
itself, Märchen – that is, ‘fairytale’. I cannot recollect the source but once saw
a reference to Goethe, who spoke of Old Testament history as Die Geschichte
sind, ‘the stories say’, whereas one generation later the same subject would be
addressed as Die Geschichte ist: ‘history says’.

BZAW, 133; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1974; and J. Van Seters, Abraham in History and
Tradition, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1975), this process continued with
the next phase of the biblical history, first the period from the Exodus to the introduction
of the monarchy (cf. initially N. P. Lemche, Early Israel: Anthropological and Historical
Studies on the Israelite Society Before the Monarchy, VT supplement, 37; Leiden: E. J.
Brill, 1985, and now the united monarchy, cf. note 8 above). All of this was combined
into a major hypothesis by T. L. Thompson, The Early History of the Israelite People
from the Written and Archaeological Sources (SHANE, 4; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1992),
and popularized in P. R. Davies, In Search of Ancient Israel (JSOT supplement, 148;
Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992). Many criticisms have been voiced. Most
scholars have not yet realized that it is not a question of the Old Testament being impre-
cise as far as history goes. There is a systemic lack of precise historical information in the
Old Testament narrative which shows that this narrative has nothing to do with history
in our sense of the word. Our sense of history meant nothing to the authors of biblical
literature. This does not mean that there can be no historical information preserved by the
biblical narrative. The conclusion is that any such information is accidental and will not
allow for historical reconstruction. Cf. on this Chapter 10, this volume. This conclusion
is the backbone of such recent studies such as N. P. Lemche, Die Vorgeschichte Israel,
idem; The Israelites in History and Tradition (Louisville, KY: John Knox and SPCK,
1998); and T. L. Thompson, The Bible in History: How Writers Create a Past (London:
Jonathan Cape, 1999).
21. As described by Philip Davies, In Search of Ancient Israel, 22–48.
 Are we Europeans really good readers of biblical texts? 251

This relationship between literature and history was not forgotten at the
beginning of the modern era. As late as the beginning of the twentieth century,
the relationship was still acknowledged. Thus, the famous historian of ancient
Rome, Theodor Mommsen, was awarded the Nobel Prize in literature. It is
hardly difficult to point to several European and North American historians who
were as much admired for their style and presentation as for the accuracy of
their interpretation. The transformation of the discipline of history into modern
historical investigation has been gradual and probably hardly noticed by the
public. In the end, the dominant mode of thinking in the Western world changed
and became ‘historical’. The value of history no longer consisted in the way in
which it was presented. It was believed to be accurate.
In the Western world, we live very much in the modern world and historical
thinking is the way in which we understand the past. It has often been said that
history – also modern history – is no more than narratives (somebody told us
that something happened). The fallacy of modern reading appears when it is
taken for granted that these narratives reflect what happened rather than opin-
ions about what may – or may not – have happened. In the latter case, when we
talk about what did not happen, we often refer to the literary category of propa-
ganda which, however, in a NorthEuropean and NorthAmerican understanding,
is automatically understood as lies because the only valid criterion is whether
it really happened. I suppose that all of this has sharpened in biblical studies.
The conservative religious mind (and it should not be forgotten – not even in
an age of change – that theologians are ‘conservative’) became influenced by
modern ideas about historical precision. Consequently, it analysed biblical texts
by applying modern criteria (the time and space criteria). It is hardly a surprise
that the question of historical accuracy and verification became more important
than other issues, as ethics. We could say that God had been subjected to the
tyranny of time and space.
Western tradition is truly imperialistic. It is hardly a surprise that it is also
exclusive and willing to destroy other traditions. We cannot place the blame on
ordinary men, as they have had no chance to escape the impression that we know
everything.It is an amazing and sad fact that even today, scholars who work in a
non-European environment are not aware of their inborn Eurocentrism.22
Ancient Israel is merely one of many examples of this trend in modern schol-
arship. It is – as shown by Keith W. Whitelam23 – a typical example which also
tells us how dangerous our Eurocentrism can be for other cultures. By extracting
this ancient Israel from biblical narrative, we have created a European bridge-
head among the peoples of the ancient Near East. We have focused on ancient
Israel. It has become the single most important component of our description of

22. It has never been so acidly explained as in M. Prior, The Bible and Colonialism: A Moral
Critique (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997).
23. The most obvious example being perhaps what happened to the non-Jewish population
of Palestine in modern times. See K. W. Whitelam, The Invention of Ancient Israel: The
Silencing of Palestinian History (London and New York: Routledge, 1996). See also on
this the notes in N. P. Lemche, ‘Clio is Also Among the Muses. Keith W. Whitelam and
the History of Palestine: A Review and a Commentary’, SJOT 10 (1996), 88–114.
252 Biblical studies and the failure of history

the ancient world. Yet, we have forgotten that it never existed apart from litera-
ture. We have also allowed this notion of ancient Israel to dominate our attitude
towards recent events and our interpretations of the modern Middle Eastern
world. It has been more than difficult for non-Europeans and for people who do
not understand our notion of the world to penetrate the screen of imagination we
have created that they might tell us that we are wrong. Sometimes explosives
have been chosen as means of getting through.
I do not want to be misunderstood. Although I argue that we have been poor
readers of ancient texts, I do not wish to say that we cannot read this literature.
Nor do I recommend that these texts should be seen as modern texts, as litera-
ture in the modern sense. At the moment, we are flooded by an endless stream
of narrative interpretations of the Bible and, for now, I welcome such readings.
They are part of the post-modern project and are necessary. On the other hand,
they are just as Eurocentric as what we have been doing since the beginning of
the last century and they repeat many of the mistakes of the past.
This has to be said in light of modern trends among literary students, who
argue that texts are no more than meaningless collections of signs until read,
and that the important part of the interchange between a reader and his text is
the reader. To the extent that we are currently enjoying our precious but short
time in the world of the living, this may be true for us – as people. However,
it is impossible to point to valid and generally accepted methods of reading.
The resulting lack of confirmed results of the literary investigations may be a
warning (as were formerly the clashes and disagreements between historians – a
point often argued by conservative theologians) that, on this occasion, we place
ourselves above the biblical texts. We do not allow them an opportunity to speak
for themselves – whatever that might mean. Historians, in a post-modern, non-
Eurocentric and non-androcentric world, may have something to contribute.
But this requires that they distance themselves from their own tradition and are
willing to read ancient texts within the context of ancient societies as products
of a mythic and magic culture.

Acknowledgements

This chapter is based on a lecture given at the Conference on Restoration and

Conciliation at the University of Stellenbosch in March 1996. It was a con-
ference arranged by Hannes Olivier and his faculty. It is therefore an honour
to present it to a wider audience as a token of my sincere respect for the late
Hannes Olivier and a memory of a beloved friend, which I will always carry
with me.
 16

History writing in the ancient

Near East and Greece
1999

It is with hesitation that I engage this subject as it has been so well covered by
John Van Seters in his classic study In Search of History from 1983.1 In this
monograph, Van Seters sets the standard for dealing with historiography in the
ancient world, with an extensive discussion of the genres, aims and techniques
of ancient writers, their methodological outlook, interest in the past, propa-
gandistic ideas, etc. It will be difficult to surpass this study. The scope of Van
Seters’s investigation is limited, however, by his earlier studies in the history of
the Yahwist and the origins of biblical narrative, which he considers generally
to be exilic (i.e. belonging to the sixth century bce), an opinion he has never
given up. This was revolutionary when it was first proposed more than 25 years
ago.2 It has now become mainstream and tacitly accepted by students of the
scholars formerly in opposition to the idea of such a late date for the oldest his-
tory writing in the Old Testament.3 Although this has few consequences for his
evaluation of the expressions of historical recollection within the ancient Near
East, it restricts his interest in Greek history writing to the earliest of the Greek
tradition: the logographers of the sixth century bce and Herodotus of the fifth
century bce.4 Accordingly, Herodotus is not introduced as ‘the father of history’
but as a parallel to the history writing found in the Old Testament. Van Seters’s

1. John Van Seters, In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the
Origins of Biblical History (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983). See also on
historiography in the ancient Near East, John Van Seters, ‘The Historiography of the
Ancient Near East’, CANE IV (1993): 2433–44.
2. John Van Seters, Abraham in History and Tradition (New Haven, CT: Yale University
Press, 1975) and repeated in the same author’s The Prologue to History: The Yahwist
as Historian in Genesis (Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox, 1992) and The Life of
Moses: The Yahwist as Historian in Exodus-Numbers (Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1994).
3. It is quite interesting that even scholarship that may be described as ‘evangelical’ can
discuss such a date without a biased critique; cf. recently Gordon J. Wenham, ‘Pondering
the Pentateuch: The Search for a New Paradigm’, in D. W. Baker and B. T. Arnold
(eds) The Face of Old Testament Studies: A Survey of Contemporary Approaches (Grand
Rapids, MI: Baker Books, 1999), 116–44.
4. Van Seters, In Search of History, 8–54.
254 Biblical studies and the failure of history

d­ iscussion does not include Herodotus’s successors – not even Thucydides

(late fifth century bce) although, in the Greek tradition, Thucydides represents
a different approach to history writing and was appreciated by both Greek and
Roman writers as different in regard to style, intention and content. Hellenistic
historiography (including Roman) is ignored as far as Greece is concerned, but
not when it comes to Hellenistic authors of the Near East such as Berossus,
Manetho and Philo of Byblos – the last mentioned belonging to the second cen-
tury ce!5 It will be difficult to appreciate such authors of the Hellenistic–Roman
period without considering the meaning of history and history writing for peo-
ple living after Alexander rather than in the Iron Age.
The enduring value of Van Seters’s approach to the comparative study of his-
toriography in Antiquity may be so summarized: He places the biblical tradition,
creating a collective memory of the past, within a general intellectual tradition
that does not separate the literature of so-called ancient Israel from comparable
literature in other parts of the ancient world. He thus confirms the impression
of Bertil Albrektson’s study of 1967 on History and the Gods,6 convincingly
demonstrated that the differences between biblical historiography and that of
other places in the ancient Near East was not so great as imagined by earlier
Old Testament scholarship.7
When I studied theology, it was a truism of Old Testament studies that bibli-
cal historiographers were linear in outlook, while history in the ancient Near
East was circular or, better, cyclic (i.e. indefinitely repeated).8 The idea of the
linearity of Old Testament history was apparently derived from the Christian
tradition within which such scholarship arose, seeing biblical history as pur-
poseful, with a beginning and an ending, moving from creation to the fullness of
time (i.e. the birth of the Messiah to the end of the world). According to biblical
scholars of the early and middle twentieth century ce, history was ­eschatological

5. On Philo’s ‘Phoenician History’, cf. Van Seters, In Search of History, 205–8.

6. Bertil Albrektson, History and the Gods: An Essay on the Idea of Historical Events as
Divine Manifestations in the Ancient Near East and in Israel (Lund: Gleerup, 1967).
7. Basically, the idea that God governs the history of Israel from beginning to end, making
the course of history ‘circular’, in contrast to the cyclic notion of time in the ancient Near
East, is false. The gods were also perceived as agents of historical events in the ancient
Near East.
8. Circular versus linear interpretation of history: ancient Israel as a contrast to the ancient
Near East – and Greece: cf. e.g. Werner H. Schmidt, Alttestamentlicher Glaube und
seine Umwelt. Zur Geschichte des alttestamentlichen Gottesverständnisses (Neukirchen:
Neukirchener Verlag, 1968), 168–71; and the more complicated ‘Einführung’ in
Gerhard von Rad, Theologie des alten Testaments. II. Die Theologie der pophetischen
Überlieferung Israel (Munich: Chr. Kaiser, 1966), 108–21. For a critique, however
mostly oriented against the line of difference between Israelite and Greek ways of think-
ing – including the concept of time – cf. James Barr, The Semantics of Biblical Language
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1961), 72–85, and Old and New in Interpretation: A
Study of the Two Testaments (London: SCM, 1966), 65–102, not forgetting the mono-
graph by the same author, Biblical Words for Time (SBT 33; 2nd edn; London: SCM,
1969).
 History writing in the ancient Near East and Greece 255

because it described the fate of humanity from its beginnings to a foregone

conclusion at the end of the world.9
Albrektson clearly showed that this evaluation of Old Testament historiogra-
phy was wrong. Moreover, he demonstrated that the historiographers who had
created the historical narrative of the Old Testament were not much different
from their ancient Near Eastern colleagues. The first cause of events is God him-
self. If history can be described as ‘the acts of God’ in the Old Testament, that is
also so for the history of Mesopotamia and other places of Antiquity.10 The idea
of the acts of the gods is not characteristic only of Near Eastern historiographers
and the authors of the history of ancient Israel. Their Greek colleagues (both
in the classical, Hellenistic and Roman period) shared this same notion of the
gods in history.
No classical author would leave the divine control of historical events out
of consideration. In this respect, the historiographer was not different from the
author of epic literature, such as Homer and – from the Hellenistic–Roman
period – Appollodoros or Virgil. In the ancient world, gods always decided the
fate of human beings, who are victims of divine whim. They were merciful, but
gruesome, when humans lost their divine support. Saul is merely one among
many examples of a king destroyed by a god, who for one reason or another had
lost divine favour. Another is Odysseus, nearly killed by Poseidon, but saved in
the end by another god, Athena. We might also mention examples from Ugaritic
epic literature, which describe people as toys of gods, who play with humans as
they like. Kirta11 is the favourite of El, who supports him and helps him find his
queen, but yet nearly destroys the king merely to demonstrate that we cannot
take anything for granted. Another example is the fate of the good King Danilu,
whose son is killed as a consequence of having offended a goddess.12
The idea of gods as agents of history is common to every writer of the ancient
world, whether Greek, Roman or from the Near East. It cannot be used as a
criterion to make a distinction between classical and oriental history writing. In
regard to divine forces governing the destiny of mankind, Greeks and Orientals
are generally in agreement.
The discussion does not end here. Scholars of the previous generation reck-
oned authors of historical narratives in the Old Testament to be interested in
history, as if they were colleagues, though not brought up within the then domi-
nant German academic tradition. While the ancients were not able to distinguish

9. We have an old, yet clear review of the development of eschatological interpretation of

history and how it grew into the concept of history in the Western world in von Rad,
Theologie des alten Testaments. II., 121–9.
10. We only have to recall Mesha’s introduction: ‘The king of Israel plagued Moab for a long
time because Chemosh was angry with his land’ (Mesha inscription, ll. 5-6).
11. Previously known as Keret. The name form is Hurrian and attested at Alalah as the name
�
of the founder of the royal house of Mitanni; cf. G. del Olmo Lete, Mitos y leyendas
de Canaan segun la traducion de Ugarit (Valencia: Institución San Jeronimo/Madrid:
Ediciones Cristiandad, 1981), 240 n. 6.
12. In the Ugaritic epic Aqhatu.
256 Biblical studies and the failure of history

between history guided by a divine agent and secular history, they were still
understood to be interested in describ­ing the past as it happened. They suppos-
edly entertained ideas about the reality of the past, which could be likened to
modern ideas. Although their writings were biased and not up to the standards
of modern history writing, they pro­vided material that allowed their modern
colleagues to reuse their description of the past in a modern analysis of what
really happened.13
As a consequence, much modern history writing – and I am not speaking
only of Old Testament scholarship, but also of Near Eastern studies, in general –
was but a modern rationalistic paraphrase of the description of the past found in
ancient litera­ture. To use one of my favourite quotes by Mario Liverani, modern
scholars are simply lazy and therefore all too ready to accept what they find in
an ancient source as if this was a source that was likely to contain exact histori-
cal information about the past.14
Hittite history writing provides one of the specimens of ancient Near
Eastern history writing that has traditionally been held in high esteem by mod-
ern scholars.15 This embraces several genres such as royal annals, prologues
to international treaties, royal decrees and autobiographical sketches. In two
extensive articles on Hittite historiography published more than twenty years
ago, Liverani presented analyses of Hittite historical lit­era­ture. In the first arti-
cle, he analyses the historical prologue to the treaty between H atti and King
Šunaššura of Kizzuwatna from the early Neo-Hittite Empire.16 �In the second,
he analyses the overview of early Hittite history found in Kking Telipinus’s
decree from the sixteenth century bce.17 This historiography has been praised
for being ‘factual’ to the point and generally trustworthy. However, this is hardly
the case. The Šunaššura prologue is a fine piece of propaganda. It seems as if
the relationship was based on equality and history is introduced to show that
the treaty merely re-established relations as they had previously existed between

13. I have dealt with this subject in a number of publications, including The Israelites in
History and Tradition (London: SPCK/Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 1998),
1–21. Cf. also my ‘Om historisk erindring i Det Gamle Testamentes historiefortællinger’,
in G. Hallbäck and J. Strange (eds) Bibel og historieskrivning (Copenhagen: Museum
Tusculanum, 1999), 11–28.
14. Mario Liverani, ‘Telipinu, or: On Solidarity’, in his Myths and Politics in Ancient Near
Eastern Historiography (London: Equinox, 2004), 27–52, 28.
15. In general on Hittite history writing, cf. Hubert Cancik, Grundzüge der hethitischen und
alttestamentlichen Geschichtsschreibung (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1976). Cf. also Van
Seters, In Search of History, 100–26.
16. Mario Liverani, ‘Storiografia politica hittita – I: Šunaššura, ovvero: Della reciprocità’,
Oriens Antiquus 12 (1973), 267–97. A transcription and translation of the Akkadian
version of the treaty is published in E. F. Weidner, Politische Dokumente aus Kleinasien
(Leipzig, 1923; reprint, Hildesheim and New York: Georg Olms, 1970), 88–111.
17. Cf. Mario Liverani, ‘Storiografia politica hittita – II: Telipinu, ovvero: Della solidarietà’
(1977). A recent study on the text has been published by Inge Hoffmann, Der Erlass
Telipinus (Heidelberg: Carl Winther, 1984).
 History writing in the ancient Near East and Greece 257

H atti and Kizzuwatna. However, it is quite obvious to the modern reader of

� text that the history between H atti and Kizzuwatna presented here is, if not
this
� partial one, with little regard for historical
an invented history, at least a very
facts, It arranges the past to suit the current political situation of Kizzuwatna’s
submission to Hittite rule.
History has been arranged to fit present conditions in the Šunaššura treaty.
This is also the case in the historical section in the Telipinus decree. Here
Telipinus describes the past as a chaotic period characterized by civil war and
endless quarrels for the possession of the throne. It is obvious that this historical
sketch has been constructed to create a scenario to show that after Telipinus has
been forced by circumstances to usurp the throne of H atti after having disposed
of the previous king, peace rules H atti. There shall be� no more fighting and kill-
ing. The author of the Hittite text�creates a past to contrast with the present. In
fact, Telipinus’s ascent to the throne did not change much.
Liverani originally planned to write a third study on the autobiography of
King H attušiliš III – a contemporary of Ramesses II.18 It was never published
�
(probably because the case is too obvious). In his autobiography, the Hittite
king describes what led to his assuming power by disposing of his nephew, the
legitimate King Urhi-Tešub who was, according to the testimony of his uncle,
unfit for kingship. It� is clearly a fine piece of royal propaganda, including sev-
eral elements borrowed from popular literature, such as the importance of the
seven-year period.
Hittite history writing has little in common with modern history writing, as
we prefer to see it. It is royal propaganda that invents a past which fits the con-
ditions of a present, which bodes well for the future, now – as in the Šunaššura
treaty – that correct relations have been ‘re-’established. There is no evidence
in this litera­ture that historians used recollections of the past to show how it
happened. Should the events of the past not fit the demands of the present, the
past was reformulated to fit the present. We may feel entitled to ask whether
that people would accept a reconstruction of the past that was evidently far
removed from the truth? Why did people not object? Did they not know? This
deals with the understanding of reality in the ancient world. In his In Search of
History, Van Seters presents a short comment on the history of King Idrimi of
Alalah (c.1500bce), who has presented a sketch of his early life.19 Van Seters
�
draws on a study by Liverani (although only from an abridged version published
in English).20

18. Text published and translated by Albrecht Götze, Hattušiliš. Der Bericht über
�
seine Thronbesteigung nebst den Paralleltexten (Leipzig, 1925; reprint, Darmstadt:
Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1964) with a supplement Neue Bruchstücke zum
großen Text des Hattušiliš und den Paralleltexten (Leipzig, 1930; reprint, Darmstadt:
�
Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1970).
19. Van Seters, In Search of History, 188–91.
20. Cf. Mario Liverani, ‘Memorandum on the Approach to Historiographic Texts’, Orientalia
NS 42 (1973), 178–94, but see the same author’s ‘Partire sul carro, per il deserto’, Annali
dell’Istituto Universitario Orientale di Napoli NS 22 (1972), 403–15.
258 Biblical studies and the failure of history

In his autobiography, King Idrimi claims to be the youngest son of the king of
Aleppo.21 A coup d’état led by his brother removes his father from the throne and
the royal family seeks refuge at Emar, ruled by the queen’s father. Conditions
are favourable, but Idrimi wishes to regain the throne of his father and sets out
to fulfil a vow to return to the throne in his chariot assisted only by his driver.
He travels to Canaan and lives there as a refugee for seven years when he is
recognized by some people from his hometown. He becomes the leader of these
men and becomes king – not in Aleppo, but in neighbouring Alalah.
� It is prob-
The autobiographical story of Idrimi blends history with fairy tale.
ably true that Idrimi came from Aleppo. It is probably also true that he lived in
exile for some years and it is an undisputed fact that he became king of Alalah.
�
We do not know whether it is true that he was the youngest son or that he stayed
in exile for seven years. As it is told, his story is more fairy tale than historical
report. Evidently Idrimi chose to tell a story rather than a report of historical
events. The reason seems clear: He had no claim to the throne of Alalah as it was
� of this
not his family’s traditional possession. He was not the legitimate king
city-state, but needed to present an apology for assuming power where he had
no traditional right to rule. He invented his history more than he reconstructed
the past.
We do not know whether or not his version of the past was accepted in his
new kingdom, but we do know that a similar story has been accepted for more
than 2000 years – the story of King David’s ascension to the throne. This story
is so similar to that told by Idrimi that we are entitled to say that it is the same
story with different actors and a different setting.22
What binds Idrimi and David together? Not that they were historical persons.
Idrimi certainly was, David probably not. They are, however, both usurpers to
the throne and a defence has to be made to answer objections to their ascension
to power. It does not matter much whether or not it really happened. Idrimi’s
story is invented history, David’s fate even more. Both stories show how impor-
tant it was to ancients to present the past in such a way that it could be accepted
by the present: in Idrimi’s case by his subjects, in David’s by the readers of the
biblical narrative.
Reality was not reality in Antiquity, even to the people who experienced
it. Liverani has published an excellent analysis of this in his study of the cor-
respondence of King Rib-Adda of Byblos, found among the Amarna letters
(also available only in Italian).23 He shows that Rib-Adda describes his life
according to a mythical pattern, which includes a golden past, a brazen now
and a golden future. To fit this pattern, Rib-Adda so manipulates events of his

21. Published by Sidney Smith, The Statue of Idri-mi (London: The British Institute of
Archaeology in Ankara, 1949).
22. As first seen by Giovanni Buccellati, ‘La “carriera” di David e quella di Idrimi, re di
Alalac’, Bibbia e Oriente 4 (1962), 95–9.
23. Cf. Mario Liverani, ‘Rib-Adda, giusto sofferente’, Altorientalische Forschungen 1
(1974), 175–205.
 History writing in the ancient Near East and Greece 259

own time that it is almost impossible to say what really happened and what
clearly invented.
The main difference between ancient and modern history writing is probably
the concept of time. Generally speaking, time is to modern man a quantity that
can be measured in a very exact way. To the people of ancient times, it was
more a quality, something meaningful. Of course, they knew how to measure
time, but this was less important than understanding its quality. Because his-
tory belongs to past time, it is by itself meaningful. The meaning is not what
really happened but the impact the past has on the present. How can we learn
from history? People of our time have often raised this question without getting
an answer and we hear that life is meaningless, but this was never the case in
Antiquity. Life was meaningful, not as we see it, but because of the will of the
gods which directed the course of events. When it comes to ancient history writ-
ing, it was the intention of historiographers to show that life was meaningful.
With that purpose in mind, they manipulated history to fit their objective. Royal
inscriptions of all kinds were written to serve as royal propaganda. Religious
inscriptions included propa­ganda, praising the acts of the gods. Although we
possess from the ancient Near East only official material that illustrates my
point, I am quite convinced that ordinary people would also have manipulated
their own histories in such a way that it served their interests. Both oriental and
classic historiography relied on this manipulation of the past to present a mes-
sage of divine intent for the present. There is no great difference here between
classical authors and their Near Eastern colleagues.
If we are to speak of real differences, they relate to genres. Nowhere in the
ancient Near East do we find anything which remotely compares with Herod­
otus’s Histories. Although it has a definite propagandistic touch – to describe
how the Athenians destroyed their Persian foes – Herodotus’s writings were
not governed by obviously propagandistic aims. He was not employed by some
public authority to construct an official history of the past, but was engaged in
the project of describing Greek civilization as superior to that of the Oriental
world. His Investigations – the correct translation of the title of his work – was
likely a private enterprise and not a publicly commissioned task. It is also a uni-
versal history of the world. Only after a comprehensive introduction to the his-
tory and ethnography of the civilizations of the East does Herodotus concentrate
on Greece. It is not different from the Hittite examples of history writing already
mentioned. It arranges history as it suits the author. Past history is ma­nipulated
to improve understanding of present events. Herodotus shares a common back-
ground – the understanding of the universe – with his colleagues in the Near East.
The ancient Near East has, however, not produced anything that can even
remotely be likened to Herodotus’s investigations. Royal propaganda is offi-
cially commissioned literature – mostly prose. It does not cover world history
but has a more specific task to fulfil. World history in the form of a universal his-
tory is presented in epic form, like the creation epic of Enuma Eliš, not in prose
narrative. Albright probably understood this when he presented his theory of an
ancient Hebrew oral tradition that was secondarily transformed into the prose
260 Biblical studies and the failure of history

narrative of the biblical historical books.24 It is the prose form of the biblical
universal history that causes problems, not the existence of a universal history
within this framework.
Here we might approach a solution to the problem by comparing ancient
Near Eastern historiography with its Greek counterpart. In the ancient Near
East, prose was used as a medium of reporting the past, however, only the not
so distant past (exceptions are known such as the Tukulti-Ninurta I epic25). The
ancient past – with its mythic encounter between gods and human beings – was
mainly reserved for poetry. In Greece, epic literature existed probably early,
such as Homer (if he is really early – critical voices have been raised that argue
in favour of a much later date than often assumed, the sixth century bce or even
later) or Hesiod. In the classical period and, later, in the Hellenistic and Roman
periods, poetry has generally been substituted with prose as medium for nar-
rating the distant past. Poets were still likely to use poetry as their vehicle of
language, as is the case with Ovid, who recounts the changing of world ages
in his Metamorphoses in a poetic form that borrows its content from Hesiod’s
Work and Days.26
If we look at the historical narrative in the Old Testament, it opens with the
most distant past. All except a few verses are in prose, including the tale of the
Flood, which is so close to the Neo-Babylonian version we find on the eleventh
tablet of the Gilgamesh epic. We sometimes get the impression that the biblical
Flood story is a rewriting of the Gilgamesh tale in prose form (cf. the raven, the
first bird to go – out of context in the biblical version – to set a world record for
long distance flying for ravens; in Gilgamesh, the raven is the third bird, the one
that does not return).
Previously, it was often assumed that poetic ‘quotations’ included in the his-
torical prose narrative were more ancient than their prose context. This is hardly
a necessary assumption. Some so-called ‘archaic verses’ of the Old Testament
may be very young – for example, the reference to the Macedonians in Numbers
24:24: ‘And ships shall come from the coast of Chittim, and shall afflict Asshur,
and shall afflict Eber, and he also shall perish for ever’ (KJV), a prophecy which
Luther saw as a reference to the Romans.27 Such quotations can hardly be used
as evidence for an original Hebrew epic that was translated by the Yahwist into
prose.
After the primeval history follows the heroic past of the Hebrew nation,
almost exclusively in prose. Mesopotamian writers would, like Homer, have
presented this age in poetry, Herodotus definitely in prose. The context of the

24. Cf. as the latest summary of his opinion about archaic Hebrew verse, William F.
Albright, Yahweh and the Gods of Canaan. A Historical Analysis of Two Contrasting
Faiths (London: The Athlone Press, 1968), 1–46.
25. Cf. the Yale dissertation on this epic by Peter Machinist, The Epic of Tukulti-Ninurta I:
A Study in Middle Assyrian Literature (PhD thesis, Yale University, 1978).
26. Cf. Hesiod, Works and Days, 110–55, and Ovid, Metamorphoses, I, 90–162.
27. Note to his translation of Num 24:24, Martin Luther, Die gantze Heilige Schrift Deudsch
(Wittenberg, 1545; reprint, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1972).
 History writing in the ancient Near East and Greece 261

primeval history is clearly, without dispute, Near Eastern. Some may want to
discuss the relationship between the Genesis 1 and Greek (Ionian) philosophy of
the sixth century;28 but the moment we get to Genesis 2–3, we are firmly situated
within Mesopotamian tradition. The form of the primeval history is definitely
unusual and indicates a society that has found a more extensive use of prose than
was normal in the ancient Near East.
The not so distant past, the history of the Hebrew kingdoms as narrated by
the so-called ‘Deuteronomistic History’, is prose. As to form, it accords with
Near Eastern practice as well as Greek ideas about history writing. It includes
some passages that could easily be identified as archival notes, such as the pas-
sage that includes the famous incident of Sennacherib ante muros (2 Kgs 18:13-
16), or the note about Tiglat-Pileser III’s rearrangements in the north (2 Kgs
16:29-30). Maybe the biblical authors who put Joshua together also borrowed
the prose form of Assyrian royal annals (as proposed by K. Lawson Younger).29
The form of Kings is unique, however, within a Near Eastern context because
of its blend of official information – or information presented in a form that
borrows from official types of information transmission, such as royal annals,
chronicles, legend and saga. This kind of mixture we find in Greek historiogra-
phy, but hardly in the Near East in pre-Hellenistic times.
To conclude: from a form-critical perspective, the historical narrative in the
Old Testament resembles Greek historiographic tradition more than the histori-
cal recollections of the ancient Near East. However, form is not the same as
content, and content deals with intention. The intention of royal literature in
the ancient Near East is undoubtedly propaganda. It contains propaganda when
the king boasts of his mighty deeds in inscriptions that only the gods can read,
or when he directly addresses a public of human beings – even if hardly more
than a few were able to read the inscriptions. Although such inscriptions might
have been copied, it was, to the best of my knowledge, not educational literature
(i.e. it was not used in the academic educational system). Myths and epics were
copied and transmitted in writing at least in Mesopotamia in such institutions
from one generation to the next. It was more than myth: it was wisdom and
explained the wisdom of the divine arrangement of the world to the students
who, in adopting this wisdom, became scholars and, in their own eyes, the
masters of their time.
We find some resemblance to the meaning of history and history writing
in the classical world because, in the classical world, history was considered
a way to obtain wisdom and therefore an indis­pensable part of the academic
curriculum. I have dealt with the subject of education and history writing more
extensively in John Van Seters’s Festschrift and will not repeat the discussion
here.30 However, the quote from Cicero that stands as a gateway to antique

28. Cf. John Van Seters, ‘The Primeval Histories of Greece and Israel Compared’, ZAW 100
(1988), 1–22.
29. K. Lawson Younger, Jr., Ancient Conquest Accounts: A Study in Ancient Near Eastern
and Biblical History Writing (JSOT supplement, 98; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990).
30. Chapter 17, this volume.
262 Biblical studies and the failure of history

notions of history is very important: ‘Historia vero testis tem­porum, lux ver-
itatis, vita memoriae, magistra vitae, nuntia vetustatis’ (‘History [is] truly the
witness about the ages, the light of truth, the life of memories, the teacher of
life, and the messenger of ancient times’).31 The fact that history is ‘the teacher
of life’ is most important because it says that in order to understand the ways
of life people must study history. History provides education for the next gen-
eration – in clas­sical academia, the children of the elite, the next generation to
govern and administer the world.
Most of what has been said about manipulating history to fit the purpose
of the present holds true when it comes to history writing in Greece and in the
Hellenistic–Roman world. Normally it was not officially sponsored – although
official literature existed such as annals and royal inscriptions of the kind
present in the Augustean Monumentum Ancyranum.32 It is mostly private in ori-
entation, part of the academic life of the learned few. It was also a genre adopted
by retired gentlemen or politicians, waiting for a new chance. It was one of
the main ways to a better understanding of the meaning of life and, therefore,
indispensable.
Greco-Roman historiography is very different from ancient Near Eastern and,
at the same time, rather similar. History as it really happened is not very impor-
tant. It is not that one might deliberately disregard facts, but it was accepted that
facts be twisted and ameliorated to conform to current needs. The critical mind
was not concerned with historical truth in the sense that things were supposed to
have happened exactly as described. The question would likely be meaningless
to both ancient historiographers and audi­ences alike. ‘What really happened’ is
a kind of quantitative statement and quantity was not – as already stated – the
object of the wise, but a subject reserved for business people and those engaged
in practical crafts. Instead of quantity, scholars and students asked for quality:
what the meaning of history was and not just what happened and what not.
The quality of historiography has to be kept in mind when one ap­proaches
biblical historiography. This subject is enormous. The question is, however,
whether the historiography of the Old Testament expresses propa­ganda? If the
answer is yes, then we may ask: for what purpose? Should we reckon the histori-
cal narrative to represent wisdom literature? Does it have an educational aim?
Does it explain the present and does it have a programme for the future?
I am not going to answer any of these questions here as I have presented most
of the answers elsewhere – easily available or soon to be published. Nor am I
going to present any final verdict regarding the relationship between biblical
and Greek historiography and biblical and ancient Near Eastern historiography.

