the messiness of ancient history

I am amazed at how uncomfortably historians of antiquity sometimes sit vis-à-vis the mind boggling lack of evidence with which we have to work. The reality of our situation is somewhat akin to trying to piece together a detailed picture of New York City solely on the basis of photographs from postcards. Large parts of the data we'd like to have simply doesn't exist (just as large swaths of New York City don't figure on any tourist advertising!), and our treatment of the pieces that we do have is always likely to require heavy revision as new pieces come to light. (For a prime example, see the dramatic reevaluations of Second Temple Judaism still underway in the wake of the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls.)

Eliezer Segal ends his essay, "Aristeas or Haggadah: Talmudic Legend and the Greek Bible in Palestinian Judaism" (Common Judaism: Explorations in Second-Temple Judaism, edited by Wayne O. McCready and Adele Reinhartz [Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2008], 159–72), with an excellent statement of the messiness of ancient historiography (and so of our knowledge of ancient history). We would all do well to remember that what we don't know—about Jesus, the early Christians, other Jews among whom they lived, and the larger world that all of these had to navigate daily—dwarfs what we do know, almost (almost) to the point of calling into question whether we know anything at all. (We do, of course, but everything we know is always subject to subsequent revision.) At any rate, here are Segal's closing words:

Only when speaking about rabbinic Jews as a theological category is it possible to imagine that they maintained a uniform Bible text, uniform observances, and uniform beliefs; and that they and their Pharisaic predecessors could impose them on all Jews. It is only by subscribing to those naïve beliefs that rabbinic literature can be used as the basis for reconstructions of Ptolemaic Alexandria or the age of Jesus. Compared to those neat classifications, the alternatives are just too . . . well, messy. Even if we could be persuaded that ancient Palestinian peasants were, for some reason, more consistent in their beliefs and practices than our own experience with human nature would suggest possible, a faith in clearly defined sectarian divisions is much easier to deal with than the evidence of, say, an Essene-like community that honored the Zadokite priesthood, observed Sadducee halakhah, and yet maintained a belief in survival after death, perhaps even in bodily resurrection. The tidy consistency of the older categories is unquestionably attractive, even if it is historically indefensible. (172)

As Moses might have said if he were the son of a different age: True dat.

the problem with teenagers?

I've always assumed that I hate the mall and other locations teeming with teens and post-teens who drink Mt. Dew and still live with their parents simply because I'm getting old and irritable. I have no desire to deny my age or my temperament. But according to the Damascus Document (an ancient Jewish text included among the Dead Sea Scrolls), perhaps my distaste for all things pubescent has spiritual roots as well. Cecilia Wassen discusses the Damascus Document's exclusion of youths, among other classes of the unclean, in her essay, "What Do Angels Have against the Blind and the Deaf? Rules of Exclusion in the Dead Sea Scrolls" (Common Judaism: Explorations in Second-Temple Judaism, edited by Wayne O. McCready and Adele Reinhartz [Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2008], 115–29). She says,

Unlike [the War Scroll], [the Damascus Document] does include youths in its list of excluded categories. This exclusion may reflect an underlying fear of demonic affiliation. A youth has not been formally initiated yet, according to the prescriptions in [the Damascus Document]. It is revealing that the angel Mastema (an alternative name for Belial or Satan) is said to turn from a person when he takes the oath at the entrance; as the ritual reads, "On the day when a man takes upon himself an oath to return to the Torah of Moses, the angel Mastema shall turn aside from him if he fulfills his words" (CD XVI 4–5). Menahem Kister explains that the entrance ritual in itself was seen as a ritual of exorcism. Hence, youths, as not full members, were viewed as potentially being under the influence, or possession, of evil powers until the moment of their entrance (CD XVI 4–5). (127)

OMG.

more on Susan Haber on purity practices

In my previous post I took up Susan Haber's essay, "Common Judaism, Common Synagogue? Purity, Holiness, and Sacred Space at the Turn of the Common Era" in Common Judaism: Explorations in Second-Temple Judaism. My comments weren't particularly deep, but in the comments John Poirier has made a few very helpful comments, which I wanted to take up on the main page. Poirier wrote,

Yes, Haber's right, but she doesn't go far enough when she writes "Such holiness was associated not only with the temple but also with the biblical scrolls that were read on the Sabbath, and perhaps even the synagogue in which the Torah was read and studied." She left out other daily holy activities, like praying. (I haven't read her article. I'm just going by what you've quoted, Rafael.) The hemerobaptists had a problem with the Pharisees because they would say their morning blessings without first purifying themselves by immersion.