31. Cicero, De oratore II.ix.36.

32. The Monumentum Ancyranum, a record of Augustus’s will read to the senate in Rome
after he passed away. The best among the preserved copies of this inscription was found
at Ankara in 1555. For a recent edition, cf. Marion Giebel, Res gestae – Tatenbericht
(Monumentum Ancyranum) übersetzt, kommentiert und herausge­genen von … (Stuttgart:
Universal-Bibliothek, 9773/73a, 1975).
 History writing in the ancient Near East and Greece 263

There are more argu­ments in favour of a Greek connection than an Oriental one,
but the debate continues.

Acknowledgements

This chapter is based on a lecture presented to the Society of Biblical Literature

National Meeting in Boston in 1999.
 17

Good and bad in history: the Greek connection

2000

John Van Seters, Herodotus and the Old Testament

John Van Seters opens his discussion on the origins of ancient Israelite histori-
ography with a paragraph devoted to early Greek historiography, most notably
Herodotus and his predecessors, the Ionian logographers.1 This seems a natu-
ral option, the genre of biblical historiography being very close to the Greek
although, to quote Van Seters, ‘the neglect of Greek historiography for any com-
parative study has been almost total’.2 There are, according to Van Seters, two
reasons for this neglect. First of all, biblical scholars have generally reckoned
biblical historiography to be older than the earliest Greek history writing by sev-
eral hundred years. It goes without saying that if the Yahwist composed his his-
toriographical literature in the glorious days of Solomon, there would have been
no direct connection between him and Herodotus or the Ionian logographers. If,
however, the Yahwist belongs to the sixth century bce, which is the opinion of
Van Seters, it is more reasonable to study the closely related and more or less
contemporary development of historiography in the Hellenic world. The second
reason for the neglect of the parallel development in Greece was the old division
created by Boman between the Greek and Hebrew mind, the Greek mind being
cyclically oriented while Hebrew writers looked on time as linear.3
Van Seters reckons the second issue to be immaterial and nullified by James
Barr, almost at the moment Boman’s monograph appeared in English. Greek
history writing was no more cyclical than that of the Bible and the Greek mind
no more cyclically structured than the Hebrew.4 The first issue is hardly relevant,
any longer, but falls with the early date of the biblical literature. Herodotus,

1. J. Van Seters, In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins
of Biblical History (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983), 8–54.
2. Ibid., 8.
3. T. Boman, Das hebräische Denken im Vergleich mit dem griechischen (Göttingen, 1954;
English translation, Hebrew Thought Compared with Greek, London: W. W. Norton and
Company, 1960). Boman’s Ideas had already been published in Norwegian before World
War II, in ‘Den semitists tenknings egenart’, NTT 34 (1933), 1–34.
4. J. Barr, The Semantics of Biblical Language (Oxford, 1961), especially 46–79. Cf. also
J. Barr, Biblical Words for Time (SBT, 33; 19692), 143–9.
 Good and bad in history 265

the ‘father of history’, is, therefore, an obvious choice if we look in the clas-
sical world for parallels to biblical historiography. In spite of this, little has
appeared in this respect until recently. Only a few authors have shown interest in
the subject, though the monographs by Mandell and Freedman and by Nielsen
should be mentioned.5 Apart from them, little has appeared that sheds light on
the possible links between the Greek literary world and biblical history writing.6
However, Nielsen indicates a fruitful line of study, as it discusses the struc­ture
of narrative and compositional technique and does not linger on minor points.
These scholars have one thing in common with Van Seters: they only include
discussions of pre-classical and early classical history writing. When scholars
refer to the logographer and Herodotus, they bypass other and only slightly
later Greek authors such as Thucydides and Xenophon.7 Their thesis repeats the
mistakes of previous scholarship. They make chronology their most important
argument. Scholars such as von Rad and Noth, on the one hand, and their North
American colleagues, on the other, reckoned the beginning of biblical history
writing to go back to the tenth century bce or earlier. For seemingly obvious
reasons they paid no attention at all to the Greek historians. Even if their dating
of biblical historiography had been correct, their neglect of developments in the
Greek world was mistaken. The similarity between Greek and Hebrew histori-
ography, including technique, style and form of narrating the past, is obvious.
Although the two bodies of literature need not be related in a direct way, they are
so close in style that the process that led to historiography may have displayed
common traits. If the oldest Israelite history writing goes back to Solomon’s
time, we might simply have an example of a similar phenome­non originating
in two separate cultures.
In this case, we would be speaking about developments taking place within
hastily changing socie­ties, including a growing literacy, at least among rul-
ing elite groups. Both societies experienced a cultural stage dominated by
oral literature8 and both possessed a heritage of oral as well as writ­ten epic

5. S. Mandell and D. N. Freedman, The Relationship between Herodotus’ History and

Primary History (SFSHJ, 60; Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1993); F. A. J. Nielsen, The
Tragedy in History: Herodotus and the Deuteronomistic History (JSOT supplement, 251/
Copenhagen International Seminar, 4; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997).
6. The Dutch scholar J. W. Wesselius has produced a series of studies, mostly in Dutch,
devoted to this theme. See his volume: The Origin of the History of Israel: Herodotus’
Histories as Blueprint for the First books of the bible (JSOT supplement, 345; London:
Sheffield Academic Press, 2002) and his article: ‘Discontinuity, Congruence and the
Making of the Hebrew Bible’, SJOT 13 (1999), 24–77.
7. Thucydides’ (c.460–400bce) History of the Pelopponesian War was written at the end of
the fifth century bce and left unfinished (it stops in 41lbce). Xenophon (c.430–354bce)
took up the thread where it had been left by Thucydides in his Hellenica and covers the
period down to 362bce.
8. See my recent discussion of the oral tradition in the Bronze Age in Die Vorgeschichte
Israels: Von den Anfängen bis zum Ausgang des 13. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. (Biblische
Enzyklopädie, 1; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1996), 161–70 (English translation: Prelude
to Israel’s Past Background and Beginnings of Israelite History and Identity, Peabody,
MA: Hendrickson, 1998).
266 Biblical studies and the failure of history

literature.9 Although we have no safe knowledge of an epic literature in Israel,

it is highly likely that it existed. Since the Palestinian society, of which Israel
formed a part, was not essentially different from other cultures of ancient Syria
in the Bronze and Iron Ages, an epic tradition must have also existed in Palestine.
Van Seters shows awareness of this cultural similarity when he discusses
the use of sources in Herodotus’s work and biblical historiography.10 However,
basic cultural similarity does not show the technique of the early historiogra-
phers, including their handling of transmitted sources, to be the same. It makes
it probable but no more. If, however, comparison between the two literatures
showed that the compositional technique and understanding of the historical
process was more or less the same in both, it would pave the way for a fruitful
study of the development of both Greek and Israelite historical tradition.

Beyond Herodotus? The exile and historiography

A comprehensive comparative investigation into Hebrew and classical Greek

historiographic traditions has never been published. We only have Van Seters’s
study on historiography and a few minor contributions, devoted to isolated sub-
jects. Van Seters’s decision to include only the earliest part of the classical his-
toriography limits the scope and aim of his comparative work and makes it less
useful than necessary. His decision is based primarily on chronological reasons,
similar to those which prevented earlier scholarship from approaching Greek
historiography. Because of an assumed difference in time, it did not occur to Van
Seters that it would have been rewarding to include subsequent stages of Greek
history writing, such as the Hellenistic.
For the last twenty-five years, Van Seters has advocated an exilic origin of
biblical history writing, dating the Yahwist to the sixth century bce.11 When he
published his thesis twenty-five years ago, it was a provocative idea. Today, it
has become mainstream as it is now often assumed that biblical historiography
presupposes the Babylonian exile. It was the experience of exile and national

9. Provided that the poems of Homer are really as old as they are usually believed to
be (i.e. going back to, say, the eighth century bce). Recent developments in Homeric
studies tend to point to a later date, the sixth century bce or later. Cf. M. S. Jensen,
The Homeric Question and the Oral-Formulaic theory (Opuscula Graecolatina, 20;
Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum, 1980). The evidence of written epic literature in
Syria and Palestine consists, of course, of the epic literature of Ugarit, written – if not
composed – in the thirteenth century bce.
10. Van Seters, In Search of History, 40–51.
11. Inspired by his mentor F. W. Winnett, J. Van Seters has been singularly faithful to his
idea of the Yahwist as an exilic writer. Cf. his Abraham in History and Tradition (New
Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1975) and the argument is repeated in his more recent
studies on the Yahwist in Genesis through Numbers (Prologue to History: The Yahwist
as Historian in Genesis, Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 1992, and The Life of
Moses: The Yahwist as Historian in Exodus-Numbers, Kampen: Kok Pharos Publishing
House, 1994).
 Good and bad in history 267

disaster that gave birth to history as a reflection, explaining to Judeans reasons

for their exile. Recent studies have questioned Van Seters’s choice of compara-
tive material. There is no reason to present an extended résumé of changes that
have occurred over the last decade. I offer here merely a short summary. A very
different scenario for the history of the Israelite–Jewish nation has arisen, which
leads to a total dissolution of biblical history, understood as a reflection of the
ancient Palestinian world of the Bronze and Iron Ages. This dissolution is not
limited to a few isolated episodes, but involves the whole network of historical
construction in the Old Testament. Since the mid-1970s, the period of the patri-
archs has gradually disappeared from North American scholarship, something
which occurred over 100 years ago in Germany. We are not surprised when we
are taught that an exodus from Egypt never took place or that there never was a
Period of the Judges or a united monarchy of David and Solomon. We should,
however, not be surprised when we realize that there never was an Israelite–
Judean unified kingdom as imagined by the biblical historiographers, nor an
Israelite state which ruled most, if not all, of Palestine. Although deportations
certainly occurred when the Assyrians and Babylonians ruled Palestine, the idea
of a great Babylonian exile and the changes it brought about belongs among
biblical stereotypes. The exile in Mesopotamia is normally considered to form
the great divide in the history of Palestinian society, separating ancient Israel
from the civiliza­tion of Palestine in the second half of the first millennium bce.
Accordingly, immigrants from Mesopotamia are supposed to have introduced
a new culture and a new religion, but not a new tradition to Palestine in the
Persian period. This concept of an exile, however, had little to do with historical
realities in Palestine between the seventh and fifth centuries bce. By and large,
the biblical idea of the great return from exile is little more than a variant of
the Bible’s narratives about the Israelite conquest of Canaan. Like the book of
Joshua, the tales of Ezra and Nehemiah are ideological constructs, foundation
myths of Palestinian Jewish society in the Persian or, better, Hellenistic era.12

12. J. Pasto has recently tried to demonstrate the existence of a continuum reaching from
W. M. L. de Wette (early nineteenth century ce) to P. R. Davies, K. W, Whitelam, T. L.
Thompson and this author. Like de Wette and subsequent German scholarship, in gen-
eral, the ‘revisionists’ of our time have created an artificial division between pre-exilic
and post-exilic Palestinian society that probably never was. Cf., Pasto, ‘When the End
is the Beginning? Or When the Biblical Past is the Political Present: Some Thoughts on
Ancient Israel, “Post-Exilic Judaism” and the Politics of Biblical Scholarship’, SJOT 12
(1998), 157–202. Although it is easy to sympathize with Pasto’s approach, which is well
argued, I will maintain that it has been circumvented by recent developments within the
circle of ‘revisionists’. They now argue that this line of division never existed because
ancient (i.e. early Iron Age) Palestinian society had very little or nothing to do with
the image of ancient Israel created by the biblical historiographers. It is not a reformed
society that returned to Palestine from Mesopotamia, but a completely new society that
constructed its own past. Cf. N. P. Lemche, The Israelites in History and Tradition
(Library of Ancient Israel; Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox 1998), and T. L.
Thompson, The Bible in History: How Writers Create a Past (London: Jonathan Cape,
1999).
268 Biblical studies and the failure of history

In short, we should pay little attention to the historical construction presented

by biblical historiographers. We would be better advised to accept their descrip-
tion of the past as a construct and concentrate on the manner in which they pre-
sented the past. By changing the direction of study, scholars should realize that
the society reflected by biblical historiographers is not a society of the past, but
the Jewish society of the writers’ own time, transposed into the past. Although
ancient Israel is already considered a Jewish community, in essence, it is a
perverted society. The ancient Israelites never gave up their idolatry and were
punished severely because of this, but they officially remained worshippers of
Yahweh, the creator of the world and members of his chosen nation. After hav-
ing been purified by the tribulations of exile, a tiny remnant of this old Jewish
society was allowed to return to the land of their ancestors and re-establish the
Kingdom of God in their old country. Seen in this way, the biblical history does
not concern the past as much as it does the present. It is a history of the writers’
contemporary world.13
Understanding the exile as a construct does not mean that it has no relevance
for the historiography in the Bible. This litera­ture is undoubtedly dominated by
the idea of exile and restoration. It also carries a programme for the future estab-
lishment of the people of God in its own land14 and is thus, in essence, exilic
or dominated by the notion – if not the mentality – of exile. It is, however, not
reduced to an exile, which lasted from 587bce to 538bce.15 This idea of exile is
another stereotype of the biblical account of ancient Israel: all of ancient Israel
went into exile in order to return to its empty land after many years, thus chang-
ing Palestine and especially Jerusalem into a centre of post-exilic Judaism.
Actually, however, only a fraction of the Palestinian population of the Iron Age
was ever sent into exile, and only few people actually ‘returned’. It is only from
their own testimony that we learn that those who travelled from Mesopotamia
to Palestine in Persian times were descendants of those exiled from Judah rather
than usurpers of that tradition.
This revised understanding of the exile has no lower time limit which makes
it necessary to compare biblical history writing solely to early Greek histori­
ography. It opens up the possibility of including the Greek historical tradition
as it had developed among Hellenistic Greek and Roman authors. It is cer-
tainly important to compare the Deuteronomistic history to the Histories16 of
Herodotus. But it is counterproductive to limit the investigation to this relation-
ship. Other Greek and Roman authors produced literature closer in style and

13. See further Chapter 11, this volume.

14. Cf. Lemche, The Israelites in History and Tradition, 86–132.
15. From a strictly historical point of view, it would be correct to argue that the Babylonian
exile ended first in 1952 ce, when political circumstances forced the Jewish population
of Iraq to travel to the newly founded modern state of Israel, marking an end to a Jewish
presence in this area that had lasted more than 2000 years.
16. It should not be forgotten that Herodotus did not write a ‘history’. The Greek word
history means ‘investigation, enquiry’. Hence, we should think of Herodotus’s work
as the presentation of the efforts of’ his investigations or ‘research’, not in the sense of
scholarly research but more as journalists employ the term.
 Good and bad in history 269

content to biblical history. We should think first and foremost of Livy and his
Ab urbe condita, his great history of Rome from its beginning to the fall of the
Republic, dating from the principate of Augustus.17

Historiography in the classical world

Livy’s history differs from the historical tales of the Bible in its lack of a pri-
mary history. It opens with a résumé of the tribulations of the hero Aeneas and
his crew of refugees from Troy during his travels to Italy. This section is com-
parable to the description of the Israelites wandering around in the desert for
many years. After arriving in Italy, the Trojan hero set out to conquer a territory
for himself and his men, thus creating the foundation for the establishment of
the future Roman state. Aeneas did not found Rome. This was left to Romulus,
when kingship began.
Like the Bible’s history of ancient Israel, the scope and aim of Livy’s work
is obvious: to show how the virtues of ancient Romans deteriorated until the
Republic could no longer survive and a new political arrangement had to be
established. It functions as an apology for the changes brought about by the
Augustan restora­tion. The narrative centres on the fate of important men – some
good, some evil. It serves as an instruction to the reader. It is a reminder to Livy’s
contemporaries of the importance of the ancient virtues, forgotten for so long.
In short, history in Livy’s eyes is the magister vitae, the ‘teacher about life’.18
There are, of course, no direct lines connecting the historical narratives of
the Old Testament with those of Livy’s history. Biblical literature is older, in
some cases, much older than Livy’s history and it is gratuitous to say that Livy
never saw a page of what was to become the Old Testament. It is also very
easy to point to differences between the two literary works. Although such dis-
similarities involve many aspects of the narra­tives, they do not prevent us from
speaking of a basic unity of intention and style. It might be rewarding to probe
further into the realm of Greek and Roman historical tradition.
The studies devoted to Greek and Roman historiography, several of which
are mentioned by Van Seters, are many. I would, however, like to call atten-
tion to such a work: a twenty-year-old study on Roman historiography by the
Danish scholar Peter Ørsted. I do so not because it has never been translated
into one of the major languages and therefore basically unknown outside of
Denmark (though that is the case), but rather because it represents an interest-
ing approach.19

17. Livy was born in 59bce and died in 17ce. His history in 142 books was written between
26bce and 17ce.
18. The expression was coined by Cicero, De oratore II.IX.36: ‘Historia vero testis tempo-
rum, lux veritatis, vita memoriae, magister vitae, nuntia vetustatis’ (‘History is truly the
witness about the ages, the light of truth, the life of memories, the teacher of life, and the
messenger of ancient times’).
19. P. Ørsted, Romersk historieskrivning (Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1978).
270 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Ørsted opens his investigation by reviewing the educational system of the

Hellenistic and Roman world, which was essentially limited to the top ech-
elon of society – the sons of noblemen and magistrates – who were to become
the political leaders of the next generation. Accordingly, the scope and aim of
education was limited to subjects that were relevant to future politicians and
administrators. Rhetoric was the dominant discipline and most likely the only
one taught at institutions providing a high level of teaching. Rhetoric embraced
many subjects apart from the art of speech and included literature and philoso-
phy. When we turn to theoretical statements about history writing, transmitted
by ancient writers, the ties between rhetoric and histori­ography are apparent.20
The connection between rhetoric, philosophy and historiography evident
in Roman tradition can be traced back to Greek and Hellenistic tradition. The
sophists of the fifth century bce, in particular, Gorgias (485–375bce), played an
important part in this development, but the rhetor Isocrates (436–338bce) was
the central figure. On the one hand, Isocrates represented a continuation of the
sophist tradition of the fifth century which established the connection between
historiography and rhetoric. On the other hand, he built on the connection estab-
lished in Greek political theory (Plato, Aristotle) between politics and ethics.
Although he never composed a work of history, Isocrates saw historiography
as a means of transmitting ethical ideas. We might call this ‘ideological histo-
riography’. To a certain degree, Isocrates stood in opposition to the pragmatic
tradition of history writing which Thucydides had introduced. According to
Thucydides, history must be useful rather than merely aesthetically pleasing:
‘My work is not a piece of writing designed to meet the taste of an immediate
public, but was done to last forever.’21 Isocrates moved further and demanded
that history also provide moral guidance to young people.
Beginning in the fourth century bce and lasting until the very end of the clas-
sical world, two lines within classical historiographical tradition dominated.
On the one hand, pragmatic history writing undertook to educate the younger
generation that it might not repeat the mistakes of earlier generations. On the
other, ideological historiography saw fit to present ethical guidance by referring
to examples of great persons – some good, some bad.
This short summary is enough to give an impression of some basic ideas
behind classical historiography. Students of the biblical historical tradition
should pay attention to it. It is particularly important to realize that education
in the classical world was – apart from very basic training – reserved for the
elite. Historiography was an elitist enter­prise and should be seen exclusively as
such. As time went by, the elite mostly belonged to the dominant philosophical
trend of the Hellenistic–Roman period: Stoicism, which guaranteed that stoic
ethical ideas and demands permeated the literature. The notion of good and bad
thus came into focus in historical literature and remained there to the very end

20. Notably Quintilian’s (c.40–100) Institutio Oratoria or Cicero’s theoretical writings such
as De oratore Brutus and Orator.
21. Thucydides, The Pelopponesian War, I.22.
 Good and bad in history 271

of the classical world, with the great persons of the past providing examples to
follow or scorn.

Biblical historiography and historiographers

This brief discussion of classical historical tradition, by no means exhaustive,

is important when we turn to biblical historiography. Our first question con-
cerns the system of education: what kind of education did the biblical historians
receive? We know little about education in Palestine during the Iron Age. Some
would argue that literacy was widespread and refer to the uncomplicated nature
of the writing system.22 This is hardly a reasonable argument. By comparison,
the Greek system of writing with just as simple a script did not create wide­
spread literacy. Parallels drawn from other quarters, where civilization on the
same cultural level can be found, indicate that in basic agrarian societies only
a small percentage of the populace know how to read and write. Most people
were in no need of such skill. Furthermore, although some people in ancient
Palestine knew how to read and write, the few scattered Palestinian inscriptions
of the Iron Age we have do not reveal extensive literary activity, much less a
sense of literature and philosophy. It seems a safe assumption that training was
rudimentary and did not involve higher education.
This changed when Palestinians were deported to Mesopotamia. Here an
old university system had been around for a couple of thousand years, training
scribes, doctors, lawyers and administrators. Although it was a learned tradi-
tion, it was very different from Greek and Roman higher education. Literature
handed down from the past – such as the epics of Gilgamesh and Enuma Elish
– were not copied to provide stu­dents with the ability to understand and inter-
pret literature, but rather to make practical use of the complicated system of
cuneiform writing. Apart from providing copies of old texts (including here
and there ‘updates’), the literary activity of the elite was limited in extent and
scope, its most exquisite examples being Assyrian and Babylonian royal annals
and chronicles. We never find an example of an administra­tor or politician who
also composed great literature, to say nothing of history writing. In contrast,
this was common in the Greek and Roman tradition. Thucydides was an admi-
ral, Polybius (c.200–120bce) a general, Cicero a leading administrator and
­politician, a consul and pro­consul, Tacitus (c.55–120[?]ce) a praetor, consul
and pro­con­sul. Sallust (c.86–34bce) never progressed so far, but became a prae-
tor under Caesar. Livy never participated in public life, but remained a private
scholar for all of his life.
Although the Deuteronomistic History sometimes displays a form of nar-
rative that can be likened to Assyrian annals,23 nothing comparable to the

22. E.g. A. Lemaire, Les écoles et la formation de la Bible dens l’ancien Israel (OBO, 39;
Fribourg: Presses Universitaires, 1981).
23. Cf. K. L. Younger, Ancient Conquest Accounts: A Study of Ancient Near Eastern and
Biblical History Writing (JSOT supplement, 98; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press,
272 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Pentateuch or the Deuteronomistic History has ever been found among the lit-
eratures of the ancient Near East. As a matter of fact, the ties that bind biblical
literature to classical historiography are much more evident. While it is common
for scholars to state that we know little or nothing about the identity of biblical
historiographers, we do possess their literature and can describe the authors
by referring to, first, its form, content, biases, ideas, ethics, etc., and, second,
the information they provide (i.e. the range of their knowledge and education).
This is an invitation to take up comparative studies of the Greco-Roman tradi-
tion with biblical literature. It is not my intention to go further here, although
I cannot resist present­ing some preliminary observations and ideas that might
serve as an indication of how fruitful such comparison can be for understanding
biblical historiography.
Evidently, biblical writers chose history as the medium most suit­able for con-
veying their image of the past in a way that might also serve as instruction to the
present generation. The Deuteronomistic History, for example, presents history
as a perpetual struggle between good and evil. It turns on the careers of great
men, mostly the kings of Israel and Judah – some of them good, many more
instruments of evil. Only two are perfect: David and his late successor Josiah.
The psychological characterization is clear from the beginning: the character of
a person never changes and the original verdict is never ameliorated.24 A good
person may fail, as is the case of the great King David, but it does not change
his character. He is a just king and an obedient servant of the Lord in spite of
occasional human weaknesses. In opposition to him, we find his son Absalom
– a truly tragic hero in the Greek style and a person who cannot escape his
destiny. Never does Absalom change. He is forced by circumstances to oppose
his family when his sister is raped by his brother – the very situation that does
not allow for public revenge – but when pardoned by his father, he acts like the
condemned person he truly is and cannot change. Moving on, Solomon’s rash
son Reho­boam, like many other kings of Israel and Judah, cannot repent and
change; nor is it possible for Ahab and his queen to act as righteous people.
As a king acts, so does his nation. According to the biblical tradition, the
great men are symbols of their time and their choices are the choices of their
nation. When Ahab sins, it is Israel that sins and is punished because of its
transgressions. At the end of its moral decline after so many bad kings, Israel is
forsaken by the Lord and given over to the enemy. The fate of Judah is no better.
In spite of its just King Josiah, there is no hope left; he is only able to postpone
the inevitable. History is seen through the lens of the morality of its characters.
The course of fate is inevitable. To stress this point, biblical historiographers
use a number of rhetorical devices. Secon­dary figures make their appearance
in the form of prophets, who openly confront the monarchs and correct them

1990), who points to this similarity but uses the comparative material to make impossible
statements about the content of the biblical literature.
24. Except in Chronicles when Manasseh is said to change character after he has been
dragged into exile in Babylon (2 Chronicles 33). Like the post-exilic Jewish people,
Manasseh became a different and better person after his tribulations.
 Good and bad in history 273

because of their transgressions. These prophets also inaugurate the future of the
nation by speeches, as does Samuel (1 Sam. 12) or Ahijah (1 Kgs 11), or they
foretell the destiny of kings, such as Micaiah, the son of Imla, who foresees the
death of the king of Israel in battle (1 Kgs 22:17). The historiographers also
introduce speeches for other occasions. Sometimes, such speeches are delivered
by an angel who foresees the future of Israel (Judg. 2). On other occasions,
characters in the plot, such as Joshua, address the leaders of Israel in a speech
(Josh. 23). The author may even speak directly to his readership, as when he
explains why Israel was destroyed (2 Kgs 17), or indirectly, as when he deliv-
ers his condemnation of the people in the form of a prophecy from Yahweh (2
Kgs 21). Such comments on the tragedy of Israel fulfil the role of a chorus in
the Greek tragedy.
The biblical historiographers’ understanding of history as a place of struggle
between good and evil employs the same ‘technique’ as classical authors use.
Had it been in the biblical historiographers’ interest, they could just as well
have presented the life and fate of their characters in pairs as Plutarch did in his
collection of great Greeks and Romans.25 It is obvious that biblical historians
are rhetori­cally trained as they make frequent use of speeches as the medium
to convey the meaning of history. They are, however, not Greeks. They trace
the cause of history back to the act of the God in a very direct fashion. It is
ultimately Yahweh who punishes Israel as a conse­quence of its sins. Although
all classical authors would see the divine as ultimate cause of historical events,
this aspect of history never played a vital role. It is, after all, difficult to blame
people – good or evil – if everything is decided in advance by divine agents.
The moral lesson to be learned from history is less per­sua­sive if deities arranged
everything, without regarding human concerns and conditions.
This is not true of biblical historians. They see themselves as mem­bers of a
people chosen by God, in opposition to all other nations. They are the religious
elite, members of the new Israel, with whom God has created his new covenant
(Jer. 31:31). They are among the law-abiding few who, according to the proph-
ecies of Isaiah, are destined to survive and gather at Zion (Isa. 4). They are
certainly mem­bers of a religious congregation, if not a sectarian movement in
conflict – real or imagined – with the rest of the world. While Greek and Roman
historiographers focused on human beings as good or bad, whose personal fate
provided a lesson to other people, good and bad acts of human beings – kings
– brought disaster on an­cient Israel. The lesson of biblical historiography is
not the difference between good and bad, but those who love God and those
forsaken by God because of their sins.
Al1 of this tells us that even though the biblical historians received an edu-
cation perhaps very similar to that of their Greek and Roman colleagues, they
remained Jewish sectarians. They were representatives of a minority group,
which established borders between itself and the outside world. They eventually
turned their Greek training against the Greeks themselves, when the Maccabees

25. Plutarch (c.46–120ce). His Lives belongs to the later part of his production.
274 Biblical studies and the failure of history

openly opposed the Hellenization of the Jewish nation. Greek rhetoric became
the medium of divine communication, but the message of biblical historiogra-
phers was very different from that of their classical colleagues.
I have presented a partial picture of authors who received an education in
many respects very different from that found in the ancient Near East. Their
education was, however, common in Greek and Roman academic institutions.
In spite of this, biblical authors were also people of the Orient. They were well
acquainted with oriental tradition – Palestinian, Mesopotamian and sometimes
Egyptian. They were able to integrate such traditions within their work in a
fashion that is vastly superior to the way in which it was done by Herodotus.
Herodotus was never able to incorporate his information from the Orient syn-
thetically. He considered the Near East exotic and exciting and an inexhaustible
source of anecdotes, but he was not able to integrate this tradition in his descrip-
tion of the reasons for the great clash of Greek and Oriental civilization.
The biblical historiographers’ incorporation of Near Eastern tradition in their
narratives made these traditions an organic part of the narratives themselves.
This becomes obvious from the very beginning of biblical narrative in Genesis
2–3. The oriental tradition was a part of the biblical historiographers themselves,
a mental matrix that was not erased by their training. The conclusion to this
observation seems logical: biblical historiographers were Hellenized Orientals.
 18

On the problems of reconstructing pre-Hellenistic

Israelite (Palestinian) history
2000

The so-called ‘historical-critical’ school, which created a universe of its own,

dubbed ‘ancient Israel’, has dominated the last 200 years of biblical studies. The
texts of the Old Testament – in some circles called ‘the Hebrew Bible’ – were
believed to refer to an ‘ancient Israel’ thought to be a historical reality. Already
at an early stage of the development of historical-critical methodology, scholars
accepted that the Old Testament was not simply a history book – or textbook –
that told the truth and nothing but the truth about ancient Israel. In accordance
with developments within the field of general history, this was not considered
an insurmountable problem to biblical scholars. Historians began, during the
early nineteenth century, to develop methods of source criticism that enabled
them – or so they believed – to make a distinction between real informa­tion
and secondary expansion. In the words of the leading historian of this period,
Johann Gustav Droysen (1808–84), the historian had to distinguish between
Bericht – that is, story or interpretation – and Über­reste – that is, what remains
of historical information. In every part of the historical narrative in the Old
Testament, it would, according to this view, be possible to make a distinction
between information that originates in the past and additions and commentaries
on this information from a later period.1 Let me quote as an example of such a
source analysis the story of Sennacherib’s attack on Jerusalem in 701bce:

Now in the fourteenth year of king Hezekiah did Sennacherib king of Assyria
come up against all the fenced cities of Judah, and took them. And Hezekiah
king of Judah sent to the king of Assyria to Lachish, saying, I have offended;
return from me: that which you puttest on me will I bear. And the king of
Assyria appointed unto Hezekiah king of Judah three hundred talents of silver
and thirty talents of gold. And Hezekiah gave him all the silver that was found
in the house of the Lord, and in the treasures of the king’s house. At that time
did Hezekiah cut off the gold from the doors of the temple of the Lord, and
from the pillars which Hezekiah king of Judah had overlaid, and gave it to the
king of Assyria. (2 Kgs 18:13-16, KJV)

1. More about this in my The Israelites in History and Tradition (Library of Ancient Israel;
Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox, 1998), 1–21 and 22–34.
276 Biblical studies and the failure of history

This story, which can be found in 2 Kings 18–19, opens with notes about
King Hezekiah’s reign, how he behaved well in the eyes of the Lord and
how he revolted against the Assyrians and smote the Philistines. The narra-
tive about King Hezekiah is broken off by a short interlude explaining how
King Shalmanasser of Assyria besieged and conquered the city of Samaria – an
event already mentioned in the preceding chapter. After this break, the narrative
continues with a description of Sennacherib’s attack on Hezekiah’s fortified
cities. While the Assyrian king rests at Lachish, King Hezekiah gives in and
surrenders to the Assyrians and pays a handsome tribute to mollify his overlord,
the king of Assur. After this tribute has been paid, the Assyrian king sends his
general to Jerusalem. Then there is the famous Rabshakeh incident, when the
Assyrian officer stands in front of the gates of Jerusalem and delivers a harsh
speech, with the intention of scaring the inhabitants of Jerusalem and its king
that they might surrender to the Assyrians. In great distress, Hezekiah turns to
the prophet Isaiah who promises divine assistance against the Assyrians. The
Assyrian general returns to his master with his army at Libnah in order to move
against an Egyptian army, which is attempting to out­flank the Assyrian army.
Rabshakeh sends a letter to Hezekiah repeating many of the threats against
Judah already delivered in his speech in front of Jerusalem. When he receives
this letter, Hezekiah approaches the Lord for help against the Assyrians. As a
result, the avenging angel of the Lord kills 185,000 Assyrian soldiers during the
night, whereupon Sennacherib returns to Assyria in dismay, only to be murdered
some time later.
Even a casual reading of these chapters makes it clear that the narrative does
not constitute a homogenous description of the events of the fateful year 701bce.
The Rabshakeh incident is clearly superfluous as Hezekiah had already sur-
rendered and paid his tribute to the king of Assyria before Rabshakeh moved to
Jerusalem to deliver his speech. There was no reason for the Assyrian king not
to return home since he had already achieved his goal, stopping the rebellion in
south-western Palestine. In the text, however, we find a letter from Rabshakeh
to Hezekiah that includes the same themes as the speech, which provoked the
intervention of Isaiah and lead to God destroying the Assyrian army. It is as if
the author of this narrative presents his scenes in pairs. However, from a modern
historian’s point of view, it should be possible to distinguish between Droysen’s
Bericht and Überreste in 2 Kings 18–19. Such a historian would look for histori-
cal information primarily in the short description of Sennacherib’s campaign in
the opening chapters of the narrative rather than in the literarily elaborated pas-
sage which follows. Most would say that after paying the tribute, what remains
is Bericht (i.e. a reflection from a later date on the events of 701bce).
We actually possess another version of this campaign in Sennacherib’s royal
annalistic report of the campaign.2 In this version, the campaign opens with a
diversion to Phoenicia, to Sidon, to clear obstacles that might arise behind the
front lines and to safeguard a route of retreat. The Sidonian king flees before

2. ANET 3, 287–8.
 On the problems of reconstructing pre-Hellenistic history 277

the Assyrians. The main aim of the campaign is, however, to settle matters in
Palestine, where the Judean Hezekiah (Sennacherib’s wording) has interfered
with loyal Assyrian vassals, including Padi, the king of Ekron, who is kept as a
prisoner by Hezekiah. Hezekiah and his allies had also approached the king of
Egypt and an Egyptian army had arrived and prepared for a battle at Elteqeh.
The Egyptian army, however, was no match for the Assyrians and Sennacherib
could, after having dismissed the threat from Egypt, continue to settle matters
along the coast of Palestine. He conquers the cities of Elteqeh and Timnah and
attacks and occupies Ekron. Hezekiah is persuaded to set Padi of Ekron free and
return him to his city, where he is reinstalled as an Assyrian vassal. Hezekiah
does not yield any further, and Sennacherib devastates his country, destroys
forty-six fortified cities and shuts Hezekiah in his city of Jerusalem, like a bird
in a cage. The devastated parts of Hezekiah’s kingdom are handed over to the
Philistine cities. Hezekiah gives up the hope of fighting the Assyrians and pays
a heavy tribute that is delivered to the Assyrian king in Nineveh.
There can be no doubt that the biblical narrative and Sennacherib’s annalis-
tic report are two reflections of the campaign of Sennacherib that ended when
Hezekiah gave in and paid the tribute which the Assyrians demanded – includ-
ing his daughters. There are many differences between the biblical and the
Assyrian version, but they also agree on several important points. Hezekiah
rebelled against the Assyrians. Sennacherib attacked his country and destroyed
many cities. At the end, Hezekiah paid a tribute, but Jerusalem remained in his
hands unharmed. The astonishing claim made by 2 Kings that the Assyrians did
not conquer Jerusalem is obviously a historical fact. Otherwise differences have
mostly to do with chronological details and numbers, such as when and where
Hezekiah sent his tribute (how large was this tribute?). These are minor points.
Basically the two accounts are in agreement.
When these two versions are compared it is obvious that the Rabshakeh
incident may have been invented by the author of 2 Kings in order to create
the impression that Sennacherib did not conquer Jerusalem because the holy
city was saved by its God.3 Rabshakeh’s actions follow the payment of the
tribute. The Assyrians had already closed the case on the rebellion. Although
this section includes one piece of historical information – the appearance of an
Egyptian army in Palestine – it is a safe guess to conclude that there is nothing
historical about the Rabshakeh incident. The biblical narrative that follows the
payment of the tribute is invented history or simply fiction.
This example is simple. Others are less obvious. The story about the cam-
paign of the kings of Israel and Judah against King Mesha of Moab in 2 Kings
3 opens with a note that Mesha had paid a heavy tribute to Israel and that he
had also revolted against his master after the death of Ahab. The king of Israel,
accordingly, invited his colleague in Jerusalem to join him in a war against

3. For a different look at the Rabshakeh incident as historical, cf. among others Brevard
S. Childs, Isaiah and the Assyrian Crisis (SBT SS, 3; London: SCM, 1967), 76–93, and
more recently Mordechai Cogan and Hayim Tadmor, II Kings. A New Translation with
Introduction and Commentary (AB, 11; Garden City, NY; Doubleday, 1988), 240–44.
278 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Moab with the king of Edom. This campaign opens with a seven-day march,
which, however, is halted for lack of water. The kings turn to a prophet for help,
and, on the prophet’s instructions, rites are performed and water made avail-
able by miracle. The prophet also delivers an oracle predicting the fall of all of
Moab. However, the battle between the Israelites and Moabites which follows
ends in disaster for the Moabites and Mesha retreats to his city of Kirhareseth.
After an unsuccessful breakout, Mesha sacrifices his son on the wall of the city,
‘and there was great indignation against Israel’ (King James Version), or bet-
ter: ‘there was such great consternation among the Israelites’ (Revised English
Bible) that the Israelites lifted the siege and returned home.
Is this a historical report? The central part of the story deals with a water
miracle and the Moabite misinterpretation of it, which brings disaster on their
head. Miracles are certainly out of focus in historical reports of events that
really happened and very impractical for historical analysis. From a historian’s
point of view, it never happened. Does this mean that this narrative is devoid
of historical information? Hardly, as we are in possession of two inscriptions,
which bear the name of Mesha, king of Moab. One of them is a short fragment,
the second is probably the most important royal inscription ever found in the
southern Levant.4
Mesha too had a story to tell in which he describes how Omri oppressed
Moab for forty years in all of his time and half of his son’s time. Mesha, how-
ever, attacked Israel and destroyed it forever. Most of the inscription is devoted
to a description of the cities retaken from Israel and their rearrangement by
Mesha, all of this made possible by Chemosh, Moab’s god. If we compare the
biblical story in 2 Kings 3 with this inscription, there is a slight measure they
have in common. Both texts explain how Mesha revolted against Israel and
reckon Mesha as king of Moab. Otherwise, it is hopeless to try to harmonize the
information in the biblical text with that provided by Mesha himself. Although
the biblical text perhaps includes one or two pieces of information that are his-
torical, it has little to do with Mesha’s text. Mesha has a different story to tell.
Mesha’s story may constitute a historical report, but that is far from certain. It
may be literature as much as the version in 2 Kings 3. Mesha is not telling the
truth. It is clear that his inscription, to a large degree, is also fictional propaganda
and includes such stereotypical elements from popular literature as a period of
oppression of forty years. Mesha makes a show of not knowing the name of any
king of Israel except Omri. He ‘forgets’ to mention Omri’s successor, Ahab –
after all, a very important king in his time, mentioned by the Assyrians – and
thereby makes Omri the oppressor of Moab also in his son’s time.

4. Cf. John C. L. Gibson, Textbook of Syrian Semitic Inscriptions, I: Hebrew and Moabite
Inscriptions (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971), 71–84. For an extensive analysis of the
main text, cf. Andrew Dearman (ed) Studies in the Mesha Inscription and Moab (ASOR/
SBL Archaeology and Biblical Studies, 2; Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1989). Although
the second inscription from Kerak is broken at the beginning where one might expect to
find Mesha’s name, the name of his father (kmšyt) has been so well preserved that it is
beyond doubt that this is a second inscription by Mesha king of Moab.
 On the problems of reconstructing pre-Hellenistic history 279

By introducing 2 Kings 3 and the Moabite royal inscription, we have exposed

the problem of a history of ancient Israel. There are general similarities between
Mesha’s and the biblical version. Mesha was, indeed, the king of Moab and
Moab had been, before Mesha’s revolt, a vassal of Israel. Furthermore, Israel
was not able to subdue Moab again. Apart from this, no extra-biblical evidence
substantiates the plot of 2 Kings 3. The text might well be an invented fictional
piece of work, which includes merely a name and a few other details as histori-
cal credentials. We cannot harmonize the information. Not even the chronol-
ogy fits. According to 2 Kings 3, Mesha revolts after the death of Ahab, while
Mesha speaks about Israelite oppression that lasted for half the reign of Omri’s
son, who only appears without a name in the Moabite text. Although the Mesha
inscription is usually dated to circa 850 bce, the vagueness of the information
included here does not preclude that it could be later than that date. The argu-
ment in favour of such a position is the mentioning of Omri, who oppressed
Moab in the time of his son. This indicates that in this text Omri may not be the
king of Israel but rather an eponymous figure for Bet Omri, the ‘house of Omri’,
which in Assyrian documents of the ninth and eighth century bce is the usual
name of the state otherwise known as Israel.5 In the Mesha inscription, Omri
and Israel are synonymous. To conclude: the Mesha inscription does not support
2 Kings 3 as a reliable historical source nor change the genre of a miraculous
fictional work, though it mentions a historical king of Moab and refers to a
political situation that may have a historical nucleus.
It is, nevertheless, often assumed that 2 Kings 3 has a historical nucleus that
can be reconstructed. Such historians may also believe that a distinction can be
made between Bericht and Überreste. This is very imprudent. The only piece of
Überreste is a name and some knowledge of the status of Moab in Mesha’s time.
This is hardly enough to make the narrative historical. This is hardly surprising.
Ancient history writing is very different from modern historical reconstruc-
tion. When reconstructing the past, a modern historian rejects much information
found in ancient sources. For example, Danish ‘national’ history, as related by
Saxo Grammaticus, includes a long tale about the Viking King Regnar Lodbrog,
who killed a dragon to find a wife.6 All kinds of legendary material are included
in Saxo’s version of Regnar’s life. Such tales can easily be dismissed when
we write a history of Denmark’s beginnings. However, the name of Regnar is
historical, as he appears in a Frankish chronicle from the ninth century ce as a
contemporary.7 It is, alas, hardly fact that the historical Regnar killed a dragon.
In biblical studies, it is almost impossible to decide which part of a narrative
belongs to the genre of Bericht and which includes Überreste if we have no

5. For a recent review of this evidence, cf. my The Israelites in History and Tradition, 51–5.
6. Saxo, a monk in the service of the Bishop Absalon, the founder of Copenhagen, wrote
his Res gestae danorum towards the end of the twelfth century ce.
7. The reference dates to 845 ce when Regner’s army of Normans at the Seine was
destroyed by a plague. He may also be mentioned in other contemporary sources as one
of the main figures in the Danish process of conquering England in the second half of
the ninth century ce.
280 Biblical studies and the failure of history

other information than what is included in the text. If we do not possess external
evidence, it is the scholar who decides what is history and what fiction, for only
common sense is the guide. This is a systemic problem with historical-critical
studies.
Historical-critical scholarship operates within a hermeneutical circle that is
really a logical circle. The source of information is a biblical text, which stands
alone. Conversation moves between a scholar who studies the text and the text
itself. The scholar presents a theory, based on the text, and the text confirms
that theory. It is amazing that this has been acceptable for almost 200 years,
since the early days of modern scholarship at the beginning of the nineteenth
century. Nevertheless, every historical-critical scholar admits there is a problem
which has largely been ignored in writing history. The standard procedure is to
assert – according to Bernd Jørg Diebner – that although we cannot prove it,
it is a fact! We cannot prove that Moses ever existed but as we cannot explain
the development of Israelite monotheism without Moses, he must have existed.
Otherwise we would have to invent him … disregarding the possibility that
ancient writers had done exactly that! When in a bad mood, one may be will-
ing to say that historical-critical scholarship is a bluff. The procedure – locked
within the hermeneutical circle – is, from a scientific point of view, false. The
recognition of false procedures in science tells you that results obtained are false
and can be discarded without further ado. That historical-critical scholarship is
based on false methodology, leading to false conclusions, simply means that we
must disregard 200 years of biblical scholarship and commit it to the dustbin. It
is hardly worth the paper on which it is printed.
No warrant is gained by claiming that this is the only way we can draw his-
torical information from the Bible. That is merely a poor excuse for laziness. It
also reflects greediness: scholars want to say more than they can. Since the Bible
deals with religion and since most scholars have been and are still religious,
there is a constant pressure on biblical scholars to produce results, which concur
with those obtained in other fields, such as general history, and biblical scholars
have readily lived up to such expectations. In my dissertation on Early Israel
(1985), I presented a number of maxims, the first of which was that the most
important thing is to acknowledge your ignorance. The second added that when
you know the extent of your ignorance, you also have an idea about what you
know.8 Such maxims form a Procrustean bed on which to place various forms of
biblical studies. The demand is that we start our investigation by accepting that
we know almost nothing about the past and must begin with that little we know.
Some may object. Is it really true that we know so little about ancient Israel
that we cannot reconstruct its history and religion? The truth is that from the time
before the so-called ‘Hebrew Monarchy’, we possess a single external source
mentioning Israel. This is included among a host of vanquished foes in Palestine
in an Egyptian inscription dating to the time of Pharaoh Merenptah circa

8. N. P. Lemche, Early Israel: Anthropological and Historical Studies on the Israelite

Society Before the Monarchy (VT supplement, 37; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1985), 414.
 On the problems of reconstructing pre-Hellenistic history 281

1210bce.9 It is likely that this inscription refers to Israel as a population group

of some kind. Otherwise, nothing is known of the circumstances related to this
inscription, which uses traditional language and might reveal less about histori-
cal events in Palestine at the end of the thirteenth century bce than often believed.
There is a gap of more than 300 years from the Merenptah inscription to the
next references to Israel. One of these has already been mentioned – namely,
the Mesha inscription. A second inscription contains an Assyrian reference to a
battle in 853bce in which Ahab of Sirla’a (definitely a corrupted form of Israel)
participated.10 The third mentions an anonymous king of Israel who was sup-
posedly killed by the author of the recently found so-called ‘Bet David’ inscrip-
tion from Tel Dan in northern Palestine.11 From the eighth century bce, a small
number of Assyrian texts refers to Israel either as ‘the house of Omri’ or as
Samaria (i.e. the capital of the Kingdom of Israel in northern Palestine until
722bce). Most of these inscriptions include short references to Israel. A few
can be related directly to information in the Old Testament such as Tiglatpileser
III’s regulations for northern Palestine a few years before the fall of Samaria.12
This Israel of inscriptions from the first millennium bce is, however, not
ancient Israel but a state of Israel that existed between circa 900bce and 722bce.
In the Old Testament, this state appears as one of the two successor states of
David’s and Solomon’s empire.
The second is Judah. Not before the eighth century do Assyrian inscriptions
refer to Judah. Again, most of the texts include rather limited information, the
most important being the already mentioned report of Sennacherib’s campaign
to Palestine. After the fall of Nineveh, a few Babylonian inscriptions include
references to Judah or to events that can be related to the fate of Judah in the
sixth century bce, the most important being the Neo-Babylonian Chronicle,
which includes a report of the Babylonian conquest of Jerusalem in 597bce.13
The ancient Near Eastern inscriptions that refer to Israel and Judah are
limited in number but are nevertheless important. They tell us that the names
of Israel and Judah are not invented fictitious names, but refer to historical-
political structures. They also mention a selection of kings known from the
Old Testament. Insofar as we can control the evidence, the succession of these
kings and the synchronisms that can be established between the kings of Israel
and Judah and Assyrian and Babylonian kings are not wholly misleading.
Sennacherib did attack Judah in the days of Hezekiah, and Nebuchadnezzar did
conquer Jerusalem and installed Zedekiah on the throne of Judah more than a
century later.

9. ANET 3, 376–8.
10. Ibid., 279.
11. Avraham Biran and Joseph Naveh, ‘An Aramaic Stele Fragment from Tel Dan,’ IEJ 43
(1993), 81–98, and ‘The Tel Dan Inscription: A New Fragment,’ IEJ 45 (1995), 1–18. As
to this writer’s present position on the inscription, cf. his The Israelites in History and
Tradition, 38–43.
12. ANET 3, 282–4; cf. 2 Kgs 15:29-30.
13. Ibid., 563–4.
282 Biblical studies and the failure of history

To conclude this section, it is obvious that the history of Israel and Judah,
as related by biblical historians, is not entirely devoid of historical information.
The people who wrote the historical narratives of the Old Testament at least
knew some facts about Israelite and Judean history. We might even say that
there is a number of Überreste (i.e. historical remains) included in the texts of
the Old Testament. There might even be a coherency which binds such informa-
tion together and provides a chronological framework for the narrative.
This is rather unproblematic. Problematic is the task confronting us when we
try to decide what is Überreste and what Bericht, when reading of events which
are not comparable to external evidence. How do we avoid the hermeneutical
circle already described?
We could analyse ancient Near Eastern historiography, in general, to see
how it worked and how far it can be trusted. We could first establish the gen-
res of historiography in antiquity. Two dominate: the year-chronicle system,
which lists every year the most important events in a form of shorthand, and the
more extensive royal inscriptions, such as the Assyrian royal annals claiming
Assyrian world conquest.
Sometimes the authors of 1 and 2 Kings refer to the chronicles of Israel or
Judah.14 If we are to trust these notes as references to something that really
existed (we must never forget that it was not uncommon in literature from
ancient times to include fictitious references in order to create confidence), these
chronicles would most likely be of the short­hand type. Such annals included
only short references to past events. They would probably not have contained
extensive narrative, much less long reports. If we turn to the chronicles of
Assyrian and Babylonian kings, it might be possible to gain an impression of
what kind of information we should look for to reconstruct this source. Again,
we should not forget that the biblical author may have invented the reference
while writing in a chronistic style as suited his purpose.15
In regard to royal literature of the type found, for example, in Assyrian
inscriptions, it is much more difficult to establish the presence of similar sources
in the Old Testament. A large part of the Assyrian inscriptions contain war
reports. Although it cannot be excluded that such literature also existed in Israel
and Judah during the Iron Age, we cannot be certain on the basis of the books
of Kings that it did. It must be realized that as soon as we approach this genre,
we move into literature, into the world of fiction and invention. This is certainly
the case in regard to many Assyr­ian inscriptions where the acts of the king are
embellished and defeats hardly acknowledged. Such reports are always written

14. E.g., 2 Kgs 15:6, 11, 15, 21, 26, 31, 36.
15. Cf. on the possibility of information coming from royal Israelite and Judaean archives,
J. A. Montgomery, ‘Archival Data in the Books of Kings’, JBL 53 (1934), 46–52. The
question by Gösta W. Ahlström is, however, very relevant: ‘But where have these
archives been preserved so that the material could be used by later scribes or historiog-
raphers?’ (The History of Ancient Palestine from the Palaeolithic Period to Alexander’s
Conquest. With a contribution by Gary O. Rollefson. Edited by Diana Edelman, JSOT
supplement, 146; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993, 661 n. 9).
 On the problems of reconstructing pre-Hellenistic history 283

with a purpose and are often composed to make an impression on the gods who
were to approve the acts of the king in question. Some might call it propaganda!
Although minor sections of Kings may have an annalistic background in
royal chronicles, most of the literature neither belongs to this genre nor to that
of the royal inscriptions of the Assyrian and Babylonian type. This is a natural
consequence of the aim and scope of the books of Kings, which are not written
in praise of kingship in Israel and Judah or to establish an exalted position for
kings. On the contrary, the impression gained from reading these biblical books
is the opposite: that their human kingdom represented a departure from the just
rule of God and that its human exponents were hardly heroes of Yahwistic faith.
Very few among the kings of Judah are praised for piety – all the kings of Israel
are condemned. Royal laudatory inscription is the wrong type of literature to
compare and is hardly implied by the narratives of Kings. Rather than trying
to trace non-existent historical events, we should study the topoi of the Kings.
It would be the goal of such an investigation to identify the patterns which
can be found. Several years ago, scholars realized that the books of Chronicles
are dominated by a series of stereotypical topoi – each of them with a special
purpose, either to recommend a king loved by God or to reject one as godfor-
saken.16 The very character of the narrative in 1 and 2 Kings speaks against
extensive use of royal inscriptions. The authors used some extant annalistic
information, but merely selected what suited their purpose. Their selection was
dominated by the wish to create a negative impression of the period.
When a modern author writes historical fiction – for example, books such
as Robert Graves’s I Claudius – we do not expect such a writer to be faithful
to history. We allow such an author liberty to reformulate history in such a way
that it supports the author’s intention to make history conform to his fictive
goals. Although we may be in possession of an interpretation of the past by pro-
fessional historians, we enjoy and appreciate historical fiction. This, however,
is quite extraordinary and contrary to the expressed beliefs of many scholars.
Furthermore, people today can be more interested in literature than in history.
Hollywood would have gone bankrupt long since without such an ability to
disregard historical facts.
If we – having studied history in a scientific way for 200 years – do not
always think that historical exactitude is a virtue that cannot be counterbalanced
by morally acceptable fiction, what about people of ancient times who never
shared such a sense of history? Would they have paid attention to the historical
correctness of a narrative about the past or would they have placed emphasis on
aesthetic and moral values? The answer is not provided by ancient Near Eastern
literature – we know very little about the reception of this literature among
ordinary people – but by the discussions of classical intellectuals on the value
of history. Cicero’s famous characterization of history as the ‘teacher of life’ is
important: on the basis of Hellenistic philosophy, Cicero regards history not as

16. Cf. the interesting study by Peter Welten, Geschichte und Geschichtsdarstellung in den
Chronikbüchern (WMANT, 42; Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1973).
284 Biblical studies and the failure of history

a literary genre dealing with the past, but as a genre that uses the past to educate
present and future generations.17
We should not limit our interest in Kings to a search for historical informa-
tion. Such may only be present in short notes. We should pay attention to the
purpose of this literature because it is a safe guess that this literature was com-
posed to impress the present rather than save recollections of the past for their
own sake. It is a long story, which exceeds the limits of a short article.18 It is my
thesis that the authors of ancient literature of the type that is found in the Old
Testament did not care much about the historical exactitude of descriptions of
the past. The past was not interesting, except for its examples of good and bad
behaviour which might be provided for the present and future. The past was
interesting because it explained the present – even sometimes made present
arrangements seem legitimate or natural. Otherwise, let the dead bury the dead!
This is one side of the coin. The other has to do with the claim that we
should not expect ancient historical narrative to be precise about the past or
even related to it except in a superficial way. How can I prove my case? The
easy solution to this problem is to say that it is sometimes possible to point at
passages where the authors of Kings directly say that they are not interested in
history. The previously mentioned references to the chronicles of the kings of
Israel and Judah actually tell us this. Thus, King Omri is done away with in a
few verses in 1 Kings 16. We are informed that he assumed power by a coup
d’état and that he ruled Israel for twelve years and built Samaria. After this the
focus changes and we hear about his sins against Yahweh. The author of 1 Kings
16, however, knows that Omri was a great king, but advises his reader to go
and look for himself in the chronicles of the kings of Israel (1 Kgs 16:27)! The
biblical historiographer has no intention of providing his reader with a report
of Omri’s reign, although he accepts the idea that Omri was a great king. After
all, after his death his kingdom carried his name for more than 100 years, a fact
which is immaterial from the perspective of the ancient history writer. Omri’s
greatness is not denied; it is silenced.
A more complicated way to solve the problem presented will be to establish
whether or not the history of ancient Israel, as narrated by biblical writers, is
precise in any comprehensive way. It can be split into several succeeding peri-
ods: the period of the patriarchs, of the Exodus, of the Israelites travelling in the
desert for forty years, of the conquest of Canaan, of the hero-judges of Israel,
of the national greatness under David and Solomon, of ever-impending disaster
under the kings of Israel and Judah, etc. Has this anything to do with the real
past of this geographical region, otherwise known as the southern Levant or
Palestine? I have no intention of reviewing this history in detail now. I have
already presented such in several publications.19 Other scholars have contrib-
uted as well. The history of Israel as told by the Old Testament begins with the

17. Cicero, De oratore, II.ix.36.

18. Cf. also Chapter 17, this volume.
19. For convenience, Lemche, Ancient Israel: A New History of Israelite Society (The
Biblical Seminar 5; Sheffield: JSOT, 1988) – which is, after all, not so new anymore.
 On the problems of reconstructing pre-Hellenistic history 285

patriarchal age. It continues with the sojourn in Egypt, followed by the Exodus
and the wanderings in the desert. It then follows, successively, the conquest of
Canaan, the Period of the Judges, the empire of David and Solomon, the era
of the Hebrew kings, the exile and the Persian period. This history ends with
Ezra’s promul­gation of the Torah, the Law of Moses, in front of the assembled
inhabitants of Jerusalem and Judah.
1999 represents the silver anniversary of the final settlement – represented by
the contributions by Thomas L. Thompson and John Van Seters – with the idea
that there ever was a patriarchal period.20 This is based on family stories, sagas
and legends about the past, and has nothing to do with history. The idea once
formulated by Albrecht Alt that there was a special patriarchal religion based
on the belief in der Gott der Väter, ‘the God of the fathers’, is simply nonsense
as Alt based his argument on Nabataean evidence from the second century bce
through the second century ce.21
A long time ago, the Exodus passed from history into fiction. It never hap-
pened. Neither did the conquest. Several biblical scholars, including myself,
have made this clear. From a historical point of view, Israelites could not have
conquered Canaan by destroying Canaanite forces for the simple reason that
Egyptians still ruled Canaan when Joshua is supposed to have arrived (i.e.
shortly before 1200bce).22 Second, there is no trace of foreign immigration and,
third, even the biblical account about the conquest is contradictory (compare
Josh. to Judg. 1).
In my original monograph on the Period of the Judges, which appeared
some thirty years ago, I argued that the narratives in Judges about the heroic
exploits of the Israelite judges were coloured by later experience.23 They were
also dominated by the wish to demonstrate how Israel should fight its enemies
– Canaanites, Moabites, Ammonites, Philistines, Arameans, etc. – in a paradig-
matic way. These narratives do not allow us to reconstruct the history of the
period between a non-existent conquest and a likewise non-existent empire of
David and Solomon. The stories about the judges of Israel belong among the
genre of heroic tales that most civilizations include among their memories of
the past.
The empire of David and Solomon, believed to have existed in the tenth
century bce, is apparently based on a fictional representation of the past. Many

20. Cf. Thomas L. Thompson, The Historicity of the Patriarchal Narratives: The Quest for
the Historical Abraham (BZAW 133; Berlin: De Gruyter, 1974), and John Van Seters,
Abraham in History and Tradition (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1975).
21. Albrecht Alt, Der Gott der Väter. Ein Beitrag zur Vorgeschichte der israelitischen
Religion (BWANT 48; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1929; English translation by R. A.
Wilson, ‘The God of the Fathers’, in Albrecht Alt, Essays on Old Testament History and
Religion, The Biblical Seminar, Sheffield: JSOT, 1989, 1–77).
22. For a recent evaluation of the duration of the Egyptian empire in Asia, cf. Donald B.
Redford, Egypt, Canaan, and Israel in Ancient Times (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University
Press, 1992), 283–97. Redford dates the Egyptian withdrawal to circa 1150bce.
23. Israel i dommertiden: En oversigt over diskussionen om Martin Noths ‘Das System der
zwölf Stämme Israels’ (Tekst og Tolkning 4; Copenhagen: CEG Gad, 1972), 86–7.
286 Biblical studies and the failure of history

things speak in favour of this conclusion. One of them has to do with the status
of Jerusalem in the tenth century bce when Jerusalem was at most a village or
small town.24
We have already discussed the period of the Hebrew kings. Although the two
kingdoms of Israel and Judah are historical facts, we are in possession of very
little in the way of solid knowledge about them. Further­more, when reviewing
the evidence we have in the Old Testament and other sources, it is evident that
the Old Testament has distorted our view of ancient Palestinian history. This
was far more complicated and included many more actors than merely these
two king­doms. The Old Testament never explains why or how this territory got
the name Palestine (‘the land of the Philistines’). Foreign­ers, includ­ing Assyrian
authors of royal annals and Herodotus, knew the name Palestine. Herodotus
simply states that Palestine is the part of Syria that is situated between Lebanon
and Egypt.25
There is hardly time to discuss the historicity of the exile, which might not
have been as important as described by the Old Testament. Recent investiga-
tions have shown that the ‘land of Israel’ was not deserted in the time of the
exile and that it only affected very few among the popula­tion of Palestine. There
was no ‘empty land’ as postulated by the biblical books of Chronicles and other
biblical literature.26
The Persian period is, finally, a dark spot on the historical map of Palestine.
We know almost nothing about this period. Ezra, the great hero of post-exilic
Judaism, is probably a late invention (by Pharisaic authors?), probably 200
years old when he arrived (his father was killed by Nebuchadnezzar’s general,
Nebuzaradan, in 587bce – according to the biblical evidence).27

24. I have no intention to go into a detailed discussion about the historicity or non-historicity
of David and Solomon. The idea of a united monarchy of Israel/Judah died as terminol-
ogy changed. Now, it is preferable to see the period from circa 1250 to circa 900 as one
long intermediary period, a ‘transitionary period’, and the way to approach this period
has been demonstrated by, for example, Israel Finkelstein, ‘The Emergence of Israel:
A Phase in the Cyclic History of Canaan in the Third and Second Millennia bce,’ in I.
Finkelstein and N. Na’aman (eds) From Nomadism to Monarchy: Archaeological and
Historical Aspects of Early Israel (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1994), 150–78,
and Shlomo Bunimowitz, ‘Socio-Political Transformations in the Central Hill Country
in the Late Bronze-Iron I Transition,’ in Finkelstein and Na’aman (eds) From Nomadism
to Monarchy, 179–203.
25. Cf. Herodotus, The Histories, I, 105; II, 104; III, 5.91; IV, 39; VII, 89.
26. Cf. Hans M. Barstad, The Myth of the Empty Land: A Study in the History and Archae­
ology of Judah During the ‘Exilic’ Period (Oslo: Scandinavian University Press, 1996).
See, however, also Ehud Ben Zvi, ‘Inclusion in and Exclusion from Israel as Conveyed
by the Use of the Term “Israel” in Post-Monarchic Biblical Texts’, in S. W. Holloway
and L. K. Handy (eds) The Pitcher is Broken. Memorial Essays for Gösta W. Ahlström
(JSOT supplement, 190; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995), 95–149, and the
discussion in Lester L. Grabbe (ed.) Leading Captivity Captive: The ‘Exile’ as History
and Ideology (JSOT supplement, 278; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998).
27. Cf. Ezra’s pedigree, Ezra 7:1: Ezra, son of Seraiah, son of Azariah, son of Hilkiah, son of
Shallum, etc. On Seraiah’s death, cf. 2 Kgs 25:18. Hilkiah was high priest in the days of
 On the problems of reconstructing pre-Hellenistic history 287

Although this review is ‘reductionist’, it is to the point. It is based on a

review of all kinds of evidence, not least the results of extensive archaeological
excavations in Palestine that have lasted for more than 100 years. I need not say
that archaeology is not an exact science like mathematics and never will be. Any
result obtained by an archaeologist will include a number of hypo­theses, based
on the material that has been found. Furthermore, the basis of archaeological
theories can never be revisited. In Kathleen Kenyon’s words, all excavations
include destruction. An archaeologist destroys evidence with excavation. The
original archaeological situation can never be re-established.
However, archaeologists continually formulate general hypotheses about the
development of this geographic area that speak against the evidence of a late
written source such as the Old Testament (which, according to me and the mem-
bers of my school, hardly predates the Greco-Roman Period). It is therefore a
safe guess to argue that this late source – though written – does not constitute
a historical source. It is not – to recall Droysen – Überreste; it is definitely
Bericht, a tale about the past.
The development in Palestine between, say, 1250bce and 900bce is an
example of this. Archaeology and other non-biblical information about ancient
Palestine implies that Palestine in the late Bronze Age (roughly the second half
of the second millennium bce) was an Egyptian province ruled by local princes
who looked upon themselves as faithful vassals of their patron, the Pharaoh.
For most of the time, Palestine was left alone. Only occasionally did Egyptians
interfere directly with the mundane problems there. The everlasting inter-
necine war games played by local chieftains who saw themselves as ‘kings’
(the Egyptian had other ideas about their importance and called them hazanu
�
– that is, ‘mayors’) had a devastating effect on the well-being of the country.
It was not before the so-called ‘Ramesside restoration’ of Egyptian presence in
western Asia after the debacle that ended the eighteenth dynasty that matters
changed and the Egyptian presence became more dominating. Some could say
that Ramesses II created a kind of ‘Pax Egyptiaca’ in Palestine. The Egyptian
masters limited the devastating effects of the ‘free-for-all’ politics of the local
Palestinian chieftains. The Egyptians created a situation of relative peace in the
country that might have had a positive demographic effect as people moved
from the cities to the countryside to live closer to their fields. The late thirteenth,
the twelfth and the early eleventh centuries bce were witnessing the foundations
of scores if not hundreds of insignificant and unprotected village settlements,
not least in the mountains of Palestine. Life must have become pretty safe. From
at least the eleventh century bce, a certain reduction of the number of villages
took place. This demographic chance was coun­ter­balanced by the rise of certain
settlements to the status of heavily fortified townships. Tel Beersheba with its
circular walls and planned layout is a typical example of such a settlement that
may look more like a medieval fortress than a proper city or town.