He then points out, in a later comment, that the Pharisees weren't advocating prayer without purification; the debate concerned precisely the means of purification (immersion vs. hand-washing).

Poirier's focus on prayer struck me as interesting, in part because I myself had never considered the purificatory requirements prior to prayer. Of course, it makes perfect sense to include prayer here; notice, at a very basic level, the way prayer and sacrifice (which happens in the Temple) are intimately linked in Isa 56.7 (cited by Jesus in the Temple incident) as well as in the phrase "hour of prayer" (see Acts 3.1). I think both of these uses of prayer (Heb. תפלה; tĕphillâ; Grk. προσευχή; proseuchē) equate this word with sacrifice, which should tell us something about an understanding of prayer in Second Temple Judaism.

If sacrifice in the Temple could be referred to as prayer, then it follows fairly naturally (though not automatically) that prayer in other venues (e.g., the synagogue) would require purificatory rites. So I was particularly interested to note that Haber does indeed move in the direction Poirier mentioned. In her discussion of Diaspora synagogues Haber suggests, "It is possible, however, that the water was used for ritual ablutions prior to prayer or the handling of the Torah" (71). Then, on the next page, she cites a passage from the Letter of Aristeas, which deserves mention here:

Following the custom of all the Jews, they washed their hands in the sea in the course of their prayers to God, and then proceeded to the reading and explication of each point. I asked this question: "What is their purpose in washing their hands while saying their prayers?" They explained that it is evidence that they have done no evil, for all activity takes place by means of the hands. (Aristeas 305–6)

Haber goes on to explain, "In this passage, hand washing is associated with both prayer and the handling of Scripture" (72). Given the frequent reference to synagogues as "[houses of] prayer" (προσευχή; proseuchē), and the evidence Haber evinces to suggest that "the synagogue building was regarded as sacred from an early period" (73), the link between purity, purity practices, and prayer seems especially secure.

One more question: Poirier, in his most recent comment, notes the Pauline exhortation to abstain from sex (only) for the sake of prayer (see 1 Cor 7.5). I'm not sure if I'd make anything of this particular gospel tradition, but in light of the connection between purity, space, and prayer, should we understand Jesus' instruction to pray in secret (see Matt 6.5–6) in terms of debates about purity? In other words, does the Matthean Jesus suggest prayer in the synagogue and on street corners, in the hands of "the hypocrites," suffers some sort of impurity?

Susan Haber on purity practices

I've assigned the edited volume, Common Judaism: Explorations in Second-Temple Judaism (Wayne O. McCready adn Adele Reinhartz, eds.; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2008), for my graduate-level course, The World of the New Testament. I note the late Susan Haber's discussion of the widespread practice of purity rituals (whether immersion in the land of Israel, or sprinkling, splashing, and/or handwashing in the Diaspora) among Second Temple-era Jews in her essay, "Common Judaism, Common Synagogue? Purity, Holiness, and Sacred Space at the Turn of the Common Era" (63–77). She notes, "Jews everywhere performed these purificatory rites whether or not they approached the sacred precincts of the Jerusalem temple" (65). She then goes on to explain this practice in the following terms:

Two factors help to explain this widespread practice. First, Jews of the first century believed that the biblical laws, including the purity laws, were divine in origin and hence were a requirement. Their concern was not whether to keep the law but how to do so within their own social and cultural context. Second, according to the law, only those who were in a state of purity could have contact with the sacred. Such holiness was associated not only with the temple but also with the biblical scrolls that were read on the Sabbath, and perhaps even the synagogue in which the Torah was read and studied. Jews purified themselves so that they could draw near to that which was holy. (65)

Who wrote the DSS

This isn't new, but it's worth re-posting here. Smithsonian.com published a brief essay, "Who Wrote the Dead Sea Scrolls?" Given the recent mentions of Raphael Golb in the press (not to mention in the American judicial system), Who wrote the DSS? is a rather important question.