Josiah, 2 Kgs 22:4. Of course, many scholars will maintain that the genealogy is either
false or telescoped.
288 Biblical studies and the failure of history

This stage may have occurred as a consequence of an at least partial Egyptian

withdrawal from Palestine (although it now seems likely that, at least in Bet
Shean, an Egyptian garrison was present as late as the begin­ning of the tenth
century bce28). Life became more dangerous and the socio-political system of
the past (local patrons fighting other local patrons) emerged again. I have once
described this development as a move from one patronage society to another
patronage society, from an old political system to a new system that was an
exact copy of the former system.29 This period lasted until probably the middle
of the ninth century when some of the local chieftains were able to create large
political struc­tures that exceeded the boundaries of those present in the Late
Bronze Age, a time when most Palestinian political systems were extremely
small. Such large political structures might have existed before the Iron Age
– for example, in the Early Bronze Age (third millennium). Here, remains of
considerable cities are found. The Middle Bronze Age might be another period
that included comprehensive political organizations, although we have very lit-
tle precise knowledge about the political structure of Palestinian society before
the Late Bronze Age.
The biblical picture of ancient Israel does not fit in but is contrary to any
image of ancient Palestinian society that can be established on the basis of
ancient sources from Palestine or referring to Palestine. There is no way this
image in the Bible can be reconciled with the historical past of the region. And
if this is the case, we should give up the hope that we can reconstruct pre-
Hellenistic history on the basis of the Old Testament. It is simply an invented
history with only a few referents to things that really happened or existed. From
a historian’s point of view, ancient Israel is a monstrous creature. It is something
sprung out of the fantasy of biblical historiographers and their modern para-
phrasers (i.e. the historical-critical scholars of the last 200 years).

Acknowledgements

This chapter appeared first as an address to a symposium at the University of

Aarhus, Denmark, in September 1999, and at Columbia University, New York,
in November 1999.

28. Cf. the short discussion by Patrick E. McGovern, ‘Beth-Shean’, ABD I, 694–5. The Late
Bronze Age phase of occupation continued to about 1000bce. Only after that date does
a new stratum reveal different layouts and culture. The city was hardly Philistine (the
author of 1 Sam. 31 got it totally wrong); only a single piece of Philistine pottery has
been found at the tell (McGovern, ‘Beth-Sheen’).
29. See Chapter 14, this volume.
 19

How does one date an expression of mental history?

The Old Testament and Hellenism
2001

In the good old days – not so long ago – a biblical text was usually dated by its
historical referent. A text that seemed to include historical information might
well belong to the age when this historical referent was likely to have existed.
This was the general attitude. The referent was the decisive factor. If the infor-
mation included in the referent was considered precise or at least likely, the text
that provided this information was con­sidered more or less contemporary with
the event – that is, the historical referent, though the only source for such an
event, was often the text in question. Everyone spoke of a ‘hermeneutical cir­cle’
and it was generally accepted that the study of ancient Israel was based logically
on a circullus logicus vitiosum. Nobody within biblical studies believed that it
was possible to avoid this logical fallacy. A classical example of such ‘method-
ology’ – or lack of methodol­ogy – relates to studies dealing with the last years
of Judah’s history. It has become common to argue that the united monarchy
of David and Solomon never existed. It is also accepted, in regard to the early
days of the independent kingdoms of Israel and Judah, that most information
in the books of Kings is legendary. Nevertheless, when it comes to the closure
of the history of Judah, scholars consider large sections of the Deuteronomistic
History to include vital historical information about Judah in the seventh and
early sixth centuries bce. The reform of King Josiah is still generally assumed to
have taken place in 623/622bce, much as described in 2 Kings. That Chronicles
has a different story of this reform does not worry scholars who too readily
accept the version pre­sented in 2 Kings. Chronicles has King Hezekiah and not
Josiah as the great reformer (2 Chron. 29–31). Although it knows the story of
Josiah’s reform (2 Chron. 34–35), it is Hezekiah and not Josiah who reinstates
the Passover as it had been in the days of old. Apparently, even if the author of
Chronicles had bor­rowed from the Deuteronomistic History, he did not accept
that view of the past, demonstrating greater independence than many schol-
ars of the present have shown, who simply paraphrase 2 Kings, disregarding
Chronicles’ caveat.
It is obvious that ancient historiographers handled so-called his­torical nar-
rative in different ways. Sometimes, they elaborated upon a text, describing
a well-known historical event, such as Sennacherib’s attack on Hezekiah in
701bce. The biblical historiographers include a short note with a series of ‘facts’
290 Biblical studies and the failure of history

relating to Sennacherib’s campaign (2 Kgs 18:13-16). This note might well have
been found in an archive.1 It is, however, more than likely that the biblical his-
toriographers used it as a jumping-off point for an elaborate invented story of
the liberation of Jerusalem from the mighty Assyrians (2 Kgs 18:17–19:37).2 At
other times, these historiographers found historical informa­tion about the past
within their own tradition, but were not able to localize it historically.3 They
were also able to create ‘his­tory’ nearly from scratch.4 Altogether, it is clear that
biblical historiogra­phers did not share the modern idea of history as a scholarly
discipline.5 They rather fit a tradition of the past to the ver­sion of the his­tory of
Israel they offered their audience, sharing in a common tradition of historiogra-
phers in the ancient world.6 The past was not something that merely happened
and thereafter forgotten. It was part of a living tradi­tion, brought to life again
and again whenever an ancient author called on the past to illus­trate the present.
Because of such standards for dealing with the past, it is unlikely that we can
date a biblical narrative by its his­torical referent. It is obvious that historical
truth was not a criterion employed by historiographers of the ancient world who
constructed a past in this way.7 They evidently had a programme, and narra­tive

1. Compare this note in 2 Kings with the version presented by Sennacherib (ANET, 287–8).
Although the two versions are not identical or in total agree­ment concerning the course
of events, they include much the same information.
2. Cf., further, my ‘Om historisk erindring i Det Gamle Testamentes his­toriefortællinger’
(‘On Historical Remains in the Historical Narratives of the Old Testament’), in
G. Hallbäck and J. Strange (eds) Bibel og Historieskrivning (Forum for Bibelsk
Eksegese, 10; Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum, 1999), 11–28 (20–24).
3. Examples of this are the anachronistic note about Pithom and Ramses in Exod. 1:11, the
settlement of the Benjaminites and the Kingdom of David; cf. Chapter 10, this volume.
4. In Lemche, ‘Om historisk erindring’, 24–6. The example that illustrates this is 2 Kings
3: the legendary story of an Israelite and Judaean campaign against Moab. The only
historical element could well be Mesha, the name of the king of Moab.
5. It is a revealing fact that Greek ῾ιστορία (from the verb ῾ιστορέω, ‘to enquire’) primarily
means ‘enquiry’, and comes closest to ‘history’ in our sense when it is used in regard
to reports of enquiries (cf. Liddell and Scott, Greek–English Lexicon, 9th edn; Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1925, 842). Herodotus opens his report in this way: ῾Ηροδότου
῾Αλιχαρνησσέος ῾ιστορίης α᾽ πόδεξις η῾΄δε, ω῾ ς μήτε τὰ γεγόμενα ε’ ξ α᾽ νθρώπων τω ι̃ χρόνω
ε’ ξίτηλα γένηται, μήτε ε’΄ργα μεγάλα τε καὶ θωμαστά, τὰ μὲν ῾Ελλησι, τὰ δὲ βαρβάροισι
α᾽ ποδεχθέντα, ακλεα̃ γένηται, τὰ τε α᾽΄λλα καὶ δι᾽ η῾΄ν αι᾽τίην ε’ πολέμησαν α᾽ λλη΄λοισι (‘The
enquiries of Herodotus from Halicarnassos presented here, in order that what people
have done should not vanish with time, or that the great and wonderful deeds of the
Greeks and the Bar­barians should not fall into oblivion, but also why they engaged in
a war among them’; Herodotus, Book 1, the opening). He does not present himself as a
scholar so much as a journalist.
6. Cf. further, with reference to the similarity to Greek and Roman histori­ography, Chapter
17, this volume. On the whole process of creating the past, cf. Thomas L. Thompson,
The Bible in History: How Writers Create a Past (London: Jonathan Cape, 1999).
7. Whereas Greek and Roman authors have been well served by modern stu­dents of
ancient literature, the historiography of the ancient Near East has not evoked the same
kind of interest. For a recent overview, cf. John Van Seters, ‘The Historiography of the
Ancient Near East’, in J. M. Sasson (ed.) Civilizations of the Ancient Near East, IV
 How does one date an expression of mental history? 291

was the medium selected to present their case. Specific ideas and sentiments,
religious convictions, as well as ideas about the nation and people of Israel
directed their thinking.8 We may call it propaganda or educa­tional literature as
we wish. The aim of such literature was not only to entertain their contemporar-
ies, but also, and more im­por­tantly, to impress the next generation.9
Political ideas and religious sentiments come together to form the ‘mental
matrix’ of a person, governing the expres­sions of all writers – ancient as well as
modern. Moreover, biblical historiographers carried within themselves mental
matrices that were deci­sive when they chose what to include and what to leave
out in retelling the past. The student of such literature should in­vestigate whether
or not it is possible to reconstruct such men­tal matrices. Were they governed by
ideas that originated in ancient Pal­estine, Mesopotamia or Egypt, or had Greek
philoso­phy already influenced them to such a degree that knowledge of Greek
(Hellenistic) civilization is apparent? What did biblical histori­ographers know?
They were governed by an antiquarian interest, which they share with modern
colleagues, the historians of the present. How­ever, this is a superficial similarity
that merely implies that ancient histo­riog­raphers wanted to attribute to their own
time the meaning of the past.
To understand such interest in the past, it must be stressed that ancient
societies were very conservative – if not re­actionary. This is nowhere better
reflected than in the tale of the ages of the world of an original ‘golden age’
sup­planted by a less prosperous ‘silver age’, which, for its part, was sup­planted
by a ferocious ‘brazen age’.10 Everything in the begin­ning was perfect: ‘And
God saw ­everything that he had made and, behold, it was very good’ (Gen.
1:31). Innovation was carried out to re-estab­lish an original world order. This
was the ideology behind, for example, the mišarum acts of old Babylonia, when
debts were abol­ished and property handed back to an original owner.11 Ancient

(New York: Simon & Schuster, 1995), 2433–44, but also John Van Seters, In Search of
History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History (New
Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983) and, finally, the discussion in John Van Seters,
Prologue to History: The Yahwist as His­torian in Genesis (Louisville, KY: West­minster/
John Knox Press, 1992), chapter 2, ‘Myth and Tradition in Ancient His­toriography’,
24–44.
8. Cf. also on this my The Israelites in History and Tradition (Library of An­cient Israel;
Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1998), especially chapter 4, ‘The People
of God: The Two Israels in the Old Testament’, 86–132.
9. Cicero’s characterization of history, in his De oratore, 2.9.36, Historia vero testis tempo-
rum, lux veritatis, vita memoriae, magistra vitae, nuntia vetustatis … (‘History [is] truly
the witness about the ages, the light of truth, the life of memories, the teacher of life, and
the messenger of ancient times …’), should never be left out of consideration when we
evaluate ancient historiography. Cf. further on this Chapter 17, this volume.
10. Cf. Hesiod, Works and Days, 110–55, and Ovid, Metamorphoses, I. 90–162.
11. The classical studies on these decrees are F. R. Kraus, Ein Edikt des Königs Ammi-
úaduqa von Babylon (SDOAP 5; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1958) and F. R. Kraus, Königliche
Verfügungen in altbabylonischen Zeit (Studia et documenta ad iura ori­entis ad iura
antiqui pertinentia 11; Leiden: E .J. Brill, 1984).
292 Biblical studies and the failure of history

s­ ocieties were not ‘primitive’, but ‘traditional’ soci­eties, a term adopted by

an­thro­pologists of the present. The past was preserved to provide guidance for
the present and future. The past carried meaning, which should not be lost,
and it was the duty of the historiographer to preserve the past by retelling it.12
Meaning was more important than what happened: ‘Is this true or something
that just happened?’13
The past as a concept and a reality also created a chronological dis­tance to
the present, and thus made unlikely things possible – that is, what is unlikely in
the present ‘brazen age’. The past – the ‘gol­den age’ – was a never-never land.
What hap­pened in this world, once upon a time, has meaning for the pre­sent.
Because ancient writers had no definite ideas about history in the modern sense
of the word, they did not distinguish between many kinds of information about
the past, but mixed genres together. It is understandable that literary genres such
as fairy tales, legends, myths and so on are joined by biblical authors in a most
uncriti­cal way. According to ancient historiography, there were no quali­tative
differences between a fairy tale and a his­torical report. The past was the subject
of both fairy tale and report. Therefore, both provided evidence for history’s
meaning.14
Describing and dating the mental matrix of an ancient writer is difficult. It is
especially difficult when the author in question is anony­mous and not dated by
external evidence. We have only one way to proceed and that is to concentrate
on the written piece of evidence produced by the writer in question, in this case
the biblical texts, to see whether it is possible to establish an intellectual ‘profile’
of the author. If this be possible, we can continue our quest and propose – but
no more than that – the author’s situational background, which pins him to a
specific period in the development of human think­ing.
Authors of biblical literature are always anonymous. The text is the only
evidence we possess. It is important, however. All texts come into being
within a certain intellectual environment and are expressions of that environ-
ment. Allow me to illustrate this point. In a discussion about the similarities
and dissimilarities between the Dead Sea Scrolls and the New Testa­ment, my
Copenhagen colleague in New Testament studies, Niels Hyldahl, talks about

12. Which has little to do with modern ideas of history as the reconstruction of the past for
its own sake – wie es eigentlich gewesen, as expressed by Leopold von Ranke. Cf. also
the ‘Prolegomena’ to my The Israelites in History and Tradition, 1–8.
13. I found this wonderful line some years ago in a Danish newspaper in a re­view of a book
about the Icelandic sagas. I have forgotten both the author of this line and the exact
place where it was originally printed. It does, however, express in a most precise way
the difference between pre-modern and modern ideas of history.
14. This is definitely a subject that could be expanded upon. The ‘meaning of his­tory’ has
nothing to do with modern concepts such as ‘la longue durée’ of Les an­nales school
which says that certain conditions are likely to produce certain devel­opments over time
(e.g. that in a certain geographical area the natural geog­raphy is likely to promote specific
historical processes). ‘La longue durée’ promotes a kind of historical determinism that
could, at best, be termed ‘quantitative’. The meaning of the ‘great deeds of the past’ was,
in antiquity, rather qualitative.
 How does one date an expression of mental history? 293

‘structural ­similarities’.15 Scholars have pointed out the many such parallels as
evidence of a physical relationship between Essenes (supposed to be the authors
of the Dead Sea Scrolls) and early Christians.16 In the same way, other scholars
have stressed the divergences between the New Testament and the scrolls from
Qumran. Although it is a fact that the New Testament and the Dead Sea Scrolls
are related in one way or another – both groups of texts belong to approximately
the same age – it would be wrong to maintain that the au­thors of the Dead
Sea Scrolls were Christians. However, the sim­ilarity between the two bodies of
literature remains, though it should not be understood to establish an identity
between early Christians and Essenes. The sim­ilarity has to do with the issues
raised by both the Dead Sea Scrolls and the New Testament.
Every period has special questions and topics of discus­sion. An overview of
scholarship within Old Testament studies during the twentieth century makes
this not only obvious, it is a truism. Around the turn of the nineteenth century,
the ‘Babel–Bible’ con­troversy was at the centre of scholarly (and public) inter-
est, following the discovery of the ancient civilizations of Mesopotamia.17 This
con­tro­versy died before the outbreak of World War I. All studies which centre
on this discussion can, accordingly, be dated safely to the pe­riod between the
decipherment of Akkadian cuneiform in the nineteenth century and 1914. After
that date, it has been largely irrele­vant, though scholars of this period had not
resolved the controversy.
The amphictyony became a major subject after the publication in 1930 of
Martin Noth’s study of Israelite soci­ety in the Period of the Judges.18 For the
next forty years this hypothesis dominated every single study on pre-­monarchic
Israel. Although most scholars adopted the hypothesis as their own, a few
important diver­gent voices were heard. However, even scholars who rejected
the am­phictyony had to address the question of such a tribal organization, if
what they wrote was to be considered seriously.19 For the last two decades there
has been almost total silence regarding an am­phictyony after a series of studies

15. Cf. Niels Hyldahl, ‘Qumran og den ældste kristendom: En kort introduktion og problem-
orientering’, in N. Hyldahl and T. L. Thompson (eds), Døde­havsteksterne og Bibelen
(Forum for Bibelsk Eksegese 8; Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum, 1996), 9–16.
16. This is certainly not the place to get involved in the current discussion about the origin
of the library found at Qumran. I have a certain preference for the theory of a library
with mixed content, probably from Jerusalem and stored away in the Judaean Desert, by,
perhaps, 63bce. This theory requires a new dating of the scrolls to show that they belong
to the first century bce rather than the first century ce.
17. A recent overview of this discussion can be found in Mogens Trolle Larsen, ‘The Bable/
Bible Controversy and its Aftermath’, in J. M Sasson (ed.) Civiliza­tions of the Ancient
Near East, I (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1995), 95–106.
18. Martin Noth, Das System der zwölf Stämme Israels (BWANT 4.1; Stuttgart: W.
Kohlhammer, 1930).
19. Among the scholars who never accepted the hypothesis about the amph­ic­tyony, we may
mention two important names: Otto Eissfeldt and Georg Fohrer. On the criticism of the
amphictyony, cf. my Israel i Dommertiden: En oversigt over diskussionen om Martin
Noths ‘Das System der zwölf Stämme Israels’ (Tekst og Tolkning 4; Copenhagen: G. E.
C. Gad, 1972), 31–8.
294 Biblical studies and the failure of history

had appeared during the early 1970s, re­moving the historical foundation for
its existence. In 1984, I was able to conclude the discussion in this way: ‘The
hypothesis of the amph­ictyony by now is irrelevant to the investiga­tions into
Israel’s past history.’20
Between 1954 and 1970, as a consequence of the publication of George
Mendenhall’s articles about the relationship between the Sinai covenant and
Hittite vassal treaties from the Late Bronze Age, Old Tes­tament scholars
invested a great deal of interest in covenant theology.21 For a decade and a half,
everything had centred on the covenant that was supposed to appear here, there
and everywhere in the Old Testa­ment. After 1969, when Lothar Perlitt merely
announced that covenant theol­ogy was invented by a circle of Deuteronomistic
theologians to­wards the end of the independent Israelite and Judean history,
nobody con­tinued the subject, which went into oblivion as if it had never
existed.22
These are only rather insignificant examples from a minor field within the
academic world. However, they illustrate how every period will give birth to
a number of questions – within philosophy, religion or politics – that bear a
specific context within this period, hot subjects for a while, but soon forgotten.
The same was true in ancient times, although, because of limited communica-
tion, the stream of ever-changing ideas did not flow as fast as it does today.
Every era included issues, which specifically related to the period and became
subjects of lively discus­sion among that period’s intellectuals. We should not
be surprised when two corpora of texts, belonging to the same period, display
many similarities and yet are as different as texts of the New Tes­tament and the
Dead Sea Scrolls. The New Testament and the Dead Sea Scrolls need not agree
simply because they are more or less from the same period. It is an old scholarly
hoax that people belonging to one and the same period should agree on any-
thing and eve­rything. To the contrary, in a society of the real world, there are
always nearly as many opinions as people to discuss them. It is not the variety
of opinions but the number of issues that is limited. Niels Hyldahl, accordingly,
does not speak about individual points of contact but about a systemic kind of
rela­tionship: similar ques­tions, but different answers.
Since the beginning of academic discussion, it has been a favourite pastime
of scholars to indulge in comparative studies. I will not elaborate upon this
theme here. I only refer the reader to James G. Frazer’s The Golden Bough
as a famous, but also contested, example.23 It is too easy to find similarities

20. Cf. my ‘Israel in the Period of the Judges: The Tribal League in Recent Discus­sion’, ST
38 (1984), 1–28; cf. also Georg Fohrer, ‘Methoden und Moden in der alttestamentlichen
Wissenschaft’, ZAW 100 Supplement (1988), 243–54 (244–8).
21. Cf. George E. Mendenhall, ‘Covenant Forms in Israelite Tradition’, BA 17 (1954),
50–76.
22. Lothar Perlitt, Bundestheologie im Alten Testament (WMANT 36; Neukirchen-Vluyn:
Neukirchener Verlag, 1969).
23. James G. Frazer, The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion (New York: St
Martin’s Press, 1990 [1890]).
 How does one date an expression of mental history? 295

between literary expressions of different cultures when they belong to the same
stage of devel­opment, particularly when we talk about relatively simple socie-
ties with more or less uniform socio-economic systems, such as subsistence
agriculture. In such agrarian cultures, peasants all over the world share ideas
without ever having been in mutual contact. The details are, in themselves, an
interest­ing scholarly issue and can – when collected – result in some­thing like
Stith Thompson’s index of folk-motifs of fairy tales and leg­endary stories, origi-
nating mostly in oral environments and, at times, elaborated upon in writing.24
When, however, cultures are more complicated and diversification of occu-
pation in an old Durkheimian25 fashion creates sepa­ration within one and the
same society, cultural expressions also be­come more elaborate and sophisti-
cated. In this case, a systemic similar­ity as the one discussed above more likely
reflects political and especially cultural interchange between interrelated cul-
tural zones, such as Mesopotamia, Western Syria and the Levant in the Bronze
Age, or Mesopotamia and Egypt already before the dawn of history. The famous
saying that Graecia capta ferum victorem cepit, ‘conquered Greece conquered
its barbaric conqueror’,26 states succinctly that Romans became Hellenized
when they entered into con­tact with Greece and were overwhelmed by its supe-
rior civilization and cultural tradition.
The moment we approach the problem of dating an Old Testament text – not
to say the Old Testament itself – we are confronted with the literary remains of
a culturally very rich civilization. Primitive lit­erature is not found in the Old
Testament. Every part of the collection included in the Old Testament displays
a sophistication that brings us far beyond the cultural borders of an undevel-
oped and basically agrar­ian society. The primary history (Genesis to 2 Kings)
is a fine example of this and need not be discussed in this context.27 Of more
interest in this connection are the patriarchal narratives. Although these sto-
ries include many motifs from folk literature and reflect pop­ular sto­ries, they
are much too complicated to have originated within a milieu that was almost
exclusively oral – Gunkel’s notorious campfire soci­ety – or one which had just
changed from an oral to a written stage of transmission. I will not reiterate the
ideas of André Jolles that oral literature is necessarily simple and devoid of

24. Cf. Stith Thompson, Motif-Index of Folk Literature: A Classification of Narra­

tive Elements in Folktales, Ballads, Myths, Fables, Mediaeval Romances, Exempla,
Jest-Books and Local Legends (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1966
[1955–1958]).
25. Cf. Émile Durkheim, De la division du travail social (Paris: Presses univer­sitaires de
France, 1996 [1893]).
26. … et artis intulit agresti Latio. Horace, Epist. 2.1.156–7.
27. Of interest in this connection is John Van Seters’s comparison between Greek and bibli-
cal primeval histories in his ‘The Primeval Histories of Greece and Israel Compared’,
ZAW 100 (1988), 1–22; cf. also his Prologue to History, 78–103. Van Seters definitely
sees a clear relationship between the two traditions about the origins of humankind and
the world, but does not accept that this connec­tion excludes other traditions such as the
Mesopotamian primeval traditions.
296 Biblical studies and the failure of history

literary elabora­tion.28 There are plenty of examples of the complexity of orally

trans­mitted lit­erature. I do, however, say that the complexity is different from
the one found in Ugaritic epics, or from another age, the Serbo-Croatian heroic
epics that have been collected by Parry and Lord.29 The com­plexity of a literary
corpus such as the patriarchal narratives depends on the themes that are com-
bined by the authors of these nar­ratives and are difficult to separate. It also has
to do with themes such as ‘how God educates human beings’, illustrated by the
unique hu­moresque which constitutes the Abraham complex30 of ‘the struggle
between creator and creation’ that governs the traditions united throughout the
Primary History.
It goes without saying that the form of these narratives, almost entirely
prose, is an indication of a milieu of written literature that is nearly unique
in the ancient Near East. Prose literary fiction was not widely distributed in
the ancient Near East. Mesopotamian literary creations were, like the literature
from Ugarit, mostly preserved in the form of poems or epics. The literary elite
of the Middle King­dom made extensive use of prose stories. From a literary
point of view, this is probably the best comparison with the milieu that cre-
ated literature, such as the patriarchal narratives, but it is removed by at least
1000 years.31 Prose was, of course, known and domi­nates royal annals, Hittite
as well as Babylonian and Mesopotamian. But although the forms of Assyrian
royal annals may show up within biblical literature, the Old Testament does not
include royal annals but, at most, literature which borrowed its form from such
reports.32 The ­patriar­chal narratives have, of course, nothing to do with royal
official literature. The author(s) who wrote these stories were evidently well-
educated people who could both write and read. They did not write with gods in
mind.33 Their literature was composed with other edu­cated people in mind, peo-
ple who were able to understand and appreciate it. When we shift to the subject
of ‘how to create profiles of the authors of Old Testament texts’, we have to

28. Cf. André Jolles, Einfache Formen, Legende, Sage, Mythe, Rätsel, Spruch, Kasus,
Memorabile, Märchen, Witz (Tübingen: Max Niemeyer, 1974 [1930]).
29. Milman Parry and Albert B. Lord, Serbo-Croatian Heroic Songs Collected by Milman
Parry (Publications of the Milman Parry Collection; Text and Trans­lation Series, 1–2, 4,
12; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1953–86).
30. This means that Abraham was old before he became wise, and probably never got it
right – until the very moment when he was about to sacrifice his son, his hope for the
future and the essence of Yahweh’s promise to him.
31. Although it cannot be ignored that part of this literature, such as the story of ‘Sinuhe’
or the ‘tale of the two brothers’ that was preserved also at a much later date may have
influenced biblical authors.
32. Cf. K. Lawson Younger, Jr, Ancient Conquest Accounts: A Study in Ancient Near Eastern
and Biblical History Writing (JSOT supplement, 98; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990), who
mixes an acceptable form-critical analysis with impossible historical conclusions.
33. Cf. the examples of Assyrian annals written on both sides of stone slabs, also on the side
of the stone that turned inside and could not be read by anyone except the gods. Other
examples are the many Assyrian stones buried in the foundations of temples which com-
memorated the mighty deeds of the king who built them.
 How does one date an expression of mental history? 297

keep these remarks in mind when we want to describe the mental matrices of
these authors.
In his In Search of ‘Ancient Israel’, Philip R. Davies distinguishes between
three different kinds of ‘Israel’. One is ‘historical Israel’ – that is, the state other-
wise known from Assyrian sources as Bît Humriya or Samarina. This Palestinian
state came into being sometime in the �ninth century bce and was destroyed
by the Assyrians in 722bce. Historical Israel did not include the Palestinian
petty state called Judah, which only appeared on the historical scene as a state
sometime after 800bce and was in existence as a semi-autonomous political
entity until 597 or 587bce.34 The second Israel is ‘biblical Israel’, the creation
of the authors of the Old Testament, and can only partly be related to historical
Israel. Third, modern scholars created still another Israel, the so-called ‘ancient
Israel’. This Israel represents a curious mixture of biblical Israel and historical
Israel.35 Although I have always respected the Dumézilian theory regarding the
importance of the number three in Indo-European tradition, Davies’s theory of
three different ‘Israels’ is one short of being correct. There are not one, but two
biblical ‘Israels’. In my recent study The Israelites in History and Tradition, a
comprehensive section has ‘The People of God’ as its subject.36 ‘The People of
God’ includes the concept of the Israelite nation created by the authors of the
Old Testament prose narratives from Genesis to 2 Kings. It is my argument that
there is more than one biblical Israel in the Old Testament; there are, indeed,
two ‘Israels’ here. One of them is ‘old Israel’, understood as the people of the
covenant written in stone (cf. the Sinai-complex but also Josh. 24); the second is
the ‘new Israel’, the people of the covenant written in the heart (Jer. 31:31-34).
According to the Old Testament, the Babylonian exile constitutes the divi-
sion between old and new Israel. Old Israel is de­stroyed and its people banished
because they reject­ed their God and broke the covenant. The new Israel is the
Israel which is supposed to arise in the future: the true people of God. It has been
identified variously with Judaism and the Christian church (cf. Rom. 9–11). Any
sectarian group within Judaism or Chris­tianity can be expected to refer to itself
as the true ‘new Israel’.
It is often argued that the same nation, which the Babylonians forced into
exile, returned to Palestine during the Persian period. It is, however, still an
unsolved question whether there was, in fact, a return of the dimension envis-
aged by the Old Testament – namely, a significant movement of people from one