[HT: Bible and Interpretation]

Torah scroll at Masada

A ritual scribe has committed himself to inscribing a Torah scroll in the location of Masada's famous synagogue. The story (from IsraelNationalNews.com), is available here.

[HT: Jim Davila]

BIBL 5107 Lesson 4:Galatia

Acts 13 — Barnabas's and Paul's adventures in Pisidian Antioch — represents a crucial narratological moment in the development of Acts's account of Paul's proclamation of the gospel throughout the Roman Empire. As R. Longenecker writes:

At Pisidian Antioch the typical pattern of the Pauline ministry was established: an initial proclamation in the synagogue to Jews and Gentile adherents and then, when refused an audience in the synagogue, a direct ministry to Gentiles. This pattern is reproduced in every city visited by Paul with a sizable Jewish population — except Athens." (Acts, 422)

I think Longenecker is spot on, for the most part. The extended account in Acts 13 establishes a basic pattern of ministry that is invoked in abbreviated form in every subsequent account of Paul's experiences in the cities of the Mediterranean. Luke, I think, does this deliberately as a way of instructing the reader on appropriate reading strategies (I'm incorporating here some of John Miles Foley's appropriation of Iser's and Jauss's Receptionalist work; cf. Foley 1995:42ff.) by which we can more faithfully read his account of Paul's proclamation. This is why I think Longenecker is spot on only "for the most part": If Luke intends for us to incorporate this pattern into each account of Paul's activities (with, of course, the explicit modifications to this pattern that Luke provides), then even Paul's experiences in Athens may incorporate this pattern (cf. Acts 17.17a). This is a narratological suggestion rather than a historical one.

This point becomes especially important, I think, because some scholars have suggested that Luke espouses a supersessionist theology in which God has abandoned his old people, Israel, and has chosen his new people, the Church. But this fails to notice that, in every possible instance of Paul's ministry (i.e., even in Rome [Acts 28] but not in Lystra [Acts 14]) Luke presents Paul as ministering explicitly to Jews, even after his caustic exclamation, ""It was necessary that the word of God should be spoken first to you. Since you reject it and judge yourselves to be unworthy of eternal life, we are now turning to the Gentiles" (Acts 13.46). In Luke's presentation, Israel continues to be at the heart of both God's people (see, inter alios, Paul and Barnabas) and God's mission (e.g., Paul's proclamation).

As concerns the importance of Galatia as an aspect of "the world of the NT," I note two things. First, as already suggested, the pattern of Paul's ministry throughout the Roman world was established (again, at least narratologically speaking) in Galatia. This might be a minor point, but I want to connect it with another point (perhaps equally minor): Famously, Luke's account of Paul's and Barnabas's experiences in Lystra (i.e., in Galatia) is strikingly parallel to his account of Peter's and John's experiences in the Jerusalem Temple in Acts 3–4. In terms of Acts' story, then, I wonder if these observations can be pressed to pry open Luke's perspective on the interaction of continuity and discontinuity between (a) Christianity as it developed under Paul's influence in the context of the wider Greco-Roman world (again, in Galatia) and (b) Christianity as it originally found expression as a Judean (or, in Luke's presentation, as a Jerusalem) sect.

BIBL 5107 Lesson 3:Antioch-on-the-Orontes

Antioch played a significant role in the world of Second Temple Judaism, earliest Christianity (as one expression of Second Temple Judaism), and ancient Christianity (second through sixth centuries). Just as an administrative center alone, how often in Josephus's writings is Antioch mentioned as the place from which an administrative or military authority journeys to Jerusalem to address some issue, and/or to which said authority returns after having satisfied himself that matters have been resolved (or quelled)? The technical answer: A lot. As one important example, in Jewish War 2 Petronius marches out of Antioch and into Judea with the unenviable task of erecting Caligula's statue in the Jerusalem Temple. When the Jews, predictably, objected, they moved en masse to oppose the action, and the sympathetic Petronius agreed to intervene on the Jews' behalf and at great personal risk. Caligula, of course, was assassinated before Petronius could return to Rome; we cannot predict how the history of Judeo-Roman relations would be different if Caligula had survived to press his intentions, though the result would likely have been similar to the war that finally did break out in 66 CE. In the course of that war, the Roman legions would march out of Antioch to face the Jewish rebellion (cf. War 2.500 and 3.29).