34. I do not wish to reopen the discussion about the origins of these states in this essay. The
important study by David W. Jamieson-Drake, Scribes and Schools in Monarchic Judah;
A Socio-Archaeological Approach (JSOT supplement, 109; The Social World of Biblical
Antiquity, 9; Sheffield: Almond Press, 1991) that argues in favour of these dates has
been the subject of much criticism. It should, however, be noticed that Israel Finkelstein
supports such dates, cf. his ‘The Beginning of the State in Israel and Judah’, Eretz-Israel
26 (1999), 132–41 (Hebrew, 134; Eng­lish résumé, 233).
35. Cf. Philip R. Davies, In Search of ‘Ancient Israel’ (JSOT supplement, 148; Shef­field:
JSOT Press, 1992).
36. Lemche, The Israelites in History and Tradition, 86–132.
298 Biblical studies and the failure of history

part of the Middle East to another.37 I will maintain that the ‘exile’ in Babylonia
never ended, and that the presence there of exiled people from Palestine lasted
at least until 1951ce.38 We probably have no other sources than the texts of the
Old Testament, which suggest that a major migration actually took place. Most
of the constructions of Jew­ish history in the Persian period depend on the same
type of hermeneu­tic circular exegesis already described. It is an extraor­dinary
fact that scholars have paid so little attention to the meaning of the different
images of Jerusalem and Judah found in Chronicles, Ezra and Nehemiah. When
we read Nehemiah, it is as if the author of Nehemiah 1–4, the so-called ‘autobi-
ography of Nehemiah’, had never read Ezra. We cannot say with any cer­tainty
that ‘Nehemiah’s autobiography’ is a historical document, reflecting conditions
in Jerusalem during the fourth century bce. It could be a form of novel from a
much later period – that is, the Hellenistic period. Whether it is a piece of litera-
ture going back to a his­torical person with the name Nehemiah, Nehemiah 1–4
describes con­ditions in Jerusalem and its environment that are very different
from the impression of Jerusalem in the Persian period that is found in other
biblical books. Has a Jewish community already appeared in Jerusalem during
the fourth century bce? This is an open question. From an archaeological per-
spective, do we possess evidence that a major migra­tion took place at the end of
the sixth century bce from Mesopotamia to Pales­tine? If this had been the case,
if Jews from Babylonia had really re­turned to Jerusalem and Judah in large num-
bers between 538bce and 516bce, where are their Babylonian cooking-pots?
Would women leave their homes without bringing their utensils with them?39
The point is that the figure of ‘old Israel’ is a construct of biblical authors and
the ‘new Israel’ is a utopia created by the same authors as an expression of their
religious and national programme for the future. There never was the ‘old Israel’
the Bible describes. A ‘new Israel’ is also an invention, representing a project for
the future: God-loving people will found this ‘new Israel’, for only the righteous
will survive to assemble on Zion under the Lord’s protection (Isa. 4).
Two ideas inform the concept of the ‘new Israel’: a covenant between God
and Israel and God’s torah, the law. The covenant of Sinai failed miserably to
unite the people of Israel with its God. The new covenant of Jeremiah 31 will
substitute the old one and cannot be broken because it is not external, but part

37. On the historical value of the biblical idea of Palestine as ‘the empty land’ in the exilic
period, cf. Hans M. Barstad, The Myth of the Empty Land: A Study in the History and
Archaeology of Judah during the ‘Exilic’ Period (Symbolae Osloenses, 28; Oslo:
Scandinavian University Press, 1996). Jamieson-Drake is not of the same conviction.
According to his analysis of the evidence, a total break­down of Judaean society took
place in the sixth century bce. Cf. his Scribes and Schools in Monar­chic Israel, 145–7.
38. That is, until the seventh ‘Alia’ that transferred most of the Iraqi Jewish com­munity to
Israel.
39. I made this point in my ‘Jordan in the Biblical Tradition: An Overview of the Tradition
with Special Reference to the Importance of the Biblical Literature for the Reconstruction
of the History of the Ancient Territories of the State of Jordan’, Studies in the History and
Archaeology of Jordan VII, Department of Antiquities, Amman, 2001, 347–51.
 How does one date an expression of mental history? 299

of the person who has entered the covenant. Together with the covenant goes
God’s torah, or instruction. This instruction guides the new Israel that it one day
enter Zion. Without the torah there is no path to God. Most people will perish
before they ever reach this place of blessing: ‘They have cast away the law of
the Lord of Hosts and despised the word of the Holy One of Israel’ (Isa. 5:24).40
The ‘new Israel’ is the people of God, a people of twelve tribes assem­bled
around the shrine of Yahweh at Zion. It is believed to include people with a com-
mon blood and a common religion – to a lesser degree, with a common language
and with a land of its own.41 The mental matrix of biblical authors centres in the
establish­ment of this new Israel: an ex­pression of a sectarian view of society,
creating a division between two kinds of people – the righteous who belong to
this society and the unjust who will be condemned and discarded. The criterion
for decid­ing who is right­eous and who is not is entirely a religious one: whether
people keep the covenant and follow its instructions. This sectarian community
– like similar orga­nizations in the Hel­le­nistic world – excludes itself from the
greater society surrounding it.42
Without the torah there will never be a new Israel. What does such a state-
ment tell us about the authors who introduced the concept of torah? The
Decalogue opens the torah (Exod. 20:1-21; in Deut. it serves the same purpose:
5:6-21). Regardless of its origin and tradition his­tory, it might serve as an index
for the following sections of the legislation of Moses, opening with the ‘Book
of the Cove­nant’ in Exodus 21–23. The Assyriologist Raymond Westbrook
has argued that the first so-called ‘secular’ part of this collection represents
Mesopotamian legal tradition.43 He is certainly correct – we need only refer
to the great similarity examined by, among others, Shalom Paul and Eckhart
Otto.44 Westbrook believes that this proves the Book of the Cove­nant to be
old. However, in Mesopotamia, the tradition of law codes lasted for millennia,

40. Cf. further on this my ‘“For de har forkastet Hærskarers Herres lov” – eller “vi og de
andre!” – Om forfatter­ne, der skrev Det Gamle Testamente’, in E. K. Holt (ed.) ‘Alle
der ånder skal lovprise Herren’: Det Gamle Testamente i tempel, syna­goge og kirke
(Frederiksberg: Anis, 1998), 63–90; English translation ‘“Because They Have Cast
Away the Law of the Lord of Hosts” – Or “We and the Rest of the World” – The Authors
Who “Wrote” the Old Testament’, SJOT 17 (2003), 268–90.
41. Cf. the virtual ‘re-establishment’ of the amphictyony in my The Israelites in History and
Tradition, 97–107. This amphictyony is not the old one invented by Noth and has no part
in the history of ancient Israel; it is a written mental structure.
42. Cf. the conclusion to Isa. 6. Only the elect among the elect will survive the ordeal (vv.
11-13). It is safe to assume that the author who wrote these verses will not reckon himself
to be among the condemned.
43. Cf. Raymond Westbrook, Studies in Biblical and Cuneiform Law (Cahiers de la Revue
Biblique 26; Paris: J. Gabalda, 1988).
44. Cf. Shalom Paul, Studies in the Book of the Covenant in the Light of Cunei­form and
Biblical Law (VT supplement, 18; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1970), and Eckhart Otto, Wandel
der Rechtsbegründigungen in der Gesellschaftsgeschichte des antiken Is­rael: Eine
Rechtgeschichte des ‘Bundesbuches’ Exod. XX 22-XXIII 13 (Studia Bib­lica, 3; Leiden:
E. J. Brill, 1988).
300 Biblical studies and the failure of history

from Sumerian times until at least the coming of the Greeks and probably even
longer (the cuneiform literary tradition did not die totally out before the first
or second cen­turies ce). This legal tradition was, rather, stable and not easily
exported. More importantly, it was not a tradition in the usual sense of the word,
but an academic construction only remotely related to life in the court. It was
nourished in the universities of the time (the misnamed ‘scribal schools’) and
belonged exclusively to this milieu. In short: Mesopotamian law codices are
not primarily expressions of forensic experience, but belong among wisdom
literature and represent an academic pastime.45
Biblical collectors or authors of legal traditions, which are included among
the instructions of Moses, apparently chose one of the Mesopotamian law codes
(or created their own within Babylonian tradition) as the first part of the divine
legislation. They thus reveal where they were educated. They must have studied
in the university institutions of their time, most likely in Mesopotamia (a safe
assumption as long as we have no evidence of comparable institutions outside
of Mesopotamia – at least in the Iron Age, during the first mil­lennium bce). It
is clear that our collectors and/or authors had an aca­demic background. They
belonged to academic circles and were brought up within a system of education
that had already lasted for more than 2000 years.46
We now know two things about our authors. In regard to religion, we know
they were sectarians, people who believed themselves among the chosen few
and destined to survive when God returns his people to Zion. We also know
that they were academics and part of an old educational system. None of this
proves our authors to be late, let alone from the Hellenistic–Roman period.
They obviously postdate the events of 587bce (if this is a historical date, the
Old Testament is the only testimony to the second destruction of Jerusalem)
or at least of 597bce (the date of the conquest of Jerusalem according to the
Babylonian Chronicle).47 The destruction of Jerusalem is a necessary part of the
construction as it is of fundamental importance for the future return of the ‘new
Israel’ to Zion. The question is only whether the authors belonged to the Persian
or the Hellenistic period.

45. In Chapter 13, this volume, I try to explain why no written law was really necessary
in Western Asia in antiquity. On the Babylonian ‘law codes’, cf. the literature quoted
in note 5, on p. 214, to which we have to add the introduction to Martha T. Roth, Law
Col­lections from Mesopotamia and Asia Minor (SBL Writings from the Ancient World
Series 6; Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 2nd edn, 1997), 4–7.
46. This assumption is valid regardless of whether we choose an Iron Age date for these
authors or we prefer the Persian or Hellenistic–Roman periods.
47. Cf. D. J. Wiseman, Chronicles of Chaldaean Kings (626–556 bc) in the Brit­ish Museum
(London: The Trustees of the British Museum, 1956), BM. 21946, rv. 11–13. It is so
easy to forget that 587bce is a biblical date. That 597bce is derived from external sources
does not prove that the destruction of 597bce really took place. It is probably likely that
something like 587bce happened, but it cannot be proven. The presence of members
of the Judaean royal family at the Babylonian court in Neo-Babylonian times does not
presuppose the destruction of 587bce – not even according to the Old Testament – it only
presupposes the abduction of Jehoiachin in 597bce (cf. ANET, 308).
 How does one date an expression of mental history? 301

It is perhaps not fair to say that the Persian period has been popular among
scholars because we know so little about it – that is, as far as Palestine is con-
cerned. However, the attractiveness of the Persian period for modern scholars
compares well with the esti­mation of ‘early Israel’ as the cradle of Israelite
civilization a gener­ation ago. Like ‘early Israel’, the Persian period constitutes
a ‘black box’. We know so little about early Israel, but only slightly more about
the Persian period. Many scholars think that the biblical tradition either origi-
nated or developed into the literature we know from the Old Testament during
the Persian period. The capacity of being a ‘black box’ makes the Persian period
a likely candidate as it cannot be refuted by extant evidence, suggesting the
opposite. The unknown within the ‘black box’ makes eve­rything possible and
enables a scholar to propose theo­ries that cannot be controlled. The procedure is
illegitimate, as it provides hypotheses which cannot be falsified.48 It is possible
that a religious idea such as the dualism be­tween good and evil, which is found
in Old Testament texts, but much more expressly in para-biblical literature such
as the War Scroll from Qumran (clearly Hellenistic–Roman in date), is the result
of influences from Per­sian religion.49 It may also be that the idea of a theo­cratic
government in Yehud was modelled on the basis of the citizen–temple–soci-
ety system as developed elsewhere in the Persian Empire.50 Evidence of such
a theocratic system from Judah, how­ever, hardly predates the second century
bce.51 At the end of the day, we must admit that we know too little about the
Persian period to use it as a viable possibility. Accordingly, it is not only wish-
ful thinking that the Old Testament was written largely during the centuries of
the Persian occupation of Palestine. If there are reflections in Old Testament
literature of ideas current within the Persian Empire in the fifth or early fourth
centuries bce, we cannot identify such ideas with any certainty. We cannot place
biblical texts within an intellectual development otherwise unknown to us.
Matters improve as we turn to the Hellenistic and Roman periods, as we are
well informed of the general development of intellectual history in this era, not
least from our acquaintance with the history of philosophy of the Hellenistic
world, and we possess a fair amount of Hellenistic literature, mostly, but not
exclusively, of Greek ori­gin. We also have an impression of the impact of Greek
civilization upon the Near East. We know too little about the precise his­tory
of this development, especially in remote areas, such as the many crannies of

48. Adopted from the falsification claim of Karl Popper, which says that a hypothe­sis must
be the subject of a falsification process, and if this is not possible, the hypothesis is
redundant.
49. The origin of the idea of dualism (i.e. the war between good and evil) that became
popular within Judaism towards the end of the first millennium bce has traditionally
been reckoned to be Persian. Cf., for example, Helmer Ringgren, Israelite Re­ligion
(Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press, 1966), 314–15.
50. Cf. especially Joel Weinberg, The Citizen-Temple Community (JSOT supplement, 151;
Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992).
51. This statement is gratuitous as we know next to noth­ing about the second century bce
apart from information provided by Josephus of the late first century ce.
302 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Palestine. We must hope that in the future it will be possible to describe how
Greek civilization gradually extended its influence from region to region during
the third and second centuries. The initial centres of Greek–Hellenistic influence
were in Egypt and Mesopotamia, but Hellenistic civilization spread to areas
including Palestine and Jordan during the second century bce.52
The question is whether it is possible to find traces of the general intel­lectual
climate of Hellenism in biblical literature. Traditions of the ancient Near East
are much in evidence in the Bible. It is foolish to say anything else. From the
very beginning of the collection of writings in the Old Testament, Near Eastern
tradition manifests itself both in single and more complex narratives. If we are
to understand the authors and collectors of biblical literature, we must keep
ancient Near Eastern culture in mind.
The analysis can be compared to an archae­ological excavation. In the text
of the Old Testament, a variety of items from different places and times are
available. Mesopotamian material is obvious. For example, the story of the crea-
tion in Genesis 2 is embedded within Mesopotamian tradition and the story of
the flood in Genesis 6–8 is closely related to the Neo-Babylonian version in
the Gilgamesh Epic. Some biblical material comes from Egypt – for exam-
ple, the chapters of Proverbs that are shared by the Egyptian wisdom book of
Amenemopet (Prov. 22:17–24:22).53 More Egyptian or ‘Egyp­tianized’ material
can be found in stories about Israel in Egypt.54 Ideas and notions from Syria
and the Levant abound, for example, in allusions to the battle between God and
the sea in many Old Testament psalms. Biblical authors share many genres of
literature with their Near Eastern colleagues, such as the already-mentioned law
tradition, but they also share wisdom literature in its many forms.
Although Near Eastern influence is apparent, it is not enough to date its
literary context. As in archaeology, a literary stra­tum must be dated according
to the youngest item found, rather than the oldest. Any piece of literature may
reflect ideas and concepts that trace their origins millennia earlier in the history
of human­kind. If the text also includes elements belonging to a more recent
pe­riod, the context will always be that of the youngest item at the earliest.
This hardly is a surprise to students of the Old Testament, who have looked for
centuries for solutions to the problem, not least by split­ting biblical literature
into several literary strata, sources or docu­ments. In a recent contribution, I

52. Not before the second and first centuries bce. The Hellenization of the Southern Levant
has hardly been a major area of interest to students of Hellenistic culture, probably with
some justification, as – apart for some major cities – Hellenization only slowly became a
major cultural factor in the remote areas of Palestine and Jordan. ‘The Early Hellenistic
archaeological lacuna and the late Hellenistic expansion and prosperity in the southern
Levant can be under­stood within the context of the attitudes, policies and practices of
the Ptolemaic and Seleucid governments’: conclusion to Robert H. Smith, ‘The Southern
Levant in the Hellenistic Period’, Levant 22 (1990), 123–30.
53. Amenemopet, cf. ANET, 421–5.
54. Especially in the Joseph Story, cf. Donald B. Redford, A Study of the Biblical Story of
Joseph (Genesis 37-50) (VT supplement, 20; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1970).
 How does one date an expression of mental history? 303

argued that it is important whether information is part of the structure of the

text or simply added during its transmission.55 The idea that the content of the
patriarchal narra­tives goes back to an alleged ‘patriarchal age’ or belongs to an
age not far removed from historical patriarchs makes it necessary to con­sider
the information that Abraham came from ‘Ur in Chaldea’ anach­ronistic (Gen.
11:31). Ur could only be considered a ‘Chaldean’ city from circa 800 bce.56 This
information could have been added to the story of Abraham’s migration by a
sec­ond hand. The infor­mation that the patriarchs used camels (cf., for exam-
ple, Genesis 24) is different, although equally anachronistic, as the camel had
not been domesticated when the patriarchs are supposed to have lived. If the
information about the camels in Genesis 24 is secondary, this chapter has been
the subject of a far more elaborate rewriting to make it fit the conditions of the
first millennium bce. The camel was domesticated shortly before 1000bce.57 As
it now appears in Genesis 24, the camel may not be essential to the plot (the
bringing of Rebecca to Isaac), but it would demand a number of changes to the
narrative to substitute it with, for example, a donkey.
Such examples suggest that a single piece of information might not be
sufficient to date a text. Even if undisputed ‘Hellenistic’ mate­rial was present in
the Bible, it will not automatically make the Old Tes­tament a Hellenistic book.
We need more than isolated items found ‘out of context’. We need to find parts
of what might belong to the ‘mainstream intellectual tradition’ of the period in
ques­tion, not single texts but larger pieces of literature, including genres. A few
isolated points of contact between Old Testament literature and the Hellenistic
world will not satisfy us. We need to make a sys­temic comparison and see
whether or not an analysis of the liter­ature of the Old Testament is open to
an extended comparison, which would indi­cate that they could be related to a
devel­opment which blends Near Eastern and Greek tradi­tions. This comparative
procedure may lead in many directions. I will not present an exhaustive cata-
logue of possibilities. Recently, schol­ars and laypeople alike have been active,
not least on the Internet, showing the Old Testament to belong to the Hellenistic
Age. I will, how­ever, concentrate on one genre only: the presence of history
writing in the Old Testament and the Hellenistic world.
This subject has been of interest for more than fifteen years since John Van
Seters made classical history writing relevant to biblical stud­ies.58 His point of

55. Cf. my Prelude to Israel’s Past: Background and Beginnings of Israelite History and
Identity (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1998), 62–3.
56. The Chaldeans do not appear in Mesopotamian sources before the ninth century bce. The
earliest mentioning is by Assurnirari II in 878: KURkaldu. Cf. on this Dietz Otto Edzard,
‘Kaldu (Chaldäa)’, Reallexikon der Assyriologie, 5 (Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 1976–80),
291–7.
57. The date was established by R. Walz in his ‘Zum Problem des Zeitpunktes der
Domestikation der altweltlichen Cameliden’, ZDMG 101 (1951), 29–51, and the
same author’s ‘Neue Untersuchungen zum Damestikationsprobblem der altweltlichen
Cameliden’, ZDMG 104 (1954), 45–87. To the best of my knowledge, Walz’s date still
stands.
58. John Van Seters, In Search of History (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983).
304 Biblical studies and the failure of history

contact was the early ‘logographers’ of the Greek world: writers of the sixth
century bce who collected memories and traditions from ‘ancient times’. The
comparison does not end there. We may question how Near Eastern intellec­tuals
got to know the tradition of the logographers as early as the Iron Age. Although
con­tacts between the Aegean Archipelagos and the Levant existed, there are no
traces of any influence from the logographers in any Iron Age source from Syria
or Palestine, let alone Mesopotamia. Van Se­ters’s idea of an early transmission
of Greek culture to the Levant is part of his general appraisal of the exilic period
and dating of the Yahwist to the sixth century. It is a weak link in his ar­gument.
Other scholars have gone further. A series of studies has appeared recently or
are in process of publication which argue for a dependency between biblical his-
tory writing and Herodotus’s Histories of the middle-fifth century bce. Jan-Wim
Wesselius has published a series of articles – partly in Dutch – about Herodotus
and the Old Tes­tament, among them a recent contribution to the Scandinavian
Journal of the Old Testament, where he argues for a dependency between the
pri­meval history in Genesis and Herodotus’s work.59 This comparison is to be
expanded in a forthcoming monograph.60
Obviously, Wesselius, like Flemming A. Nielsen in his recent work on Greek
history writing and the Deuteronomistic History,61 concentrates on the strik-
ing similarity between Herodotus and Old Testament histori­cal prose narrative.
The focus of attention shifted from the sixth to the fifth century bce! Still, the
comparison between the Bible and Herodotus’s Histories seems directed by the
same tendency, as is evident in Van Seters’s link to the logographers. Herodotus
stands at the begin­ning of Greek historiographical tradition and, although he
borrows from the logographers, later Greek and Roman traditions considered
him, probably correctly, ‘the father of history’. There is no reason to limit our
investigations to the relationship between He­rodotus and the Bible.
In my ‘Good and Bad in History’, I present a different approach to the
study of biblical and Hellenistic history writing.62 In this study, I will argue
that the History of Rome by Livy is actually closer to the biblical history than
Herodotus’s ‘investigations’ – not because bib­lical literature presupposes the
existence of Livy’s extensive work, which dates from the end of the first cen-
tury bce, but because it presupposes the histo­riographic tradition, within which
Livy’s history must be situated. Livy’s work is part of the Hellenistic tradition
of writing history, within the Greek system of education in the third and second
centuries bce.

59. Jan-Wim Wesselius, ‘Discontinuity, Congruence and the Making of the He­brew Bible’,
SJOT 13 (1999), 24–77, see especially 38–48.
60. Jan-Wim Wesselius, The Origin of the History of Israel: Herodotus’ His­to­ries as
Blueprint for the First Books of the Bible (JSOT supplement, 345; Sheffield: Sheffield
Academic Press, 2002).
61. Flemming A. Nielsen, The Tragedy in History: Herodotus and the Deut­erono­mistic
History (JSOT supplement, 251; Copenhagen International Seminar 4; Shef­field:
Sheffield Academic Press, 1997).
62. Chapter 17, this volume.
 How does one date an expression of mental history? 305

Flemming A. Nielsen’s study on Herodotus and the Deuteronomistic History

demonstrates an extensive similarity as far as it involves the general arrange-
ment of the two works. Accordingly, he makes use of the systematic approach
advocated above. It is possible to apply this ap­proach to a wider field that also
includes other aspects of biblical narrative, not least philosophy (theology and
anthropology). In such a study, the Helle­nistic quest for the ‘good person’ might
be of interest as the goal of edu­cation. History is, therefore, a main point of con-
tact between biblical and Helle­nistic literature. Although the authors of the his-
tory of the Old Testament sometimes employ old literary forms or borrow from,
for example, the annalistic tradition of Mesopotamia,63 the concept of his­tory as
a process with a purpose unites Greek and Old Testament histori­cal narrative.
The ‘historical’ mode of interpreting the fate of humankind, which biblical
as well as Greek historiographers employ, is an important part of the mental
matrix. In this, we see at least a shadow of our writers. They are sectarians with
a specific view of mankind: few are elected; most will vanish because they have
forsaken God’s torah. How it happened belongs to history and it is the histori-
ographers’ duty to ex­plain how and why, that it not happen again. Our sectar-
ians are academically educated persons. They are well ac­quainted with oriental
mythology and traditions as well as with the Greek tradition of history writing.
Furthermore, they combine both Greek and oriental traditions in an organic
fashion, which shows that they are brought up within an intellectual milieu that
is both Greek and oriental. Such a milieu is hardly likely to have existed before
the Hellenistic period and, even then, only in a few urban centres, especially in
Mesopotamia or Egypt.64
We assume, therefore, that the historical literature of the Old Testa­ment
belongs to the Hellenistic period. It is not unique. At the same time as bibli-
cal historical literature came into being, other similar con­struc­tions of the past
were published, such as Manetho’s history of Egypt and Berossus’s history of
Mesopotamia.65 Philo of Byblos’s Phoeni­cian History is much later.66 Little has

63. As is probably the case in 2 Kgs 18:13-16.

64. Syria and Phoenicia are other options, but the extent of Hellenization of these parts of
the Near East in the third century bce may not have reached a level that could support the
intellectual climate presupposed in the formation of biblical history writing as early as
the third century bce. Because Philo of Byblos (see below) belongs to the first or second
centuries ce, we can hardly conclude with Van Seters that Philo indicates that pre-Roman
Phoenician society was highly literate (cf. In Search of History, 208).
65. None of these authors has survived intact. Most of the remains of their work have been
found in much later Christian sources. The remains of Manethos’s his­tory have been
published by W. G. Waddell, Manetho (LCL 350; Cambridge, MA: Har­vard University
Press, 1940). Berossus’s Babyloniaca was dedicated to Antiochus I. For a recent discus-
sion, cf. Stanley Mayor Burstein, The Babyloniaca of Berossus (Sources for the Ancient
Near East, 1.5; Malibu, CA: Undena, 1978).
66. The fragments of Philo’s history of Phoenicia have been published by Harold W. Attridge
and Robert A. Oden, Jr, Philo of Byblos: The Phoenician History. In­troduction, Critical
Text, Translation, Notes (CBQMS, 9; Washington: Catholic Biblical Association, 1981).
This edition has now been supplemented by J. Cors i Meya, A Concordance of the
306 Biblical studies and the failure of history

been preserved of the works of Manetho and Berossus, but that they appeared
more or less at the same time (early second century bce) in different places
il­lustrates the early impact of Greek literary tradition in the centres of the Near
East.
When we put the evidence together and ask for a place where the amal­
gamation between oriental and Greek traditions might have taken place, the
fact that the historical literature of the Old Testament pre­sup­poses an amalga-
mation between Greek and Oriental academic tradi­tions is impor­tant. Within
the Hellenistic–Roman educational system, history was an integral part of the
academic curriculum, identified with the dominating discipline of rhetoric. We
therefore have to look for a place where oriental and Greek traditions came
together in an educa­tional sys­tem or academic environment that included both
traditions.67
Many years ago, I playfully proposed a new theory about the origin of the
Pentateuch, which was never intended to be published. It was publicly referred
to as ‘Lemche’s famous “three pub hypothesis”’. The ‘hypoth­esis’ claims that
the Pentateuch came into being over a very short time in the third century bce, in
three different pubs of a Jewish suburb in Babylon. One of these was called ‘J’,
another ‘E’ and the third ‘P’. It took little more than three months of lively inter-
change between the three pubs to finish the first four books of Moses. Although
no more than a joke, it may be closer to reality than we realize. We should, how-
ever, probably not look to Babylon for the intellectual milieu of our authors. In
the third century bce, people gradually deserted Babylon and resettled in newly
founded Seleucia, the present Bagh­dad. The Se­leucid Empire was, however,
excellently set up to provide the intellec­tual conditions for an amalgamation
between Mesopotamian and Greek traditions that could also have provoked the
appearance of Old Testa­ment historical prose literature.
It is probably more likely that the centre of this intellectual devel­opment
was Mesopotamia. Syria might be considered an al­ternative (Damascus?). The
utopian character of the concept of the ‘peo­ple of God’ and its likewise utopian
concept of the land of Israel in the Old Testament speak in favour of an origin of
the historical liter­ature of the Old Testament outside of Palestine. If Hellenism
came late to Pales­tine, we may have yet another argument in favour of a non-
Palestinian origin of this literature.

Phoenician History of Philo of Byblos (Aula Orientalis Supplementa, 10; Barcelona:

Editorial AUSA, 1995). One of Philo’s sources may have been Menander from Ephesus
whose ‘excerpts’ from the history of Phoenicia were used by Josephus.
67. All of this does not detract from the fact that our authors were also acquainted with
Western (i.e. Palestinian) traditions. They certainly were, and this may betray the origin
of this group of authors (and theologians). They – or most of them – be­longed among the
immigrants or (more likely) the descendants of immigrants from Palestine to Babylonia.
Whether or not such immigrants were part of a planned deportation, as argued by the Old
Testament, or turned up in this place at a later date – or both – is a moot question.
 20

Chronology and archives: when does the

history of Israel and Judah begin?
2002

In two very different studies published during the first half of the 1990s, David
Jamieson-Drake and Michael Niemann reached results remarkably similar con-
cerning the early history of the Judean state.1 Jamieson-Drake’s synthetic study
of the archaeological artefacts and settlement patterns shows how unlikely it
would be to speak about a proper state in the southern part of the central high-
lands of Israel/Palestine before the eighth century, when a sharp increase in set-
tled areas becomes visible. Niemann, for his part, bases his study on an analysis
of archaeological remains as well as information within the Bible itself. It is a
classical study accord­ing to the best principles of the historical-critical school
of Old Testament studies and should be acceptable to most scholars, though its
results are controversial. Niemann also concludes that a state in the proper sense
of the word did not exist in Judah during the tenth century and only gradually
developed during the next 100 years or so.2
What Niemann suggests is a form of patronage state, as this writer described
in a lecture delivered at the German Archaeological Institute in Jerusalem in
1995.3 By ‘patronage state’, I mean a state organized as a personal possession
around a ruling family. It does not have an extended bureaucracy, except to
regulate relations between the ruling family – the patrons – and their clients,
the ordinary population. That kind of state dominated the area during the Late

1. David Jamieson-Drake, Scribes and Schools in Monarchic Judah. A Socio-Archeological

Approach (SWBAS 9; Sheffield: The Almond Press, 1991); Hermann Michael Niemann,
Herschaft, Königtum und Staat. Skizzen zur soziokulturellen Entwicklung im monar-
chischen Israel (FAT 6; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1993).
2. It has sometimes been argued that the modern concept of a state has little to do with the
ancient world. This is, to a degree, correct. Many ancient Near Eastern states were not
states in accord with any modern concept. We need yet to describe in a more elaborate
way the different types of statehood present in the ancient Near East. The present situ-
ation is confused. The old distinction between territorial and national state, proposed
by Giovanni Buccellati, Cities and Nations of Ancient Syria: An Essay on Political
Institutions with Special Reference to the Israelite Kingdoms (Studi Semitici 26; Rome:
Istituto di Studi del Vicino Oriente, 1967), is hardly workable as he does not present a
relevant definition of ‘nation’.
3. See Chapter 14, this volume.
308 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Bronze Age, and survived as a typical form of political organization well into
the Iron Age.
I have described certain aspects of the system in a series of articles,4 includ-
ing personalized forms of relationship between ruler and the ruled, regulated by
contracts, treaties or covenants, with a distribution of local law that was neither
written nor codified. Patrons were autonomous and such political forma­tions did
not need an extended bureaucracy. The few officers mentioned in the overviews
of David’s and Solomon’s administrations would suffice – a point that did not,
of course, escape Niemann’s attention. I am less ready, however, than he to
accept such lists as reflecting information from the tenth century. A proper state,
ancient as well as modern, is in need of an administration that can record mun-
dane matters such as tax lists and the salaries of soldiers, bureaucrats, artisans,
etc., employed by the state. Its administration plans and directs the business of
the state. It also maintains relationships with similar administrations of other
states. It writes documents and stores them in archives, though we have indica-
tions that archival records in the ancient Near East were not kept for great peri-
ods of time, as in modern state archives. A side effect of the existence of state
records is the establishment of a chronological framework for such administra-
tion. At least in major centres, a chronology was established, normally based on
the regnal years of the king. Other systems were known, such as the Assyrian
limu system, according to which a year would be named after the holder of the
office of the limu – a solution to the problem of recording time that was close to
the Roman system of the consular year.5 Sometimes such classification resulted
in the establishment of state chronicles (i.e. short year lists), including one or
two important events relating to the year in question. At other times this kind of
chronicling developed into a literary composition of annals.
On the other hand, we should not overemphasize the importance of chronol-
ogy and annals. As far as I know, we have no records of any kind of chrono-
logical reckoning from Bronze Age Syria and Palestine. In spite of a plethora
of documents and inscriptions, Ugarit has never yielded any chronological list
or royal annal. Nor were official documents normally dated in Ugarit – for
example, to Niqmadu’s second regnal year or to Niqmepa’s fourth year. An
incantation or ritual text does mention a series of deceased kings of Ugarit,6
who are reckoned as the predecessors of the present king, showing that people
were capable of keeping records of past events or major figures of the past.
However, nothing has been found in the form of an official administrative docu-
ment, with precise information, which might contribute directly to a chronology
in ancient Ugarit. The relevant question is whether the states named Israel and
Judah had archives, which included chronicles? The question was addressed by
Montgomery nearly seventy years ago and his answer remains important.7 How

4. Ibid., also Chapters 9, 12 and 13, this volume.

5. Cf. the very comprehensive article by Arthur Ungnad, ‘Epopnymen’ in RLA II (1938),
412–57.
6. KTU 1.161.
7. J. A. Montgomery, ‘Archival Data in the Books of Kings’, JBL 53 (1934), 46–52.
 Chronology and archives 309

can we know if such an archive existed? If it existed, it would be indicative of

the existence of state administration and, consequently, of states.