Antioch also wrestled with the pressures and tensions concomitant with being a so-called "tolerant" or pluralistic city. For example, Josephus describes Antioch as a hospitable place for the Syrian Jews since the days of the abominable Antiochus Epiphanies (War 7.43–45), such that Antiochus's successors "granted them the enjoyment of equal privileges of citizens with the Greeks themselves" (7.44). But a pluralistic city will always have tensions, even if those are kept successfully under the surface. After the outbreak of the war with Rome, after Vespasian had sailed to Syria and anti-Judaic sentiment was on the increase throughout the eastern Roman provinces, a certain Antiochene Jew named Antiochus accused the city's Jewish population of conspiring to burn the city in one night. The Antiochene's burned the Jews Antiochus brought with him into the city theatre and set about attacking the rest of the city's Jewish population, "supposing, that, by punishing them suddenly they should save their own city" (7.49). Antiochus (remember, this was a Jewish man!) set out to demonstrate "his own conversion [to Greco-Roman religion and civic life], and of his hatred of the Jewish customs, by sacrificing after the manner of the Greeks" (7.50), and he suggested this as a means for other Jews to demonstrate their loyalty to the city and their innocence of the charge of conspiracy to burn the city. In other words, in order to be a loyal Antiochene one could no longer be a faithful Jew; this is the tension inherent in pluralistic, "tolerant" societies. To make things worse, Antioch was ravaged by fire shortly after Antiochus's accusations (and the abolition of the Sabbath), which once again stoked the city's anti-Judaic tensions. According to Josephus, however,

When Collega had made a careful inquiry into the matter, he found out the truth, and that not one of those Jews who were accused by Antiochus had any hand in it; but that all was done by some vile persons greatly in debt, who supposed that, if they could once set fire to the market place, and burn the public records, they should have no further demands made upon them. (War 7.60–61)

I draw our attention to this event — the flare-up of anti-Judaic sentiment and violence in Antioch "even though they had not borne an ill will at the Jews before" (7.56) — in order to raise the question for our own day: How does our own pluralistic society enable us to think we live in a "civilized," "orderly" society where the rule of law dictates how people are treated rather than racism, xenophobia, ethnocentricity when in fact we are only one incident away from turning against those who are different from us and yet find themselves our neighbor? As a personal example, I was mugged at gunpoint by a young Black man in mid-July, 1997, and even as late as November of that year I still found myself mistrusting and hating every Black man I encountered on the street, even though I had moved 250 miles away from where I had been mugged and would almost certainly never encounter the man that mugged me! I came face-to-face with my prejudice one wintery night when I was walking through a rougher section of Cincinnati (in Over-the-Rhine), and a group of Black men approached a blind man who was walking in front of me. I prepared myself for the violent encounter I expected, when the men warmly greeted the blind man and helped him to cross a dark street. I was, of course, ashamed of myself.

But I think problems like this are much more widespread in Western society than many of would like to admit. How many of us distrust anyone of south-Asian descent in the wake of the on-going War on Terror, even if the specific individual we're currently mistrusting is, say, Sikh rather than Muslim, or Muslim rather than militant Muslim, or even of other (or no) religious persuasion? Look at the problems France continues to face integrating its Muslim (and Jewish!) populations into French society and culture. In south Wales (UK) a court has just ruled that a Sikh teenager was wrongfully discriminated against when her school refused to allow her to wear a religious bracelet. Even in a predominantly Christian-religious country like the United States, the often-outrageous things that some Christian leaders say and do in public is held over the country's entire Evangelical population. The pendulum seems to be swinging the other way in the current election year, with the media reporting on theologically conservative Christians who are not so strongly committed to politically conservative (or simply Republican) agenda (for example, here). But the fact that this is a news story at all reveals the extent to which stereotypes vis-à-vis the "Religious Right" have marginalized Christians and their political interests in mainstream American discourse. It seems to me that we're a lot like Antioch after all!

BIBL 5107 Lesson 2:the alluring empire

First, a quote:

One of the most obvious but important points to be made in this course is that all of New Testament history transpired in the shadow of the Roman Empire. While many of the social and cultural elements of the New Testament period (e.g., language, religious traditions, literature) originated in the Hellenistic age, all of the New Testament personalities lived, worked, and died in a world that was under the political, military, and legal control of Rome.