The Chronicles of the Kings of Israel and Judah

The Old Testament includes a series of references to some kind of chronicling

of events.
The Chronicles of the Kings of Israel, the ‫ֵסֶפר ִדְּבֵרי ַה יִָּמים ְלֵמלֵכי יִשָׂרֵאל‬:

• 1 Kings 14:19: A general reference to Jeroboam’s wars and reign. No

details, but a record of regnal length: twenty-two years.
• 1 Kings 15:11: A general reference to Zechariah.
• 1 Kings 15:31: A general reference to Nadab’s reign
• 1 Kings 16:5: A general reference to Basha and his great exploits.
• 1 Kings 16:14: Likewise, a general reference to Ela, including the length
of his reign: two years.
• 1 Kings 16:20: A reference to Zimri and his conspiracy.
• 1 Kings 16:27: A general reference to Omri and his exploits.
• 1 Kings 22:39: A reference to Ahab, including mention of his construction
of a house of ivory and fortifications.
• 2 Kings 1:18: A general reference to Ahaziah.
• 2 Kings 10:34: A general reference to Jehu and his exploits.
• 2 Kings 13:8: A general reference to Jehoahaz and his exploits.
• 2 Kings 13:12: A reference to Jehoash and his exploits. A war with
Amaziah of Judah is included in the reference.
• 2 Kings 14:15: The same reference as in 13:12.
• 2 Kings 14:28: A reference to Jeroboam II and his exploits, including his
wars against Damascus and Hamath.
• 2 Kings 15:11: A general reference to Azariah.
• 2 Kings 15:15: A reference to Shallum and his conspiracy.
• 2 Kings 15:21: A general reference to Menahem.
• 2 Kings 15:26: A general reference to Pekaiah.
• 2 Kings 15:31: A general reference to Pekah.

Most of these notes are very general with almost no related information. A few
include regnal years, and a few more, additional infor­mation about wars. They
are normally attached to notes about a change of regency, regnal years, burial or
succession, but it is not clear – though likely – that this additional information
comes from the Chronicles. The same can be said about information enclosed
in the narrative and associated with references to the Chronicles, such as the
note of Pul’s attack on Israel in the days of Menahem, and of Menahem’s tribute
(2 Kgs 15:19-20). If an old chronicle of the kingdom of Israel had existed, we
know next to nothing of its content.
Will we get more relevant information when we turn to The Chronicles of the
Kings of Judah ‫ֵסֶפר ִדְּבֵרי ַה יִָּמים ְלֵמלֵכי יְוָּדה‬:
310 Biblical studies and the failure of history

• 1 Kings 14:29: A general reference to Rehoboam.

• 1 Kings 15:7: A general reference to Abiah.
• 1 Kings 15:23: A general reference to Asa, his exploits and his fortifications.
• 1 Kings 22:46: A general reference to Jehoshaphat and his exploits and
wars (unspecified).
• 2 Kings 8:23: A general reference to Jehoram.
• 2 Kings 12:20: A general reference to Jehoash.
• 2 Kings 14:18: A general reference to Amaziah.
• 2 Kings 15:6: A general reference to Azariah.
• 2 Kings 15:36: A general reference to Jotam.
• 2 Kings 16:19: A general reference to Ahaz.
• 2 Kings 20:20: A general reference to Hizkiah.
• 2 Kings 21:17: A general reference to Manasse and his sins.
• 2 Kings 21:25: A general reference to Amon.
• 2 Kings 23:28: A general reference to Josiah.
• 2 Kings 24:5: A general reference to Jehoiachim.

Everything said about the content of references to the Chronicles of the Kings of
Israel is equally valid when it comes to references to the kings of Judah, except
that there are no indications of regnal years in any of these notes. Only once, in
the case of Rehoboam about fortifications, is a note included. We have no idea
of the shape and content of this chronicle. We do not even know if there was,
in fact, a state chronicle in Judah. Both the Chronicles of the Kings of Israel
and the Kings of Judah may be no more than stray collections of information,
relevant or irrelevant: perhaps a prototype of the history of these kingdoms
from the Iron Age. But we cannot know. A couple of ref­erences are followed by
the information that a continuous war raged between the king of either Israel
or Judah and his colleague in the south or the north. In concluding, we must
say that these notes have very little interest for the historian other than that the
information included also relates to the Chronicles. This is possible but cannot
be proved. We cannot preclude the possibility that references to the Chronicles
are nothing but a literary device, employed by the composer of 1–2 Kings.
This demands a more extensive argument; but, at the moment, I can only
refer to a more extensive argument in an article I wrote about the concept of
time in the Old Testament, available in Danish.8 The argument deals with the
existence of two different notions of time in the Old Testament/Hebrew Bible:
first, a quantitative understanding, which calculates hours, days, weeks, months
and years, much as we count them today. A different system is also present that
reveals an interest in the qualitative meaning of time. This system shows no
interest in the exact measurement of time, but rather in the importance of time.
It makes use of so-called ‘pregnant’ (i.e. significant) numbers such as seven

8. ‘Prægnant tid i Det Gamle Testamente’, in G. Hallbäck and N. P. Lemche (eds) År

2000 i Bibelske Perspektiver (Forum for Bibelsk Eksegese, 11; Copenhagen: Museum
Tusculanum, 11; 2001), 29–47.
 Chronology and archives 311

and forty. The idea is not that seven days are exactly seven, but that the number
of seven is a special number, having significance in itself. The Hebrew slave
of Exodus 21 works for six years and is set free in the seventh. Joshua’s army
circles the walls of Jericho for six days, to see them tumble down on the seventh
and so on. The number forty has a similar quality and includes periods of time
governing the rain in the flood story or Israel’s punishment for forty years in the
desert. Seventy can also be used in this manner, such as the duration of the exile
in Jeremiah (Jer. 25:11).
Sometimes the two systems are in conflict, as in the story of the flood in
Genesis. In this regard, I might refer to an article I published twenty years ago
on the chronology of the flood,9 where I argued that there were, in fact, three
systems of reckoning time present in that narrative, the third representing an
effort to harmonize the different types of information presented by the two other
systems. One works with intervals of seven and forty days, while the other with
fixed dates, such as the first day of the first month in Noah’s 601st year. The third
system emerged because of calculations which incorporated fixed dates of the
second system within the system of pregnant dates of the first system. This pro-
duced odd numbers, such as the date of the flood’s beginning, the seventeenth
day of the second month in Noah’s 600th year and of the end of the flood on the
twenty-seventh day of the second month of Noah’s 601st year.

The regnal years of the kings of Israel

What kind of system rules the information in 1–2 Kings about regnal years
of Israelite and Judean kings? If we begin with Israel, after the division of the
Kingdom of David and Solomon, Jeroboam rules for twenty-two years, Nadab
for two, Basha for twenty-four and Ela for another two. None of these numbers
carry any significant value, in themselves, although it is interesting that together
these figures equal fifty years – or one year of Jubilee. We might argue that the
calculation indicates that from the death of Solomon to the ascension of Omri,
a period of one Jubilee elapsed (disregarding Zimri’s ‘seven’ days – which, I
think, is allowable). We might also argue that the numbers are casual, reflecting
the actual periods of these early kings’ reigns. Omri ruled for ‘six’ years, and
in the seventh his son, Ahab, who, like Jeroboam, ruled twenty-two years, suc-
ceeded him. His successor was Ahaziah, who ruled two years. All together the
dynasty of Omri reigned thirty years.
Thirty years is not a pregnant number that carries a meaning of its own. We
may, of course, speculate about the numbers of the regnal years of the kings of
Israel from Jeroboam to the end of the house of Omri. Three kings rule for some
twenty years each (the exact numbers are twenty-two, twenty-four and twenty-
two) and are in each case followed by a son who rules for two years. It is sig-
nificant that Omri ruled six years, but in the seventh … It may also be ­significant

9. See Chapter 5, this volume.

312 Biblical studies and the failure of history

for the reconstruction of an exact chronology that the thirty years of the house
of Omri follows the fifty years of the first four kings of Israel. Altogether, these
early kings of Israel ruled for eighty years or exactly the length of time covered
by David and Solomon. It looks like a chronology that is not exact, but based
on speculation in numbers that was weighted with the importance of ‘preg-
nant’ numbers, in this case forty. Some may, however, still argue that the round
number eighty, from the death of Solomon to the ascension of Jehu, is merely
coincidence and that the information regarding the regnal years may, indeed,
rely on real information (e.g. from state-sponsored chronicles).10
When we move on to the dynasty succeeding the House of Omri, the line of
Jehu, Jehu himself ruled twenty-eight years, Joahaz seventeen, Joash sixteen,
and Jeroboam forty-one. The resulting 102 years seems to offer no reason to
assume the presence of round numbers. We should, however, not forget that the
last king of the line, Zechariah, ruled six months, indicating a change during
the pregnant seventh month. The final dynasty of the kings of Israel includes:
Shallum – one month; Menahem – ten years; Pekaiah – two years; Peka – twenty
years; and Hosea nine years; altogether forty-one years and an odd month. No
pregnant numbers here, not even when we put together the regnal years from
Jehu to Hosea – 133 years and 7 months.
In conclusion, these figures lend support to the assumption that some infor-
mation about regnal years of the kings of Israel was available to the author(s) of
1–2 Kings. This is more likely after the ascension of the house of Jehu. Until that
date, we do not know if official information about regnal years existed in Israel.
We may question the validity of the information about the four kings follow-
ing Solomon. We might also follow in the footsteps of Thomas Thompson and
cast doubt on the historicity of Omri, the ruler of Israel for six years, who was
­followed by his son in the seventh.11 We should not be surprised if the Kingdom
of Israel/Samaria/Beth Omri did not possess any kind of official chronicle and
that the author of this part of 1–2 Kings constructed the regnal numbers of that
dynasty. We cannot, of course, prove our case, but it is highly likely.
Why does the character of the numbers change after the ascension of Jehu?
We can only guess, but I think that a qualified answer has to do with Jehu’s and
his successors’ status as vassals of the Assyrians. Perhaps the Assyrian admin-
istration wanted exact numbers and dates to incorporate information from the

10. It has to be stated at this point that although many scholars, from William F. Albright to
Erwin R. Thiele to John. H. Hayes, have diligently tried to make sense of the chronologi-
cal information in the Old Testament about Israelite and Judaean kings, their approach
has disregarded the possibility of pregnant numbers, and established detailed lists of
regnal periods based on numbers never intended to be quantitatively precise. Cf. among
the more recent contributions, which also includes most of the relevant literature, John
H. Hayes and Paul K. Hooker, A New Chronology for the Kings of Israel and Judah
and Its Implications for Biblical History and Literature (Atlanta, GA: John Knox Press,
1988).
11. Cf. Thomas L. Thompson, The Bible in History: How Writers Create a Past (London:
Jonathan Cape, 1999), 11–14.
 Chronology and archives 313

West into their own system of calculation? Perhaps the administration of Jehu’s
kingdom had been influenced by the habits of the Assyrians and changed from
a system without a fixed-time reckoning – a system resembling that apparently
in currency in the Bronze Age – into a system with exact dates?

The regnal years of the kings of Judah

When we turn to the numbers of the kings of Judah, will they show a similar
change of ‘pattern’ in Judah’s history? Of course, the two great kings of Judah,
David and Solomon, both ruled for forty years. No less would do. Moreover,
David’s reign is divided into two periods: seven years and six months in Hebron,
and thirty-three years in Jerusalem. The Hebron period plays with variations of
the pregnant number seven, allowing for the use of the numbers six, seven and
eight in this connection.12 Rehoboam follows Solomon and rules for seventeen
years, whereas his son and successor, Abiah, was only allowed three years on
the throne. The numbers look casual, but when we put them together, we have
twenty years (i.e. half the time of either David or Solomon). This may be coinci-
dental and not important. However, let’s turn to the next king of Judah, Asa, who
reigns for forty-one years. It is, of course, very close to forty but not a round
number. The ‘extra’ year creates a problem, which might, however, be solved
when we calculate the period from David’s ascension to the first Babylonian
conquest of Jerusalem on the basis of the regnal years of the kings of Judah.
This period lasts for 461 years and, from the ascension of Solomon, 421 years
– an impossible date. A seemingly unnecessary addition of one year to Asa’s
reign disturbs the harmony? So, why was this number added? I will return to
this question shortly.
After Asa follows Joshaphat, who is allowed twenty-five years on the throne,
Jehoram with eight years, Ahaziah with one year and Athaliah with six years.
All numbers look casual but put together they cover exactly forty years. It is
worth noting that Athaliah ruled for six years in order to be substituted by Joash
in her seventh regnal year. By now we have seen this pattern so many times that
we should not be surprised. Joash follows Athaliah. He rules – believe it or not
– for an additional forty years.
A series of kings follow Joash until the first conquest of Jerusalem. Amaziah
rules twenty-nine years, Azariah fifty-two, Jotham sixteen, Ahaz sixteen,
Hezekiah twenty-nine, Manasseh fifty-five, Amon two, Josiah thirty-one, Joahaz
three months, Jehoiachim eleven years and, finally, Jehoachin for three months.
There is no apparent trace of a system here and no specific reward implied by a
long rule. Unlike the Books of Chronicles, which have problems with the untidy
length of Manasseh’s rule (indicating that the chroniclers considered the number

12. Cf. the observations by Mario Liverani, ‘Ma nel settimo Anno’, in Studi sull’ Oriente e
la Bibbia offerte a P. Giovanni Rinaldi nell 60o compiuanno (Genoa: Editrice Studio e
Vita, 1967), 49–53.
314 Biblical studies and the failure of history

they inherited from their source to be problematic; cf. 2 Chron. 33), there is no
reward for good behaviour in the form of a long reign. Nothing seems to speak
against an extra-biblical source for the regnal years of these kings of the eighth
through seventh centuries. However, problems may be involved. If the numbers
are added together, they result in 241 years from the ascension of Amaziah to
Nebuchadnezzar’s first conquest of Jerusalem. Again, we have a superfluous
year! As in the calculations of the kings of Israel, the two regnal periods of three
months for Joahaz and Jehoiachin have not been considered. If the system is
artificial, why does it include an extra year?
I feel much like the treasurer of a small company, struggling to make his
accounts balance and comes short by a quarter of a dollar (I have, for many
years, been the treasurer of our local scholarly organization, the Collegium
Biblicum, so I speak from experience). One is obsessed by the need to make
the account balance. The missing quarter is the lost son, dearer to you than
all the others! The only possible solution I can think of is the additional nine
years from the first conquest of Jerusalem to the rebellion of Zedekiah, which
would render 250 years from the death of Joash to the rebellion of Hezekiah,
if we include Zedekiah’s reign until the moment when he starts his rebellion
against the Babylonians. But then we may ask why it was not the second and
final destruction of Jerusalem that formed the basis of the calculation? I have
no answer to this question at this time but am still speculating about a solution
that might also have historical implications.

Conclusion

Now for an evaluation: in the case of Israel there was a definite change of sys-
tem after the ascension of Jehu. Numbers become casual – acci­dental – and may
reflect the existence of an official chronicle patterned after Assyrian practice. In
the case of Judah we have a series of round and pregnant numbers until the death
of Joash. The character of the numbers then change, but we cannot be certain
that this is not due to a change in time reckoning or whether this can be traced
to some complicated calculations from the perspective of the historiographer. It
would have been nice not to get so close to a pregnant number, when the indi­
vidual figures are put together.
The system of the second part of the history of the Kingdom of Jerusalem
may be based on a complicated system created by the author of 2 Kings. In that
case, the historiographer had to pay attention to other information. After all,
the references to kings of Judah in Assyrian annals, place them in the – accord-
ing to our modern historical calculations – correct centuries and in the right
order. If the system of the kings of Judah, even in the second part of its history,
is a ­construct, it likely concurred with infor­mation like that in the Assyrian
Chronicles and royal annals. I shall not dwell on this point, but return rather to
the beginning of Judah’s history.
Four kings of Judah rule for forty years (disregarding Asa’s additional year).
The system begins with two times forty, followed by an inter­lude of twenty years,
 Chronology and archives 315

which is again followed by another forty (in fact, forty-one) years, followed by
an interlude of forty (divided between three kings and a queen) followed by
another reign of forty years. This is simply too good to be true. It seems certain
that there are only two possibilities. Either the authors of 1 and 2 Kings had a
system of pregnant numbers at their disposal, which indicated regnal years, or
they invented the system. We should not be disturbed by the sequence following
Asa: twenty-five years plus eight plus one plus six. As already mentioned, the
numbers appear accidental, but when added together, they make forty years. It
seems that the author of 1–2 Kings had decided in advance on a period of forty
years. At the same time, he divided it between four different characters. It is not
unimportant that his account end with a pregnant period of six years that it might
be followed by a change in the seventh year (the ascension of Joash).
This decision to split a pregnant number into lesser units that individually are
unimportant is not unique. As already indicated, we may have further examples
in 1–2 Kings. There are, however, other more and less complicated examples of
this technique. One can be found in the list of so-called ‘minor judges:’ Judges
10:1-5; 11:8-15. The list includes five judges, reigning, respectively, twenty-
three years, twenty-two, seven, ten and eight years, altogether seventy years.
Now, seventy is a pregnant indication of time and not quantitatively exact. We
can be sure that the list is either preserved in its entirety or has been manipulated
to reach this round number. Perhaps, such manipulation relates to the story of
Jephtah, which is framed by the list of minor judges. By now, none should be
surprised to hear that Jephtah reigned for a period of six years. I would very
much have liked to know what happened in that seventh year!
However, let us return to the early history of Judah from David to Joash. Is
it possible to find an explanation that clarifies the principles behind the selec-
tion of kings who reign for forty years and those who reside on the throne for
a shorter period of time? I believe so and the central issue has to do with the
worship of Yahweh in Jerusalem. What puts David, Solomon, Asa and Joash
in the same category seems to deal with worship. David introduced Yahweh to
Jerusalem, brought his holy ark there and instituted the worship there. Solomon
built the temple. Asa reformed Jerusalem’s cult and, therefore, can be likened
to ‘David his father’ in the eyes of the historiographer who com­posed 1 Kings
(1 Kgs 15:11). Finally, Joash also acted in favour of the cult in Jerusalem by
repairing the temple and reforming it – also viewed as particularly significant.
This seems to be a fixed topos, according to which the righteous king acts in
favour of Yahweh’s cult in Jerusalem and is rewarded with a reign of forty years.
Of course, two other kings also act in favour of the cult, Hezekiah and Josiah,
but they are not included in the system of forty years. How is this change to be
explained? I would suggest the possibility that in the case of Judah, the histo-
riographers were in possession of some official information of regnal periods,
but not before the end of the ninth century. Before 800bce, we have, at the
most, traditional history writing like chronicles of the early Middle Age (my
first choice will always be Saxo Grammaticus and his Gestae Danorum), where
it is impossible to distinguish fact from fiction. After 800bce, the historiographer
was in possession of additional information, which restrained his freedom for
316 Biblical studies and the failure of history

invention. In Israel’s case, we might well have a state chronicle or information

from Assyrian sources. In the case of Judah, it doesn’t really look like informa­
tion from a state chronicle; but perhaps the historiographer was able to deduce
his numbers from other sources, such as Assyrian and Babylonian chronicles
and annals?
Returning to the beginning of this chapter, how does our analysis of chro-
nologies pertain to the question of the emergence of a state society in Judah
and Israel? In the case of Israel, there may have been a change in how events
were recorded after the fall of the House of Omri. Our observations concerning
Judah seem to confirm the thesis of Jamieson-Drake and Niemann. Before the
end of the ninth century bce, there was no Judean state in the proper sense of
the word, maintaining an administration which included keeping official docu­
ments or state chronicles. In short, there was no elaborate bureaucracy. What
is narrated before that date seems to be invented history. In constructing such
a past, biblical historiographers created history according to a preconceived
paradigm, which placed the temple cult of Yahweh in focus. The numbers of the
regnal years of kings of Jerusalem from David to Joash are not related to reality.
They are ‘pregnant’ numbers, bearing significance and do not indicate quantities
measuring such time. Although there are other indications of the emergence of
a state in the early eighth century in Judah, this assumption finds little support
in the available information regarding regnal years of later kings of Judah. Of
course, these numbers are not devoid of historical interest. The kings in ques-
tion ruled approximately when they are said to have done so, but the individual
numbers cannot be controlled except in a general way.
The next step is to see how much of the history of the two states of Israel and
Judah we can reconstruct on the basis of chronicles, if such had been available.
I do not think that we can find much of interest. All we present will have to be
in the form of virtual history, imaginable but certainly not factual. I shall return
to this another time.

Acknowledgements

This chapter is a slightly revised version of my lecture at the First Meeting of the
European Association of Biblical Studies, Utrecht, The Netherlands, in August
2000. I have kept the ‘tone’ of the original lecture.
 21

‘Because they have cast away the law of the Lord

of Hosts’, or ‘We and the rest of the world’:
the authors who ‘wrote’ the Old Testament
2003

Knud Jeppesen’s scholarship has concentrated on prophetism. Among his many

contributions to this field, one of the most inspired is his excursus on Deutero-
Isaiah, which he included in his dissertation on Micah.1 It is evident that at the
time of writing, Jeppesen was more inspired by the Book of Isaiah than the
more pedestrian Book of Micah. Common to his analyses of the books of Isaiah
and Micah, is the notion that both works were put together under the pressure
of the Babylonian exile. In short, this literature is exilic. Any discussion of the
redaction of the Book of Isaiah must begin with Deutero-Isaiah, not with Proto-
Isaiah. It is the circle of authors or collectors who put Deutero-Isaiah together
that were responsible for the inclusion of the prophecies attributed to Proto-
Isaiah. These show how the people of Israel used the history of ancient Israel to
produce a reason for its harsh fate of exile. They not only found explanation in
the history of their nation, but also hope for the future. There would be a new
Israel, a new covenant (Jer. 31:27-34) or a new David, a Messiah who was to
restore the greatness of ancient Israel (Isa. 9:6-7; 11). Jeppesen’s analysis of the
redaction history of the Book of Micah (and Isaiah) must be seen in the light
of the development which began in biblical studies during the 1970s. Over the
next twenty years, this was to change the field in a very thorough way. At the
beginning of this process, German Old Testament scholars often maintained that
scholarship had been dominated by ‘die deuteronomistische Schwemme’. The
Deuteronomistic circle had either written the text or redacted it. Little remained
that had not passed through Deuteronomistic hands. This also meant that most,
if not all, of the Old Testament was composed in the time of the Baby­lonian
exile – either in Mesopotamia or Palestine.
Without doubt, the new trend in Old Testament scholarship began with the
downfall of the amphictyonic hypothesis, which had dominated the history of
ancient Israel and its tradition for more than a generation. The theory had been
proposed by Albrecht Alt and presented in a famous study by Martin Noth. It

1. Knud Jeppesen, Grœder ikke saa saare. Studier i Mikabogens sigte (Aarhus: Aarhus
Universitetsforlag, 1987), 63–84.
318 Biblical studies and the failure of history

saw Israel as a religious league of tribes, assembled around a shrine of Yahweh.2

The origin tradition of ancient Israel found a place in connection with this cen-
tral amphictyonic shrine, which explained its basic Yahwistic orientation.3 The
first version of this tradition – the so-called Grundschrift – belonged to the
amphictyonic assembly which left its impact upon the subsequent Israelite tradi-
tion, surviving after the Amphictyony had ceased to exist.4 Between 1970 and
1980, a series of studies appeared that demol­ished the amphictyonic edifice
of Martin Noth. His hypothesis was rejected as without historical foundation.
According to these critical voices, Israel was never a unity before the days of
David and Solomon. The first ‘secure’ evidence within the Old Testa­ment tradi-
tion of a political organization that included all of Israel was, supposedly, the
list of Solomon’s districts in 1 Kings 4.5
The disappearance of the amphictyony from scholarly debate had conse-
quences for the understanding of the origin of the biblical tradition. The biblical
idea of an original unity of ancient Israel had lost its Sitz im Leben. The unity of
Israel was not something original, but rather a dream of unity that was only put
into practice for a short period of time in the days of David and Solomon. Such
unity was not historically founded; it was an ideological construct. Rehoboam
ended this unity by forcing a break between the northern tribes and the house
of David. The only thing that remained was the dream: ‘The lord shall bring
upon thee, and upon thy people, and upon thy father’s house, days that have not
come, from the day that Ephraim departed from Judah’ (Isa. 7:17).6 When the

2. Martin Noth, Das System der zwölf Stämme Israels (BWANT IV:1; Stuttgart: Kohl­
hammer, 1930).
3. Cf. his discussion of the origin of the Israelite tradition in his Geschichte Israels
(Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1950), 105–30.
4. Cf. Martin Noth on this in his Überlieferungsgeschichte des Pentateuch (Stuttgart:
Kohlhammer, 1948), especially 45–48.
5. Among the critical studies we may mention Niels Peter Lemche, Israel i Dommertiden.
En oversigt over diskussionen om Martin Noths ‘Das System der zwölf Stämme Israels’
(Tekst og Tolkning 4; Copenhagen: CEG Gad, 1972); Andrew D. H. Mayes, Israel in
the Period of the Judges (SBT supplement, 29; London: SCM, 1974); and Cornelius
H. J. de Geus, The Tribes of Israel: An Investigation into Some of the Presuppositions
of Martin Noth’s Amphictyonic Hypothesis (Studia Semitica Neerlandica 18; Assen: Van
Gorcum, 1976). The discussion was summarized by Niels Peter Lemche in ‘Israel in
the Period of the Judges – the Tribal league in Recent Research’, Studia Theologica 38
(1984), 1–28. In my recent mono­graph The Israelites in History and Tradition (Library
of Ancient Israel; Louisville, KY: Westminster, 1998), 97–107, I propose to restate the
amphictyonic hypothe­sis. It did not belong to history but should be seen as an ideological
construct of the biblical historiographers, part of the literary construct called ‘ancient
Israel’.
6. I consider this interpretation the logical consequence of the Immanuel proph­ecy in Isa.
7:14-16. In the context of Isaiah 7, the disappearance of Judah’s ene­mies indicates that
Judah shall not fear anymore. It also means that it will be possible for Messiah to estab-
lish his kingdom. The reference to the king of Assyria at the end of v. 17 is secondary,
a redactor being influenced by the subsequent reference to Assyria and its king (v. 20)
in the prophecies that follow the Immanuel prophecy. Seen in the light of vv. 18-25, the
 ‘Because they have cast away the law of the Lord of Hosts’ 319

Assyrians conquered Samaria in 722bce and deported its population, it became

obvious that this dream would never come true or could only be realized in the
distant future.7
Following these events, the Judeans had problems of their own and did
not pay much attention to the fate of the Israelite kingdom. Not before the
Babylonian exile, when all nationalistic aspirations to greatness had failed mis-
erably, was the ideology of a united Israel in the shape of the King­dom of David
set free and allowed to develop. The idea of a united Israel was no longer part
of a specific political programme as it had been in the days of Josiah. Now, free
from such mundane concerns, people in exile were allowed to speculate and
dream about a return to their lost country. A new and, at the same time, old Israel
should emerge, a kind of Utopia, a place never to be reached but for that reason
much more desirable, worth dreaming about.
This new line in biblical studies did not merely involve the historical and
prophetic literature of the Old Testament, it also included the Pentateuch. The
assumed oldest part, the Yahwistic stratum, was assigned to the late part of
the pre-exilic era and, later, to the exilic period.8 The prophetic contribution
consisted, according to this line of research, mainly of vaticinia ex eventu – i.e.
prophecies that do not fore­tell the future, but relate the past as if it was to happen
in the future. Instead of being prophecies about Israel’s future, the utterances
attributed to Israel’s prophets talked about the past as if it was something that
was going to happen. In this way, prophetic literature was believed to present
the reason for Israel’s brutal end. After this change of direction among students
of prophetic literature, it was still a major concern for scholars to distinguish
parts of the prophetic books that went back to the prophets of ancient times

prophecy of Immanuel has been read as a prophecy of doom, not as a prophecy of the
coming of Messiah, which I believe it to be. The two passages, Isa. 7:14-17 and 18-25
have been joined because both passages refer to ‘butter and honey’ (vv. 15 and 22). These
references work differently in the two pas­sages. In v. 15, it refers to the messianic meal.
In v. 22 people will eat butter and honey as a consequence of the catastrophe that reduces
the country to a basic agrarian society. However, in vv. 18-25 it is never stated that there
should not be enough to eat. On the contrary, the point is not lack of food but the identity
of this food. Butter and honey are products that suit a society that has been liberated from
the haughty ladies of Jerusalem (Isa. 3:16-17), a bitter metaphor that denounces civilized
(i.e. urban) society.
7. Cf. the Deuteronomistic sermon in 2 Kings 17.
8. Among the many studies contributing to this new line in Old Testament studies, the
following are especially important: Heinz Heinrich Schmid, Der sogenannte Jahwist.
Beobachtungen und Fragen zur Pentateuchforschung (Zürich: TVZ, 1976); John Van
Seters, Abraham in History and Tradition (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press,
1975); cf. also John Van Seters, Prologue to History: The Yahwist as Historian in Genesis
(Louisville, KY: Westminster, 1992), and The Life of Moses: The Yahwist as Historian
in Exodus–Numbers (Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1994). Cf. also Erhard Blum, Studien
zur Komposition des Pentateuch (BZAW 189; Berlin: De Gruyter, 1990), and R. N.
Whybray, The Making of the Pentateuch (JSOT supplement, 53; Sheffield: JSOT Press,
1987), and finally Joseph Blenkinsopp, The Pentateuch: An Introduction to the First Five
Books of the Bible (The Anchor Bible Refer­ence Library; New York: Doubleday, 1992).
320 Biblical studies and the failure of history

from later material belonging to a secondary redaction. Scholars were, how-

ever, mainly of the conviction, as Knud Jeppesen was, that so-called genuine
prophecies (the ipsissima verba of the proph­ets) were placed within a literary
framework consist­ing of exilic ideas and expectations. In some cases, they were
related to the Deuteronomistic movement.9
When it came to the historical literature, especially the so-called ‘Deu­
teronomistic History’, created by Martin Noth,10 which includes the books from
Joshua to 2 Kings, matters looked differently. Scholars had long ago accepted
that this literature belonged to the exilic period, if not for other reasons, then
because the final note in 2 Kings (2 Kgs 25:27-30) refers to events of the year
562bce, when Nebuchadnezzar died. The Deuteronomistic movement that com-
posed this history was not considered to originate in the exile. Most schol-
ars reckoned Deuteronomism to have emerged in Judah and Jerusalem during
the late eighth or in the course of the seventh century bce and saw this move-
ment behind the reform of King Josiah. The literature that can be attributed to
Deuteronomistic influence, however, mostly belonged to the exilic period.
In this way, prophetic and historical literatures behave like two sides of the
same coin. We are entitled to consider them parts of a great inter-textual project.
The historical literature describes how Yahweh, in a tragic way, delivers his cho-
sen people into the hands of their ene­mies. According to the prophetic literature,
the Israelites should have been warned in advance of these fatal events. There is
no reason to blame Yahweh for Israel’s tragedy. Several times the authors of the
Deuteronomistic History address their audience directly. Speeches are placed in
the mouths of divine agents, angels or prophets, who fore­cast the future of apos-
tate Israel. Sometimes, the author includes a sermon, summarizing the events of
the past to tell us that there is a limit to Yahweh’s patience.11 The author estab-
lishes a defence for Yahweh’s deci­sion to destroy Israel. From the beginning of
its history, Israel had been warned against its transgressions. Nobody should be
in doubt that the blame rested on Israel alone because it had paid no attention
to Yah­weh’s warnings. If we are in doubt of the content of these warnings, we
should look at them in the prophetic literature. Pun­ishment will come if the
people of Israel do not repent and change direction!

9. This is particularly evident in the Book of Jeremiah, cf. Winfried Thiel, Die deuter-
onomistische redaktion von Jeremia 1–25 (WMANT 41; Neukirchen: Neukirchener
Verlag, 1973), and Die deuteronomistische redaktion von Jeremia 26–45 (WMANT 52;
Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1981). The best discussion of the place of prophetism
in an exilic environment is probably to be found in Robert P. Carroll, When Proph­ecy
Failed: Reactions and Responses to Failure in the Old Testament Pro­phetic Tradition
(London: SCM, 1979), and From Chaos to Covenant: Uses of Prophecy in the Book of
Jeremiah (London: SCM, 1981).
10. Martin Noth, Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Studien. Erster Teil. Die sammelnden und
bearbeitenden Geschichtswerken im Alten Testament (Schriften der Königsberger
Gelehrten Gesellschaft. Geisteswissenschaftliche Klasse 18, 43–266; Königsberg, 1943;
reprint, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1963), 3–110.
11. Cf. texts such as Deuteronomy 4 (some might prefer all of Deuteronomy to be included
in this connection); furthermore Joshua 23; Judges 2; 1 Samuel 12; 2 Kings 17; 21.
 ‘Because they have cast away the law of the Lord of Hosts’ 321

If we turn to the prophetic literature, presented as oracles of pre-exilic proph-

ets, we find the opposite direction. In the historical books, we find proof that
the proph­ets did not lie, but were spokespersons of Yahweh. When reading the
historic books, we are advised to go to the prophetic books to see how Israel
had been warned of the future punishment if it did not repent and change. The
reader of the prophetic books should read the historical literature to see how
the prophecies became true.12 There is no reason to doubt that the conviction
among biblical scholars that this literature was part of exilic experience is cor-
rect. Without the exile, it would be difficult to find a mental matrix for the pro-
duction of this literature. It is only wisdom literature in the narrow sense of the
word that it has not been influenced by the idea of exile – or, for that matter, by
any historical consideration.
One question remains. What exile? The normal answer to this would be the
exile in Babylonia (i.e. the period of exile between 587/586 and 539/538bce).
This answer depends on a rather slavish paraphrase of the biblical text. The exile
started when Babylonian armies conquered Palestine and Jerusalem in 597 and
587bce and deported several thousand people from Judah to Mesopotamia. A
third wave of deportations followed after the murder of the Babylonian gover­
nor Gedaliah in 582bce.13 This exile lasted until King Cyrus of Persia, after
his conquest of Babylon in 539bce, allowed Jews to return to the land of their
ancestors. Following the return, the post-exilic Jewish community who returned
from Babylon created a society of its own in Palestine.
The Old Testament itself has more information about the situation of Jewish
society after Cyrus’s decree of release of exilic Jews. Not all Jews in exile
returned to Palestine. It was probably only a minority – perhaps merely a small
fraction – of the exilic community who decided to travel all the way to Palestine.
The majority stayed in Mesopotamia, where they, like many exiles from the
West (e.g. Syria or Palestine), lived and pros­pered in Meso­potamia – a much
more inviting place than Syria or Palestine.14 The majority stayed for thousands
of years, making Mesopotamia the home of an extensive Jewish society for
more than 2500 years. It was not a poor society. It was wealthy and prosper-
ous, the source of important parts of later Jewish tradition. In this light, the
Babylonian exile lasted until 1952ce, when conditions deteriorated in Iraq after
the establishment of the modern state of Israel in 1948ce. The exile never ended
in ancient times in spite of the fact that travelling between Meso­potamia and
Palestine was generally unimpeded by public authorities.
The exile persisted as a core experience of Judaism. It found its lasting
expression in the common greeting: ‘Next year in Jerusalem!’ Linguistically,
Hebrew does not distinguish between ‘exile’ and ‘dispersion’. Hebrew ‫גולה‬

12. The appropriate decision of the Hebrew Bible to include the historical books from Joshua
to 2 Kings among prophetic literature is based on this inner coherence. The prophetic and
historical books are certainly connected in this very obvious way.
13. Cf. on this, Niels Peter Lemche, Ancient Israel: A New History of Israelite Society (The
Biblical Seminar; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1988), 175–6.
14. Cf. the introduction to the Book of Nehemiah, Neh. 1:2-3.
322 Biblical studies and the failure of history

means both ‘exile’ and ‘Diaspora’, the common reference to the many Jewish
communities who existed across the Mediterranean, and which defines Jewish
communities as living ‘in exile’. The condition of exile is, to Judaism, a world-
view more than historical reality.
A few biblical scholars today are very sceptical in regard to the historical
real­ity of the Babylonian exile – at least as part of the Jewish national story.15
Although they may be right, the idea of an exile is part of Judaism’s religion
from its very beginning. It is therefore without consequence for the production
of Old Testa­ment literature whether or not this exile happened in the world of
reality. The exile is by all means the intellectual matrix for this literature. To
liberate the idea of exile from the narrow confines of the sixth century bce and
change it to an everlasting condition establishes new possibilities for under-
standing and dating Old Testament literature with references to the exile. Jews
were not only in exile under the Babylonians, but also in the Persian, Hellenistic
and Roman periods. We should not doubt the relevance of John Van Seters’s
reference to Greek historical tradition and its influ­ence on Old Testament his-
toriography.16 Van Seters believes, in a rather tra­ditional fashion, in an exile
lim­ited to the sixth century bce, when the Greeks had hardly introduced his-
toriography as a literary genre before it was borrowed by Jewish authors liv-
ing in far-away Mesopotamia. Van Seters may be more right than he is aware.
Greek historians (especially of the fifth century bce and Hellenistic period) had
an important influence on Old Testament historiography and we should not be
surprised when we are confronted with Greek mytho­logical and cultic ideas or
with a similar understanding of history as is found in classical historiography
(e.g. in Herodotus).17
A revision of the notion of exile in the Old Testament will provide biblical
scholars with a possibility to change the dates of bibli­cal literature from the
sixth century to the second half of the first millennium bce. If a biblical book
was written in the third or second centuries bce, this does not imply that it can-
not be oriented towards the exile. Moreover, instead of assuming a very short
period for the production of biblical literature, between 587 and 539bce, it is still

15. Cf. Philip R. Davies, In Search of Ancient Israel (JSOT supplement, 148; Sheffield:
JSOT Press, 1992), 78–87. Davies does not deny the obvious, that certain deportations
occurred, which led people from Judah and Jerusalem in Neo-Babylonian times – depor-
tations were standard in those days. He understands, however, the biblical tradition of
a ‘national’ Israelite exile in Babylonia to be an ideological reflection over the past. Cf.
also Thomas L. Thompson, Early History of the Israelite People. From the Written and
Archaeological Sources (Studies in the History of the Ancient Near East, 4; Leiden: Brill,
1992), 417–18.
16. John Van Seters, In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the
Origins of Biblical History (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983), 8–54, and
Prologue to History, 78–104.
17. Cf. also Flemming A. J. Nielsen, The Tragedy in History: Herodotus and the Deuter­
onomistic History (JSOT supplement, 251/CIS, 4; Sheffield: Academic Press, 1997). I
would suggest that the comparison should go further and include subsequent Hellenistic
(and Roman) historiography. Cf. Chapter 17, this volume.
 ‘Because they have cast away the law of the Lord of Hosts’ 323

possible to argue that Old Testament literature did not come into being ‘over-
night’. The possibility remains that this literature was written and rewritten over
a considerable period, which covered several generations. It might well be that
the composition of the Old Testament went hand in hand with the development
of Judaism. We cannot exclude the possibility. On the contrary, it is likely that
some of the biblical books are contemporary with other Jewish literature that
was not included in the Hebrew Bible. Although this literature was not accepted
as part of its Bible, it might have been, at the time of its composition, just as
representative of Jewish tradi­tion and religious norms as the books which were
in­cluded.

Who ‘wrote’ the Book of Isaiah?

Literature from the ancient Near East is almost always anonymous. Old
Testament books are not. All of them are attributed to pseudonymous authors.
However, the real authors of this literature may leave some indication of their
identity, like a face among the crowd in a church painting of the Middle Ages.
The book attributed to the prophet Isaiah is the product of a very complicated
redaction. It not only consists of three major ‘blocks’ of prophetic tradition,
referred to as Proto-Isaiah, Deutero-Isaiah and Trito-Isaiah, respectively, but
it also reflects a series of large and small inserts. Its redaction is complicated.
In the first part, we find pieces of texts that are clearly more recent than most
of the material included in the next two sections.18 Literature from the ancient
Near Eastern world is generally the product of a tradition. A concept such as
‘copyright’ was not meaningful in early antiquity – it is an invention of the
modern age. The Book of Isaiah may have included many sources from differ-
ent authors belonging to different times and places. It cannot be precluded that
some of the sayings might have belonged to a prophet Isaiah (supposing he is a
historical person). It is, however, certain that large sections are products of the
authors/redactors of this book. To quote Knud Jeppesen, the distance between
the two sayings ‘wasn’t it Isaiah who once said …’ and ‘it was Isaiah who once
said …’ is a short one.19
The question of isolating passages which might belong to the prophet Isaiah
– his ipsissima verba – is not interesting. Staying with the Book of Isaiah as
it is handed down to us, it is my intention to look for fingerprints that may
disclose the identity of the authors/redactors who put this work together. Such
fingerprints may tell us who they were and how they saw themselves. They can
be found in at least three passages. The first is Isaiah 4:2-6, a short passage con-
cerning the future community assembled at Zion. The second is Isaiah 5:8-24,
prophesying to the unfaithful how they will be swallowed by death, because
they do not pay attention to the law of Yahweh. Finally, Isaiah 6:11-13 relates to
the identity of the holy seed which will remain when Israel has been punished.

18. Thus the so-called ‘little apocalypse’ in Isaiah 24–27.

19. Jeppesen, Græder ikke saa saare, 99.
324 Biblical studies and the failure of history

In a recent contribution to this discussion, I compared the idea of community

present in the Dead Sea Scrolls with the notion of the Israelite nation found
in the Old Testament. It was my intention to show that the two col­lections of
texts share almost the same idea of society.20 In both, society is understood to
be holy and defined in a way that can be dubbed ‘sectarian’. Every person who
does not live up to the religious expectations of the society is to be excluded. A
sectarian movement, creating boundaries between itself and the outside world,
makes a sharp distinction between the members of the group and non-members.
Often, such a group will behave ruthlessly – at least ver­bally, though at times
also in practice – if dissidents appear who threaten the unity of the group. Its
membership is without qualification identified as the ‘people of God’, whereas
non-members are the legitimate prey of Death.

Isaiah 4:2-6

In my previous discussion of the idea of society in the Old Testament and Dead
Sea Scrolls, Isaiah 4:2-6 played an important part. The new Israel (i.e. the sur-
viving few that take up residence in Jerusalem) is a religious community with
well-defined borders, separating it from the rest of the world. This Israel con-
sists of the few who are ‘written among the living in Jerusalem’. This last line
also declares that those who are not of the select few will perish. The remnant is
‘holy’ and identified with the assembly of Zion, pro­tected by Yahweh as Israel
had been in the desert, alluding to Exodus–Numbers. It will stay in a ‘hut’, ‫סוכה‬
– another allusion to the Israelites in the desert and the feast of booths, when
the people of Israel lived in huts. This hut is the one that symbolically protects
Zion; the cloud, the fire and the shelter (Hebrew ‫ חופה‬also means ‘bridal cham­
ber’): all these signs of divine presence embrace the holy remnant and create a
mystical relationship between the new nation and its God, making clear that this
remnant is truly God’s people.
The impression gained from this array of mystical phenomena which sur-
rounds the new Israel is supported by the phraseology at the begin­ning of the
passage. The text speaks of ‘the branch of the Lord and the fruit of the earth’.
This is the only place in Proto-Isaiah where ‘branch’, Hebrew ‫צמח‬, is used. It
echoes the messianic pas­sages of Proto-Isaiah, where we find allusions to the
new David, such as Isaiah 11:1: ‘And there shall come forth a rod out of the stem
of Jesse, and a Branch shall grow out of his roots.’ Although the King James
version uses ‘branch’ in both passages, it does not translate the same Hebrew
word. In Isaiah 11:1 the two nouns are ‫ חטר‬and ‫ נצר‬combined with the two verbs
‫ יצא‬and ‫פרה‬.

20. Niels Peter Lemche, ‘The Understanding of Society in the Old Testament and in the
Dead Sea Scrolls’, in F. H. Cryer and T. L. Thomp­son (eds) Qumran between the Old and
New Testaments (JSOT supplement, 290/Copenhagen International Seminar, 6; Sheffield
1998), 181–93.
 ‘Because they have cast away the law of the Lord of Hosts’ 325

Deutero-Isaiah makes frequent use of the verb ‫( צמח‬Isaiah 42:9; 43:19; 44:4;
45:8; 55:10). In Isaiah 42:9 it relates to Yahweh free­ing his people from prison
(Isaiah 42:5-9): The new tidings that have been announced will go forth. The
passage is part of the first ‘ser­vant song’ (Isaiah 42:1-9) and is permeated with
messianic connotation. The servant in Isaiah 42 must be the new David. A
number of textual elements connect this passage and Isaiah 11. The possession
of the spirit of righteousness is common to both the new David of Isaiah 11 and
the servant of Isaiah 42. It is also a common motif that the servant/Messiah shall
free prisoners, bring justice to the poor and bring the elected back to paradise
(i.e. to God’s own country or Zion).
The situation in Isaiah 43:19 is very much the same. ‫( צמח‬as in Isaiah 42:9)
is connected to the ‘new’ – that is, ‘growing’ – in a context that alludes to the
sojourn of the Israelites in the desert. In Isaiah 44:4, the people of the future
shall grow, blessed by Yahweh, while in Isaiah 45:8 righteousness appears with
salvation. The Messiah in this passage is Cyrus (Isaiah 45:1).
Trito-Isaiah uses the noun ‫ צמח‬once as part of a metaphor of crops growing,
much like Isaiah 44:5 and 45:8. The context of Isaiah 61 speaks of liberation
from prison (cf. also Isa. 42), the good tidings to the poor and the consecration
of the people of God as priests of Yahweh and servants of God (Isa. 61:6). ‫צמח‬
is also used as a verb in Isaiah 58:8,21 which combines themes of liberation and
right­eousness in a way similar to other passages already mentioned where ‫צמח‬
is used.
In the Book of Zechariah, ‫ צמח‬has a messianic meaning. In Zechariah 3:8,
‫ צמח‬is simply ‘my servant’ who will appear or ‘grow forth’ (6:12). The same
is the case in the Book of Jeremiah, where Yahweh ‘will raise unto David a
righteous Branch’. In Jeremiah 33:15, ‫ צמח‬is used both as noun and as verb,
‫ואצמח לדוד צמח צדקה‬. Other passages are relevant to the discussion. It is clear that,
in Isaiah 4:2-6, the assembly of holy ones is not only the remnant spared from
exile and punishment; it is also a holy community, assembled in the name of the
Messiah. Although the Messiah is not mentioned directly, the text is perme­ated
with allusions and hopes that belong to this context.
Who are ‘the holy ones’ who have been ‘spared’ (‫ ?)והנתר‬Who per­ished? In
the Book of Isaiah, the principal answer to such questions is, of course, that
they were the ancient Israelites, the idol worship­pers, whose children lived in
foreign countries and have returned from their exile. Is this answer sufficient?
Is it precise? Was it enough to be accepted within the new Israel that a person
had merely to show his or her pedigree? Were other qualifications required? An
answer to these questions may be found in Isaiah 5:8-24.

21. The King James Version (KJV) ‘thine health shall spring forth speedily’, which is much
closer to the sense than the Revised English Bible (REB) ‘a new skin will speedily grow
over your wound’. The Hebrew text says ‫וארכתך מהרה תצמח‬. ‫ ארוכה‬is also used in Neh
4.1 about the repair of the walls of Jerusalem. According to the Dictionary of Classical
Hebrew I, 372, the primary meaning is ‘restoration’, which indicates an exilic context
for the passage (exile and restoration).
326 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Isaiah 5:8-24

This passage is often understood as a series of ‘woes’ against irresponsible per-

sons. The content of this description, however, is empty. It misses the point
stressed in the last section: ‘because they have cast away the law of the Lord
of Hosts, and despised the word of the Holy One of Israel’ (Isa. 5:24b). Who
are these unfaithful depicted in the preceding woes as persons who join house
to house and field to field, who get drunk early in the morning and enjoy happy
company, music and entertainment: all the happy fellows that are swallowed
by Death in v. 14? Included among the infidels are the greedy, corrupt, God-
forsaking multitude who turn white into black, all self-suffi­cient drunkards who
accept bribes.22 Common to all is that they have forsaken the law of Yahweh.
Scholars usually take this passage to be an example of the social ethics of
the prophets (cf. vv. 8-10). The prophet reproaches his people because of their
lack of understanding – a subject that reappears in Isaiah 6. Is this really the
point of this passage? The significance of the passage may appear in v. 24: ‘they
have cast away the law of the Lord of Hosts’? But who are those who have not
spurned the law of God? An obvious answer: they are not normal people but the
pious who fear God and care only for the law of God.23
The conclusion to Isaiah 5:8-24 resembles the introduc­tion to the Book of
Psalms: ‘Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor
standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful. But his
delight is in the law of the Lord; and in his law does he meditate day and night’
(Ps. 1:1-2). The contrast made by Isaiah 5:8-24 is the same as that indicated by
the first psalm. The point is not the difference between the law stu­dent and the
sinner, but between the law student and everybody else, all the common people
who do not ‘meditate on God’s law day and night’, every person whose life is
not exclusively devoted to the study of the law, but finds time for other, more
profane pleasures.
In the introduction to the Book of Psalms the editors of this collection of
poems undoubtedly identify themselves, though this does not mean that they
also wrote all the psalms included in the Book of Psalms. They edited this collec-
tion of poems and provided it with guidance for reading and under­standing it.24

22. Most commentators agree that Isa. 10:1-4 completes this passage. It is a woe over per-
sons who do not care for the widow, the orphan and the poor.
23. It is without consequence whether this passage is part of a saying attributable to the
prophet Isaiah or to some redaction of the book carrying his name. It is not even important
if v. 24b is a secondary insertion in the passage, as proposed by several commentators
since the days of Marti and Duhm (cf. Hans Wildberger, Jesaia, Biblischer Kommentar.
Altes Testament X/1; Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1972), 191. Such commentators
are influenced by the idea that we may be able to trace the words of the prophet Isaiah
himself. Because v. 24b is present in the text as it stands, it tells us how the authors or
editors of this passage looked upon themselves.
24. Cf. on this Niels Peter Lemche, ‘Indledningen til Davids salmer’, in Lone Fatum and
Mogens Müller (eds) Tro og Historie. Festskrift tio Niels Hyldahl i anledning af 65 års
fødselsdagen den 30. December 1995 (Forum for Bibelsk Eksegese, 7; Copenhagen:
 ‘Because they have cast away the law of the Lord of Hosts’ 327

They were law-abiding Jewish scholars, devoted to an exclusive study of

God’s law, who could not think of a life not totally absorbed in the study of
the law.
Isaiah 1:10 presents another example of such self-identification. It contains
preaching against the people of Sodom and Gomorrah who are admonished to
pay attention to the ‘word of the Lord’ and to listen to ‘the law of our God’. The
author’s enemies are the people of Sodom, doomed to be punished by Yahweh.
The author will join to his people ‘all nations of the earth’, who will travel to
Zion to listen to the law of Yahweh. It has been mainstream scholarship for
many years – at least since the publication of Julius Wellhausen’s famous the-
sis that the prophets pre­date the law – to translate Hebrew ‫ תורה‬as ‘teaching’
or ‘instruction’ when­ever it appears outside the Pentateuch or in passages not
directly relating to the law of Moses.25 Because of this distinction, a passage
such as Isaiah 5:24 cannot possibly – so it is assumed – refer to Yahweh’s law in
the narrow sense of the word. It is a reference to the priestly instruction given at
the sanctuaries of ancient Israel in pre-exilic times. This translation is supported
by the simple fact that ‫ תורה‬actually means ‘instruction’ or ‘teaching’. This is,
however, also the natural translation of ‫ תורה‬in the Pentateuch in connection
with the ‘instruction’ of Moses.
The misleading interpretation of ‫ תורה‬as ‘law’ begins with the Greek transla-
tion νόμος. As a matter of fact, this is a correct Greek rendering of ‫תורה‬.26 The
later Christian tradition understands ‫תורה‬, alias νόμος, as ‘law’ in the strict sense
of the word (i.e. in its forensic meaning). This has to do with the denunciation
of the law in the New Testament, which turned Chris­tians against the law and
prevented them from understanding the real content of the word. ‫ תורה‬should
proba­bly be rendered as ‘instruction for life’. Because of the idea of the dead
letter of the law in the New Testament, Christian scholars made a distinction

Museum Tuscukanum, 1996), 142–51. The point made here is that Psalms 1 and 2 are
considered by the editors of the Book of Psalms a single psalm. Although Psalm 2 may
have existed before the editors chose it to introduce their collection, it is now part of the
introduction that presents David as the Messiah of the people of Yahweh. Remember
that Psalm 2 has no introduction like Psalm 3, ‫מזמור לדוד‬. Why? Yahweh first installs
his messianic David on his throne in Ps. 2:6-7. After that, the following psalms can be
attributed to this Messiah, either believed to be his poems or poems about the Messiah.
That David and the king are the Messiah is certain. When the king is introduced in Ps.
2:2, it is as the Messiah. The connection between Psalms 1 and 2 is finally established
by the inclusio marked by the formula NN ‫ אשרי‬that appear in the first verse of Psalm 1
and the last of Psalm 2.
25. This is the main thesis in Wellhausen’s famous Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels
(Berlin: Georg Reimer, 1878). To mention one example of the impact Wellhausen has
made upon modern Bible translations, the REB translates ‫ תורה‬in Isa. 5:24 as ‘for they
have spurned the instruction of the Lord of Hosts’ instead of KJV’s ‘because they have
cast away the law of the Lord of Hosts’.
26. Νόμος means ‘that which is habitual practice, use or possession’, and then ‘custom’ and
finally ‘law’ (cf. Liddell and Scott, Greek–English Lexicon, 9th edn, Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1925, 1180).
328 Biblical studies and the failure of history

that was probably never intended by Old Testament authors. They distinguished
between ‘instruction’ and ‘law’ and believed the law to belong to so-called ‘late
Judaism’ (i.e. the Jewish world of the Second Temple – never much appreciated
among Christian exegetes of the past). Ancient Israel, the construction of the
same scholars, was not yet Judaism. The law of Moses did not yet exist, which,
in their eyes, created Judaism.27
Scholars brought up within this Christian tradition never under­stood that
such a thing as a written law code, to be used in court­rooms (i.e. com­posed
for practical use) were uncommon in the ancient Near East (if they existed
at all). Law was not ‘law’ in the modern sense of the word and courts did not
function in the way they do today – or, for that matter, in Roman tradition.
It is now common knowledge among Assyriolo­gists that the famous law col-
lections of Mesopotamia were not put together with a practical use in mind.
They were school texts and academic exer­cises occasionally turned into royal
propaganda.28 Like the Mesopotamian law-codes, biblical collections, like the
Book of the Covenant (Exod. 21–23), did not function as juridical text­books.
They belonged to a tradition of ‘scholastic’ law that was studied in ­universities
(traditionally called scribal schools by modern scholarship). In short, legal lit-
erature was wisdom literature. It is this academic law that should be studied
day and night, as is the case in the schools of the rabbis, not because this is the
law, but because it is the source of wisdom and life (cf. Ps. 1:3). Hebrew ‫תורה‬
means exactly this. It is ‘instruction’ for life. When we disregard the understand-
ing of the law common to Paul and the early Christians, there is no reason to
postulate a difference between occurrences of ‫ תורה‬in the books of the prophets,
in Psalms, or in the Pentateuch and Deuteronomistic literature. Isaiah 5:8-24,
like Psalm 1, does not make a contrast between the pious and the impious. The
distinction made has to do with the student of law and everyone else.
In the eyes of the law student, a person not conversant with the law will auto-
matically be reckoned among the merry fellows who are swallowed by death.

27. A revised view on the content of the ‫ תורה‬of the Old Testament that denies that we can
separate ‘law’ and ‘instruction’ as belonging to two different periods in the history of
Israel will have other consequences as well. The artificial distinction between ‘instruc-
tion’ and ‘law’ is false and cannot be used to date the Pentateuch vis-à-vis the Prophets
and Psalms. We therefore have no reason to think that Psalms and Prophets are far
removed in time from the Pentateuch and the Deuteronomistic literature. This literature
belongs to Judaism. Scholars will have to choose between two options. The first one says
that biblical literature must be part of Judaism of the second half of the first millennium
bce. The second argues that most if not all of it must belong to the Iron Age (i.e. the
period of the Hebrew kings), something still maintained by a number of Israeli scholars
of the present.
28. This is not the place to deal extensively with this issue. Cf. the short introduc­tion to the
theme by Martha T. Roth, Law Collections from Mesopotamia and Asia Minor (Writings
from the Ancient World 6; 2nd edn; Atlanta, GA: Scholars, 1997), 1–10. I deal with the
system of justice in Syria and Palestine in Chapter 13, this volume. Here the lack of
written law is attributed to the socio-political system, a patronage system that did not
need written law.
 ‘Because they have cast away the law of the Lord of Hosts’ 329

The unfaithful (i.e. one who does not know the law) has no part in the kingdom
of God. He is condemned and, without mercy, shall be placed in darkness. Here
‘they shall pass through it … they shall fret themselves, and curse their king and
their God … and they shall be driven to darkness’ (Isa. 8:21-22).
The identity of the author (or editor) of the passage in Isaiah 5:8-24 is obvi-
ous. In this dichotomy between the faithful and the unfaithful, the author reckons
himself among the faithful ones, the stu­dents of law. He has no part in the merry
doomed com­pany and does not share their fate because they have cast away
the ‫ תורה‬of God. There is no middle course between the student of the law and
the multitude of unfaithful, the prey of Death. Our student is found among the
holy ones assembled at Zion and protected by the glory of Yahweh. It is, there-
fore, certain that our author cannot belong to the pre-exilic period. The vision
indicates that we will meet next year in Jerusalem because punishment is over.

Isaiah 6:1-13

A party of law students such as described here has no part in the profane and
worldly life of common people. Such a group is elitist in its outlook: students
or teachers at academic institutions. It should not be difficult to locate such
institutions. The Book of the Cove­nant’s close ties to Mesopotamian law codes
points at Meso­potamia as the place of origin of Judaism. At the middle of the
first millennium bce, aca­demic institutions had been in existence for more than
2000 years. These institutions are usually described as learned scribal schools.
However, the knowledge of those days – whether literature, mathematics,
astronomy (generally in the disguise of astrology), medi­cine, law or religion
– was studied in these schools. According to any definition, they were the uni-
versities of their time.
A group of academics as described here will normally look upon itself as
something special in comparison to the rest of society. Its membership will live
‘in its own world’. Its study of the contemporary world will be based on its own
ideas and it will easily be persuaded into believing that the rest of the world is
(or should be) following the same rules as those accepted within the group of
academics. Falling short, in this respect, leads to rejection from the para­dise of
the academic circle, involving ridicule and contempt.29
A final example may clarify this attitude among the authors of biblical lit-
erature. It is obvious that the idea of belonging to the elite allows for a self-
understanding that leaves no room for other people. Everybody else can die as
they live. God does not love them! The last few lines of the call narrative of

29. Modern universities, which have developed into industrial plants, producing candidates
in thousands and tens of thousands, have little in common with the universities of the
past. We have merely to travel one generation back in time to find the academic popula-
tion at the universities locked within its own contexts, so-called ‘ivory tow­ers’, where
it was believed that scholarship must be pursued without inter­ference from an outside
world.
330 Biblical studies and the failure of history

Isaiah (Isa. 6:11-13) may contain the clearest formulation of this idea of belong-
ing among the chosen few in the Old Testament.
Many of the problems caused by this short passage have to do with textual
matters, but are not very important in this context. Textual corruption may have
happened and emendations may change the meaning of some parts of the text.
Only major corrections will, however, alter the meaning of the entire passage,
such as if the last line is omitted,30 it gives meaning to the whole pas­sage. The
remnant that survives is ‘holy’. The passage states that when Isaiah asks how
long his people will not understand, the answer is ‘until the cities be wasted
without inhabi­tants’. If one person in ten survives, the rest shall be destroyed.
Only a stump of the tree will survive. It is holy seed. If we are serious about the
translation of the passage found in modern bibles, this suggests that exile and
punishment has to come. When the punishment is over, only a remnant will sur-
vive. The multitude of the people has van­ished. The passage presupposes, first
of all, that the exile is a reality and, second, that the myth of ‘the empty land’
has been accepted. This myth had, however, little to do with the situation in the
territory of the former state of Judah in Neo-Babylonian times.31 It is a myth
created to estab­lish a line of division between the people said to have ‘survived’
the exile and the very few who will become ‘the holy seed’.
What kind of information about the understanding of the world current among
the authors or collectors of Isaiah may be deduced from this evidence? Isaiah
6:11-13 is part of the so-called ‘Isaiah’s Gedenkschrift’ (Isa. 6–9:6). This was, in
a very naive way, believed by earlier scholar­ship to be the product of the prophet
Isaiah, himself – because of the use of ‘I’ in this section of the book – or at least
of a circle of students very close to their master. This idea of a Gedenkschrift
is impossible. This section of the Book of Isaiah contains several specimens of
Deuter­ono­mistic influ­ence, among these a passage quoted from 2 Kings (Isa.
7:1 being almost identical with 2 Kgs 16:5). It is impossible to quote something
that does not exist. If the Gedenkschrift contains Deuteronomistic phrases, it
can hardly have been put together before – in the classic sense of the word – the
exilic period. It is not the product of the eighth or seventh century bce. The ‘I’
formula is an example of a narrator, changing style. It is not an indica­tor that
says something about the authors of this section of the Book of Isaiah.
It is a reasonable assumption to consider the passage about ‘holy seed’ to
be an expression of the elitist self-under­standing of the law-faithful circle of
authors who brought together large parts of Old Testament literature. These
authors and their circle are the ‘holy seed’. Their membership is extremely
­limited, and they do not care because they know the ‘truth’ (i.e. the law of God,
their subject of study and contemplation). To them belongs the coming King­
dom of God and they will live on Zion, the mountain of God. It is no concern
of theirs whether the rest of the world perishes in the process. All that matters is
the survival of the people of God.

30. Cf. BHS, Isa. 6:13 f-f- dl – however, without any textual support whatsoever.
31. Cf. Hans M. Barstad, The Myth of the Empty Land: A Study in the History and Archaeology
of Judah During the ‘Exilic’ Period (Symbolae Osloenses 28; Oslo: Aschehoug, 1996).
 ‘Because they have cast away the law of the Lord of Hosts’ 331

‘The Taliban’

If it is correct to characterize the authors and collectors of the Old Testament

literature in this way, one may say that they belonged to a well-educated soci-
etal elite in possession of a definite socio-religious pro­gramme. They knew
Mesopotamian law and the university tradition, but they were also acquainted
with religious and historical traditions from Syria and Palestine. It is hardly a
coincidence that they placed Jerusalem in a central posi­tion in their religio-
political universe. Nor is it a coincidence that they considered them­selves ‘sons’
of the ‘fathers’ who once lived in the Promised Land. These fathers had trans-
gressed God’s cove­nant, were rejected, and sent into exile, where they died.
A son has the right to inherit his father, but he is not the same person as his
‘father’. A father’s sins are not transferred to the son when they have been
atoned (and the father has died).32
It is in this context that the idea of an exile legitimizes the claim of the
‘sons’ to inherit the land of their fathers while at the same time creating a space
between fathers and their sons. The fathers were of the lost generation, whereas
the sons are members of the new Israel, the true people of God. Within this
ideological universe, it is not important whether the sons were biologically sons
of the ‘fathers’ – the direct offspring of the people brought into exile from Judah
and Jerusalem. It is also with­out consequence whether the ‘sons’ belonged to
the first generation (i.e. whether or not their real fathers were the people sent
into exile in 597 or 587bce) or whether the ‘sons’ belonged to a genera­tion
born per­haps hundreds of years after these events. In such a world, ‘father’ and
‘son’ are classificatory terms. To think of oneself as a ‘son’ means that the ‘son’
establishes or formulates a claim to the possessions of the ‘father’ who went into
exile – perhaps a very long time ago.
The Old Testament includes a programme for the return and restora­tion of the
real Israel. This return will not include everyone who might think of himself or
herself as part of that new Israel. Only very few who ‘in his law doth meditate
day and night’ are allowed in. The rest (i.e. everyone else) who might believe

32. Cf. Jer. 31:29-30: in the new Israel there is no need of a collective punishment. Everybody
must answer for his own transgressions. Here the concept of the ‘exile’ has almost the
same meaning as the Flood story – the one of water and the one of fire – in Genesis.
When the water destroyed humankind, it was a meaningless collective punishment:
Human beings were evil and were punished collectively (Gen. 6:11-12). However, they
also remained evil after the Flood (Gen. 8:21). In the second case when Sodom and
the other cities of the Jordan region were destroyed by a fire from heaven, Abraham
negotiates his case in front of God by claiming that the righteous cannot perish together
with the unjust. This is the point made by the epilogue to the Neo-Babylo­nian version
of the Epic of Gilgamesh: in the future, a person must carry responsibility for his or her
own actions. Collective punishment leads nowhere (Gilgamesh XI, iv; cf. Stephanie
Dalley, Myths from Mesopotamia: Creation, The Flood, Gilgamesh and Others: A New
Translation, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989, 115). Thus, both Jeremiah and
Ezekiel reject the implications of the famous saying ‘the fathers have eaten a sour grapes,
and the children’s teeth are set on edge’ (Jer. 31:29-30; Ezek. 18:2ff.).
332 Biblical studies and the failure of history

themselves to belong to Israel will be rejected and cast out. They are no more
than abomina­ble idol worshippers.
The Old Testament proposes a programme for the annexation of a coun-
try, including the removal of any person who does not live up to the religious
expectations that relate to this ‘conquest’ of the land of the fathers. The conquest
narrative in the Book of Joshua has a paradigmatic role to play in this context.
It shows that it is in accordance with the will of the God of Israel to destroy
any person who is not a member of the true people of God. Such persons are
condemned and shall be killed because they are Canaanites and placed under
the þerem. According to the Book of Joshua, it is a regrettable fact that the
Canaanites were not entirely annihi­lated but some were spared. Israel sinned
against the Lord by sparing the lives of a few Canaan­ites and did not live up to
the expecta­tions and demands of its divine patron.33
The section is called ‘The Taliban’ (an Arab term, from Arabic talaba mean-
ing ‘those who seek [God]’). The title indicates that a parallel may be found
to religious political movements of the present, not least active in the Muslim
world. The members of the Taliban movement in Afghanistan are often dubbed
by the mass media ‘stu­dents’, and not without reason. Some, if not all, of
its founding members were law students educated at Muslim law schools in
Pakistan who set out to ‘return’ to the land of their fathers to create the ideal
Muslim republic. To them it is a paradise on earth, to other people a nightmare.
The holy, unpolluted new Israel whose existence is totally absorbed in the
study of the law of God – of course, a metaphor, but one with content – is planned
as a ‘theocracy’, a much-favoured favoured term of the past. This ­theocracy was
proba­bly never a political fact, although often believed to be so. It was more
a programme for an intol­erant society supposed to execute any person who
might not repent, conform and follow the ways of God. Richard D. Nelson has
recently described the content of the term þerem in Deuteronomistic literature
in a different way. He does not take this expression to be a sign of paranoia and
xenophobia, directed against any person who did not conform religiously. He
places the concept of þerem in an old Isra­elite socio-cultural context, not related
to the texts of the Old Testa­ment.34 This is completely misleading. After all,
the pages of the Old Testament include the demand that a ban is placed upon
every non-Israelite citizen of the Promised Land. They are all con­demned and
should be killed to please God. To modify a quotation from the inventor of the

33. On the literary character of the Canaanites of the Old Testament, cf. the last chapter in
Niels Peter Lemche The Canaanites and Their Land: The Tradition of the Canaanites
(JSOT supplement, 110; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), 151–73. Here the argument says
that the Canaanites are the ‘bad guys’ in the biblical drama. The Israelites are no more
real. They are the ‘good guys’.
34. Richard D. Nelson, ‘Herem and the Deuteronomistic Conscience’, in M. Vervenne
and J. Lust (eds) Deuteronomy and Deuteronomistic Literature. Festschrift C. H. W.
Brekelmans (Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium 133; Leuven:
Peeters, 1997), 39–54.
 ‘Because they have cast away the law of the Lord of Hosts’ 333

Kalashnikov rifle, it is not the text which kills, it is the people who read the text
and wish to carry out its programme.
We do not know whether the Old Testament ‘Taliban’ ever succeeded in cre-
ating their theocratic state. If they succeeded, we should probably identify them
as ‘Macca­bees’ who were politically active in a period otherwise dominated by
Jewish nationalism. John Strange has argued that the Book of Joshua should be
understood as a programme for a conquest that relates to this movement and
its aspirations.35 He might well be correct. The Book of Joshua may have func­
tioned as a Hasmonean manifesto. But this does not automatically mean that the
Book of Joshua was composed in the Maccabean or Hasmonean period. It could
well be older but understood to formulate a political programme by the people
supporting the Maccabean cause.
It was not the aim of this chapter to present a dogmatic, not to say ‘final’,
answer to the question of authorship of this literature. It is enough to indicate
a way to penetrate deeper into this intricate ques­tion. To a great extent, this
lit­erature is the expression of a religious and political programme. Following
the guidelines of the argument in this chapter, we may be close to the senti­
ments and ideas which created Judaism as a conglomerate of Syro-Pal­estinian
and Mesopotamian ideas and notions, and which have been submitted to heavy
Greek cultural influence, sometimes adorned with Egyptian motifs.

Acknowledgements

This chapter was originally published in Danish as ‘For de har forkastet

Hærskarers herres lov’ – eller ‘vi og de andre!’ Om forfatterne, der “skrev”
Det Gamle Testamente’, in Else K. Holt, Alle der ånder skal lovprise Herren!
Det Gamle Testamente i tempel, synagoge og kirke (Frederiksberg: Anis, 1998),
63–90, a col­lection of studies based on a seminar at the University of Aarhus,
Denmark, in Septem­ber 1998 on occasion of Knud Jeppesen’s sixtieth birthday.
The chapter has been slightly revised.

35. John Strange, ‘The Book of Joshua: A Hasmonaean Manifesto?’, in A. Lemaire and
B. Otzen (eds) History and Traditions of Early Israel: Studies Presented to Eduard
Nielsen May 8th 1993 (SVT 50; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1993), 136–41.
 Index of biblical references

Genesis 39:14, 17 84n, 85, 86

1 139, 140 40:15 84n, 85, 86
1–11 84n 41:12 84n, 85, 86
1:31 291 43:32 84n, 85, 86
2–3 274 49:7b 110n
6–8 69, 71, 73
6:11-12 331n Exodus
7:4 69, 70, 75 1–2 87n, 89n
7:6 71, 76 1–15 84, 86, 87, 88
7:11 70, 71, 75 1:1 88
7:12 69, 70 1:11 174, 175, 176
7:17 71n 1:15, 19 84n, 86
7:24 71, 72, 74, 75 2:7 84n, 86
8:2b 72 2:6 84n
8:4 71 2:13 84n, 87, 88
8:5 71, 75 3–4 109n
8:6 72 3:5 88n
8:10 69, 70 3:16 88
8:12 69 3:18 84n, 87
8:13 71, 72, 73, 75 4:5 88
8:13‑14 74 5:1 88
8:14 71, 72, 73, 74, 75 5:1ff. 87n
8:21 243, 331n 5:3 84n, 87
10:21, 25 84n, 85n 5:15 88n
11:31 303 7:16, 19 84n, 87
13 252 9:1, 13 84n, 87
14 83 10:3 84n
14:13 83, 84n, 86n 10:30 87
19 244, 246 12:1-20 87n
22:20‑24 61 12:24-27a 87n
24 303 13:3-16 87n
25:2 61 15:25 27
25:13‑16 61 19–24 12
29:18 20 19:3b‑6 12
34 109n, 110n, 113n 20:1-21 299
35 109n 20:12 13n
35:23-26 179, 180 20:13 13n
36:10‑14 61 20:15 13n
36:20‑28 61 21 31n, 311
 Index of biblical references 335

21–23 63, 163, 212, 299, 328 23:16 33n

21:1 16, 27 25:20‑22 35
21:1–22:16 12, 13 22:25-54 36
21:2 16, 17, 20, 22, 24, 25, 29, 31, 32, 25:13 35
36, 86n 25:24 33
21:2ff. 11, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 22, 31, 32, 25:25ff. 34
36, 38, 77, 78, 79, 84, 87n, 91n 92 25:25‑54 33
21:2‑6 2, 16, 17, 18, 23, 41, 60, 98n 25:27‑28 35
21:2‑11 11, 17, 23, 167, 212 25:35ff. 36
21:2–22:16 212, 228 25:39ff. 19, 22, 31, 36, 39
21:2–23:16 11, 29 25:39-54 36
21:2–23:16 (19) 29 25:44ff. 18
21:4‑6 22 25:50‑52 35
21:5-6 32
21:6 22, 23n Numbers
21:7‑11 23, 29 1:1-15 63
21:7, 14, 18, 20 16 24:24 84n, 260
21:12 13n 26 205
21:12‑17, 23‑25 12, 13n 36 40
21:15, 17 13n 36:1‑11 40
21:23 217 36:4 40
21:26‑27 17
22:17–23:16 11, 29, 212 Deuteronomy
22:28 213 4 320n
23 29, 32 5 232
23:10 34 5:6-21 299
23:10‑11 29, 30, 32, 35, 40, 60 15 41, 78, 84, 98n
23:11 30, 35 15:1 30, 32, 35, 38
23:12 30n 15:1ff. 18
23:20‑33 12, 158 15:1‑11 18, 30, 32, 41
15:1‑18 30, 42
Leviticus 15:2‑18 30
17–26 32, 212 15:9 33n
23:16 33n 15:12 16, 31, 77, 37, 38
25 19, 26, 32, 33, 34, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 15:12ff. 17, 18, 19, 22, 32, 36, 38, 43
41, 42, 78, 98n 15:12, 13, 18 11, 20
25:1‑7 32 15:12‑18 2, 18, 32, 41
25:2ff. 35 15:13, 18 79n
25:2-7 30n 15:16f. 31n
25:3 34 15:16-17 31
25:3 (4b) 36 15:21ff. 31
25:3a, 3c 35 16:18-20 213, 226, 234
25:3ff. 34, 35 17:8-13 213, 234
25:7 36 17:14-20 213, 216
25:9 33 19:14-15 219
25:10 27, 33 19:14-21 234
25:11 33 19:16-19 218
25:11‑12 35 21:1-9 218
25:13 35 24 213
25:14‑16 35 26:5ff. 88n
336 Index of biblical references

31:10f. 18 27:12 91n

31:10-11 18 29:3 84n, 89n, 91, 92n

Joshua 2 Samuel
7:16-18 205 5:17 91n
9 109n 7 161
10:33 81n 8:2 186
10–11 81n 8:15 27
19:5 81n 17:25 11
19:21 93n
23 320n 1 Kings
24 297 3:16-28 217
24:25 27 3:28; 6:12; 8:45, 49,
59; 10:9; 11:33 27
4 83n, 318
Judges 4:1 40n
2 320n 6:1 122n
3:15 17, 21, 177n 9:15-19 185
8:22ff. 112n 11 273
9 81n 14:19 309
10:1-5 325 14:29 310
11:8-15 325 15:7 310
19–21 63 15:11 309, 315
15:23 310
1 Samuel 15:31 309
4 89 16 291
4:1‑5 89, 90 16:5 309
4:6 92 16:14 309
4:6, 9 84n, 89, 91, 92 16:20 309
4:9 90, 92 16:27 284, 309
4:9‑10 92 18:3-6 210
8 144, 234 21 210
8:10-18 216 22:17 273
12 234, 273, 320n 22:39 309
13–14 89 22:46 310
13:3 84n, 89n, 90
13:3(?), 19 89 2 Kings
13:3, 7(?), 19 84n 1:18 309
13:3-4 90 3 277, 278, 27
13:4 90 4:1 20n, 40
13:19 89 8:23 310
14:11 89 10:34 309
14:11, 21 84n 11:17 210
14:21 18n, 91 12:20 310
16–2 Sam. 7 183 13:8 309
17:7 25 13:12 309
17:10 91n 14:15 309
17:25 24, 25 14:18 310
22:2 91n 14:28 310
25 140 15:6 310
 Index of biblical references 337

15:6, 11, 15, 21, 26, 31, 36 282n 42 325

15:11 309 42:1-9 325
15:15 309 42:5-9 325
15:19-20 309 42:9 325
15:21 309 43:19 325
15:26 309 44:4 325
15:31 309 44:5 325
15:36 310 45:1 325
16:5 330 45:8 325
16:19 310 45:19 27n
16:29-30 261 50:1 41
17 319n, 320n 55:10 325
18–19 8, 276 58:6 20, 79n
18:13-16 261, 275, 290, 305n 58:8 325
18:17-19:37 290 61 325
20:20 310 61:1 27, 38, 45n
21 273, 320n 61:1ff. 28n
21:17 310 61:6 325
21:25 310
22:4 287n Jeremiah
22:46 320 21:8‑20 37
23:28 310 25:11 311
24:5 310 31 298
25:18 287n 31:29-30 331n
25:27-30 320 31:31 273
31:27-34 317
Isaiah 31:31-4 297
1:10 327 32:6ff. 40
3:16-17 319n 32:6‑15 40
4 298 33:15 325
4:2-6 9, 323, 324 34 31n, 78, 84
5:8-24 9, 323, 325, 326, 328, 329 34:8 27, 45n, 60
5:24 299, 327 34:8ff. 11, 24n, 27, 37, 38, 43
5:24b 326 34:9 20, 31, 38, 87n
6 326 34:9, 10, 11, 16 11, 20, 38
6:1-13 329 34:9ff. 39
6:11-13 9, 323, 330 34:10, 11, 16, 17 38
6:13 330n 34:13 88n
6–9:6 329 34:14 37, 87n
7 329
7:1 329 Ezekiel
7:14-16 318n, 319n 18:2ff. 331n
7:17 318 46:17 45n
7:18-25 318n, 319n
8:21-22 329 Jonah
9:6-7, 11 317 1:9 83, 84n
11:1 324, 324
11:1ff. 28n, 42, 43 Zechariah
11:4 27, 42 3:8 325
24–27 323n 6:12 325
338 Index of biblical references

Malakiah 1–4 298

2:6 27 1:2-3 321n
5:1‑13 39, 41
Psalms
1 327n 2 Chronicle
1:1-2 326 24:27 84n
1:3 328 29–31 298
2 327n 30 146n
2:2 327n 31:1 146n
2:6-7 327n 33 314
9:9 27n 34–35 146n
44 159 35:15 146
45:7 27
58:2 27n 1 Maccabeans
67:5 27 6:49, 53 42
72 27, 216
72:1 28n Sirach
72:1-4 217 39:1 136n
88:6 79n 42–50 135
89 159, 210 49:13, 50 135
89:6-19 210
96:10 27, 45n
98:9 27, 45n New Testament
99:4 27, 45n
132 161 Matthew
5:17 136n
Job 7:12 136n
3:19 20, 79n 22:30 136n
39:5 79n
Luke
Proverbia 16:16 136n
1:3 27n 24:44 136n
2:9 302
22:17–24:22 302 Acts
13:15 136n
Ezra 24:14 136n
7:1 286n
Romans
Nehemiah 9–11 297
 Index of authors

Aharoni, Y. 185 Borger, R. 19n, 58n, 91n

Ahlström, G. W. 5, 142n, 148n, 171, Botté­ro, J. 12n, 19n, 20n, 22n, 26n, 77n,
181n, 185n, 188, 192, 197, 282n, 78n, 79n, 85n, 86n, 87n, 123n, 175n
286n Boyer, G. 14n
Albrektson, B. 7, 254, 255 Bright, J. 4, 126
Albright, W. F. 21n, 93n, 96n, 97n, 125, Bryce, T. 167n
126, 141, 190, 259, 260n, 312n Buccellati, G. 82n, 187n, 245n, 258n, 307n
Alt, A. 3, 13n, 16, 17, 19, 24, 31, 91n, Budde, K. 24, 90n
95, 102, 108n, 115, 128, 141, 176, Bunimowitz, S. 286n
177n, 181, 192, 233, 285, 317 Burchhardt, J. L. 103n
Amiran, R. 82n Burney, C. F. 121–23
Anderson, G. W. 64n, 68n Burstein, S. M. 305n
Arnold, B. T. 253n Busolt, G. 64n, 65n, 66n, 67n
Artzi, P. 80n
Astour, M. 77n, 179 Calabi, I. 64n, 65n, 67n, 68
Astruc, J. 96 Callaway, J. 181n
Attridge, H. W. 305n Cancik, H. 256n
Cardascia. G. 22n
Bächli, O. 94n, 191n Carroll, R. 138n, 150n, 320n
Baker, D. W. 253n Carstens, P. 186n
Barr, J. 133, 254n, 264 Caspari, W. 25, 90n
Barstad, H. M. 286n, 298n, 330n Cassin, E. 20n
Batten, L.W. 39n Cassuto, U. 70, 75
Beckman, G. 166n Castellino, G. 49n
Beer, G. 11n, 17n, 20n, 23n, 30n Cauer, G. 64n, 67n
Begrich, J. 33n Cazelles, H. 77n
Benzinger, I. 20n Chaney, M. 164n
Ben Zvi, E. 286n Chiera, E. 55n, 56n
Beyer, K. 14n Childs, B. S. 277n
Bezold, C. 49n Chirichigno, G. C. 224n, 226n
Biran, A. 281n Çig, M. 57n
Blenkinsopp, J. 151, 319n Clark, G. R. 206
Black-Michaud, J. 205, 222n Clay, A. T. 15n
Bloch-Smith, E. 199 Clines, D. J. A. 150n
Blum, E. 319n Cogan, M. 277n
Boer, P. A. H. de 23n Coote, R. B. 192n, 237n
Böhl, F. 14n, 59n, 113–15 Cors i Meya, J. 305n
Boissier, A. 57n Crüsemann, F. 145n
Boman, T. 264 Cryer, F. H. 199, 249, 324n
340 Index of authors

Dalley, S. 242n Gadd, C. J. 12n, 46n, 49n, 51n

David, M. 11n, 12n, 16n, 20n, 37, 38n Galling, K. 11n, 17n, 20n, 23n, 30n, 39n
Davies, P.R. 5, 137, 148, 150n, 151n, Garbini, G. 135n, 143n, 150n, 193, 194n
152, 171, 197, 218n, 229n, 245n, Garelli, P. 218n, 241n
250n, 267n, 297, 322n Gehrke, H.-J. 214n, 234n
Dearman, A. 247n, 278n Gelb, I. J. 130
Dever, W. B. 147n, 173, 199 Gellner, E. 162, 223n, 233n
Diakonoff, I. M. 51n, 236n Genouillac, H. de 43n, 49n
Diebner, B. J. 5, 116n, 124n, 141, 200, Geus, C. H. J. de 66n, 328n
280 Giakumakis, G. 14n
Di­etrich, M. 21n, 22n Gibson, J. C. L. 278n
Dietrich, W. 169n Giebel, M. 262n
Donner, H. 95, 127, 128, 129, 130,141n Giveon, R. 182
Dossin, G. 53n, 161n Glueck, N. 206, 207
Doughty C. M. 103n Goe­the, J. W. von 97n, 250
Driver, G. R. 46n Gonen, R. 236n
Driver, S. R. 90n Gottwald, N. K. 6, 80n, 129n, 164, 165,
Droysen, J. G. 275, 276, 287 170, 190, 191
Duhm, B. 37n, 326n Götze, A. 248n, 257n
Durkheim, E. 295 Grabbe, L. L. 150, 157, 286n
Graf, D. F. 164n
Ebbesen, S. 37n Graves, R. 283
Ebeling, E. 53n Gray, J. 21n
Edelman, D. V. 139n, 142n, 144, 173, Greenberg. M. 19n, 23n
192n, 198n, 282n Gressmann, H. 24, 95, 115–18, 119,
Edzard, D. O. 303n 121, 122, 124
Eisen­stadt, S. N. 162n, 223 Gulick, J. 222
Eissfeldt, O. 13n, 125, 293n Gunkel, H. 71, 72, 295
Elliger, K. 19n, 33n, 34 Gurney, O. R. 52
Ellis, M. de J. 48 Güterbock, H. G. 27n
Emerton, J. A. 83n, 147n, 151n, 190n Guthe, H. 101, 103–­104, 105
Engel, H. 101n
Ewald, H. 61, 62, 96 Haase, R. 15n
Halpern, B. 174, 177n, 195n
Falk, Z. W. 12n Hayes, J. H. 82n, 83n, 129, 194n, 312n
Falkenstein, A. 43n, 52 Hallbäck, G. 262n, 299n, 321n
Fatum, L. 326n Hallo, W. W. 245n
Faulkner, R. O. 42n Handy, L. K. 224n, 286n
Fensham, C. 28n, 222n Harper, R. F. 58n
Feucht, Chr. 19n Hegel, G. W. F. 96, 97
Finkelstein, I. 142n, 181n, 192n, 238, Helck, W. 42n
239n, 240n, 286n, 297n Heltzer, M. 19n, 21, 79n, 182n, 236n
Finkel­stein, J. J. 12n, 13n, 15n, 16n, 26, Hempel, J. 19n
28n, 47, 229n Hentschke, R. 13n, 47n, 48n
Fohrer, G. 12n, 87n, 105n, 127, 128, Herder, J. G. 97
129, 293n, 294n Herrmann, S. 13n, 86n, 127, 128, 129,
Foster , B. J. 242n 173n
Frazer, J. G. 294 Hertzberg, H. W. 24
Freedman, D. N. 164n, 265 Hil­precht, H.V. 50n
Fritz, V. 245n Hinke, W. J. 50n
 Index of authors 341

Høgenhaven, J. 156n Krecher, J. 14n

Hoffmann, I. 256n Kuenen, A. 96
Holladay, J. S. 175n Kupper, J. R. 49n, 82n
Holland, T. A. 181n Kutsch, E. 33
Holloway, S. W. 286n Kutschke , A. 33n
Holt, E. K. 275n, 307n, 346
Hooker, P. K. 322 Lacheman, E. R. 22n, 55n, 56n
Horst, F. 12n, 17n, 30n Lambert, F. 239n
Huffmonn, H. B. 207n Lambert, M. 48n, 51, 52n
Hyldahl, N. 292, 293n, 294 Lambert, W. G. 242n
Landsberger, B. 14n, 47n, 48n
Irvin, D. 129 Langdon, S. 46n, 49n, 50n
Ismail, B. K. 56n Laroche, E. 167n
Larsen, J. A. O. 64, 66, 67
Jagersma, H. 128 Larsen, M. T. 51n, 53n, 293n
Jamieson-Drake, D. 143, 146n, 151, Leeman, W. F. 15n
184, 194, 195n, 230, 231, 232, 245n, Lemaire, A. 128, 271n, 333n
297n, 298n, 307, 316 Lessing, G. E. 97n
Jensen, H. J. L. 131, 244n Levinson, B. M. 214n, 234n
Jensen, M. S. 266n Lewy, J. 18, 26, 51n, 54n, 57n, 60, 77n,
Jeppesen, K. 317, 320, 323, 333 79n, 84n
Jepsen, A. 13n, 15n, 16, 23n, 31 Liedke, G. 13n, 14, 16n, 209n
Jirku, A. 15n, 33n Lightfoot, R. H. 133
Johns, C. H. W. 59n Lipińsky, E. 77
Jolles, A. 296 Liverani, M. 9, 19n, 21n, 22n, 77, 79n,
80n, 124, 127n, 130, 132n, 145n,
Keiser, C. F. 57n 146n, 160, 161, 191n, 194n, 208,
Kelly, Th. 67n 218n, 224n, 225n, 233n, 235, 236n,
Kenyon, K. 82n, 150n, 185n, 287 241, 245n, 248, 256, 257, 258, 313n,
Kienast, B. 24n Longman III, T. 245n
Kilian, R. 19n, 33n, 34, 36n Lord, A. B. 296
King, P. J. 150 Loretz, O. 21n, 22n, 229n
Kittel, R. 116n, 118–20, 121, 122, 123, Lucken­bill, D. D. 50n, 57n
128 Lutfiyya, A. 182
Kizilyay, H. 57n Luther, B. 108n, 109n, 112n
Klengel, H. 21n, 22n, 55n, 80n, 160n,
214n, 234n McCarthy, D. J. 160n
Klíma, J. 51n McEvenue, S. 71n
Knauf, E. A. 154, 173, 198n McGovern, P. 231n
Knudtzon, J. A. 21n, 80n, 105n Machinist, P. 260n
Koch, K. 12n, 84n, 85n, 87n,89n, 90, Malamat, A. 178n, 230n, 247n
91n, 92n, 230 Malina, B. J. 224n
Kohler, I. 50n, 58n Mandell, S. 265
Kopf, L. 21n Marquet-Krause, J. 181n
Koschaker, P. 14n, 57n Marti, K. 326n
Kramer, S. N. 49n, 52, 53n Mayes, A. D. H. 85n, 328n
Kraus, F. R. 12n, 13n, 15n, 26, 28n, 43, Mazar, A. 152n, 185n, 236n
45, 46n, 47, 49n, 53, 54, 57n, 59n, Mazar, B. 189
214n, 215, 234n, 291n Meek, T. E. 22n, 210n, 225n
Kraus, H.-J. 96n, 97n, 102n Meeker, M. E. 204n
342 Index of authors

Mehlhausen, J. 173n Oden, R. A. 305n

Meißner, B. 15n, 53n Olivier, H. 252
Mendenhall, G. E. 6, 13, 14, 80, 81, 82, Olmo Lete, G. del 255n
92, 170, 189, 190, 191, 207, 208, Olrik, A. 124, 125
294 Ørsted, P. 269, 270
Mendels, D. 199n Otto, Eckardt 214n, 216n, 226n, 228n,
Mendelsohn, I. 20n, 21n, 23n 234n, 299
Menes, A. 12n Otto, Eberhard 42n
Merendino, R. P. 31 Ottos­son, M. 144
Meyer, Eduard. 4, 95, 108–113, 116, Otzen, B. 126, 136n, 333n
123n, 191n, Owen, D. I. 245n
Meyer, Ernst 65n
Michaeli, F. 39n Parpola, S. 184n
Miles, J. C. 46n Parry, M. 296
Millard, A. R. 242n Pasto, J. 267n
Miller, J. M. 82n, 83n, 129, 172, 194n, Patte, D. 249
197 Paul, S. M. 12, 13, 16, 17n, 18, 22n,
Mittmann, S. 239n 23n, 27n, 228n, 234n, 299
Moran, W. L. 248n Pedersen, J. 20, 86n, 96n, 153
Mommsen, Th. 97n, 251 Perlitt, L. 97, 98, 207, 294
Montgomery, J. A. 282n, 308 Peters, E. 221n
Morrison, M. A. 245n Petersen, D. 151
Mowinckel. S. 25, 125, 126, 127 Peters, M. K. H. 134n
Mullen, E. T. 229n Pfeiffer, R. H. 50n, 55n, 56n, 57n, 58n
Mül­ler, Manfrid 55, 56n Phillips, A. 18
Müller, Mogens 155n, 326n Pin­ches, Th. G. 50n
Pitt-Rivers, J. 223n
Na’aman, N. 286n Ploeg, J. M. P. van der 17
Naveh, J. 281n Philips, A. 12n
Nelson, R. D. 332 Popper, K. 301n
Neu, R. 142n, 192 Post­gate, J. N. 58, 59n
Nicol, G. G. 143n Preiser, W. 12n, 14n
Niehr, H. 147, 199 Prior, M. 251n
Nielsen, E. 12n, 13n, 16n, 69n, 70, 71, Pritchard, J. B. 181n, 225n, 245n
72, 73, 74, 76, 83n, 126, 231n Puzo, M. 159
Nielsen, F. A. 265, 304, 305, 322n
Niemann, M. 183n, 194n, 230, 231, 232, Rad, G. von 12n, 15n, 30n, 86n, 145,
245n, 307, 308, 316 156n, 254n, 255n, 265
Nies, J. B. 57n Rahtjen, B. D. 68n
Nimkoff, M. F. 221n Rainey, A. F. 14n, 21n
North, R. 17, 32n, 33n, 36 Ranke, L. von 97n, 292n
Noth, M. 3, 4, 6, 12n, 16n, 19n, 20n, Redford, D. B. 85n, 86n, 143n, 192n,
23n, 28n, 30n, 33n, 36n, 40n, 61, 193n, 285n, 302n
62, 63, 64, 67, 81n, 83n, 87n, 93, 95, Rendsburg, G. 192
101, 125, 126, 128, 129, 130, 141, Renger, J. 214n, 234n
176, 177n, 178, 181, 191, 265, 293, Reventlow, H. Graf 19n, 33n, 34, 36
299n, 317, 320, 320 Ringgren, H. 301n
Nougayrol, J. 14n, 15n, 167n Roniger, L. 162n, 250n
Nowack, W. 24 Rost, L. 13n, 138n
 Index of authors 343

Roth, M. T. 214n, 300n, 328n Swoboda, H. 64n

Rowton, M. 78n, 82n, 85n Syme, R. 202n, 224n
Rudolph, W. 37n, 39n, 40n Szlechter, É. 53n

Saarisalo, A. 56n Tadmor, H. 178, 277n

Sakenfeld, K. D. 206 Thiel, W. 320n
Sandars, J. A. 134n Thiele, E. R. 322
Sandars, N. K. 81n Thompson, R. C. 50n
San Nicólo, M. 15n Thompson, S. 295
Sarna, N. 44 Thompson, T. L. 84n, 129, 142n, 171,
Sasson, J. M. 143n, 184n, 245n, 290n, 173, 181n, 192, 198n, 229n, 236n,
293n 238n, 240, 249n, 250n, 267n, 285,
Schaeffer, C. F. A. 167n 290n, 293n, 312, 322n, 324n
Scheil, V. 57n Thureau-Dangin, F. 54n
Schleiermacher, F. 97n Timm, H. 90n
Schmid, H. H. 88n, 91n, 177n, 268n, Torrey, C. C. 150n
329n Tsevat, M. 14n
Schmidt, W. H. 254n
Schmökel, H. 85n Ulrich, E. 138n
Schorr, M. 54n Ungnad, A. 50n, 57n, 58n, 308n
Schrader, E. 57n Ussishkin, D. 185n
Schraeder, E. 49n
Schroeder, O. 53n Van Seters, J. 1, 84n, 114n, 125n, 149,
Seitz, G. 30n, 31n 196, 229n, 250n, 253, 254, 256, 257,
Sellin, E. 12n, 87n, 120–21 261, 262n, 264, 265, 266, 267, 269,
Shanks, H. 213n 285, 290n, 291n, 295n, 303, 304,
Simon, R. 96 305n, 319n, 322
Skinner, J. 71n Vatke, W. 96
Skjeggestad, M. 201n Vaux, R. de 13n, 17n, 18n, 19n, 25, 33n,
Smith, H. P. 24 36n, 123n, 127, 128
Smith, M. 198n Virolleaud, C. 50n, 167n
Smith, S. 258n Volz, P. 37n
Smith, W. R. 96n
Soden, W. von 21n, 22n, 24n, 43n Waddell, W. G. 305n
Soggin, J. A. 95, 129, 137n, 188n, 194n Wagner, V. 12n
Sollberger, E. 51n, 52n Walz, R. 303n
Speiser, E. A. 27n, 56n Watanabe, K. 208n
Spiegelberg, W. 106n Waterbury, J. 162, 223n, 233n
Stade, B. 20, 101–102, 103, 113 Watermann, L. 13n, 58n
Stager, L. E. 204n Weber, M. 147
Stegemann, H. 213n Weidner, E. F. 51n, 53n, 57n, 58n, 160n,
Steiner, M. 231n, 240n 256n
Stephens, F. J. 54n Weimar, P. 88n
Stern, E. 150n Wein­berg, J. 151, 301n
Steuernagel, C. 104-108, 110, 113, 120, Weinfeld, M. 23n, 26, 27, 28, 32, 42
122 Weingreen, J. 18, 89n, 91n
Stoebe, H. J. 11n, 25, 89n, 91n Weippert, H. 151n, 185n
Strange, J. 231n, 256n, 290, 333 Weippert, M. 19n, 21n, 78n, 79n, 115n
Sweet, L. E. 223n Weiser, A. 37n, 138n
344 Index of authors

Weissbach, F. H. 50n Wildberger, H. 42, 43, 326n

Wellhausen, J 3, 90n, 95, 96-101, 102, Willesen, F. 231n
103, 104, 113, 128, 152n, 327 Willi, Th. 78n, 79n
Welten, P. 283n Wilson, J. A. 93n, 233n, 285n
Wenham, G. J. 253n Winckler, H. 57n
Wente, E.F. 176n Winnett, F. W. 266n
Wesselius, J. W. 265n, 304 Wiseman D. J. 50n, 77n, 300n
Westbrook, R. 234n, 299, Wright, J. W. 138n
Westermann, C. 70n, 71n, 74n, 84n Wüst, F. R. 64n
Wette, W. M. L. de 97n, 267n
Whitelam, K. W. 216n, 237n, 251, 267n, Yadin, Y. 184n, 185
Whybray, R.N. 319n Younger, K. L. 245n, 261, 271n, 296n
Wilamowitz-Moellendorff., U. von 62n,
97n Zimmerli, W. 33n, 38n