This observation has been borne out in numerous ways, not least in the effects that consideration of the Roman political environment has had upon the interpretation of specific New Testament texts and traditions. (One of the first books I read in this vein was the very interesting Paul and Politics.) Throughout the pages of the NT, Rome and the power she wielded over the peoples of the Mediterranean basin provide the background — and, often enough, the foreground — for the events and ideas inscribed on the page. From Jesus' crucifixion to John's revelation and at all points in between, Rome was like the hovering chaperon whose watchful presence affected both the content and form of earliest Christian theology and history.

And Rome's presence isn't flattering. Even in Luke-Acts, which famously portrays the interaction between central Christian figures (esp. Paul) and the Roman authorities in surprisingly conciliatory hues (e.g., Acts 13, 18, 21–22, 25–28), the narrative doesn't seem to me to suggest Rome is the crown of human civilization so much as to argue that Rome isn't an impediment to the church's mission. It was, after all, Roman and Roman-sponsored power (Pontius Pilate and Herod Antipas, respectively) that had Jesus crucified, even if the gospels stress the influence of the Jews and/or the Jewish authorities. I think Acts 4.23–31 captures this perspective in microcosm.

But my thoughts are less historical here and more theological. I wonder, given the pervasive and pervasively negative presence of Rome in and behind the pages of the New Testament, what are we to make of the United States of America? In many ways this country was founded with thoughts of the New Rome dancing in the Founders' heads (e.g., the Senate; the [bald] eagle as our national symbol; a republican system of government; etc.). And certainly Rome made positive (rather than simply negative) contributions to human history and civilization. I should also say that my questions about American power and the policies according to which it wields that power aren't motivated by any desire to be like some other country, whether European or two-thirds world or whatever. Without necessarily throwing America under the bus, is there room for confessing Christians to think critically about American power and how American expressions of Christianity relate to, perpetuate, and challenge that power?

Answers here are undoubtedly complex, variegated, and at times probably contradictory. Many of the books currently being marketed by publishers of biblical and religious scholarship are in some way engaged in pursuing this question, as are many of the [biblio]blogs listed here and elsewhere. But my first inklings are that, inasmuch as judgment against Rome and Roman power are evident in the pages of New Testament texts, we American Christians — and Western Christians in general — should engage ourselves in asking whether our own participation in the exercise of power will be similarly judged before God.

BIBL 5107 Lesson 1:relating text and context

I am currently teaching two online courses for my institution's MA New Testament program, and each week I will try to comment briefly on one or two lessons from each course. Students enrolled in my courses can click on your class's label to see only those posts relevant to the class you're taking. (nb: These comments are also posted on the Discussion Board on your course's Blackboard site.)

As I was looking over the first lesson, which simply aims to introduce the course and its subject, I was thinking about an issue that this lesson implicitly raises but nowhere discusses: How does the study of the context of the NT texts relate to and affect our study and understanding of the texts themselves? In other words, What do we think we're doing when we study "The World of the New Testament"?

I have a sense (and this is only a gut feeling; I haven't verified this point empirically) that at least two motives drive research into the context of the NT texts, one historical and the other hermeneutical. The historical program seeks to either substantiate the historical claims made by the NT texts or subvert them. So, for instance, some scholars will suggest, with respect to the portrait of Herod in Matt. 2.16–18, that had Herod initiated any gruesome program of murder and terror as the Matthean evangelist reports, we certainly would read of it in Josephus or one of the Roman historians. Others, from exactly the same perspective but toward exactly opposite ends, will point out that Matthew's description of Herod's paranoia and cruel protection of his power matches exactly, say, Josephus's description of the end of Herod's reign in end of the first book of his Jewish War. For both arguments, insight afforded by study of the NT world serves to validate (or not) a NT report.

On the other hand, a hermeneutical approach to NT context seeks not necessarily corroborate NT historical claims so much as to understand them, irrespective of (or at least with less emphasis on) the "whether-or-not-ness" of more historical approaches. As another example, there has been considerable debate at least since Sanders's Jesus and Judaism (1985) whether or not Jesus had any significant conflict with the Pharisees of his day. While many "historical" approaches to this question have sought to prove or disprove genuine conflicts between Pharisaic theology and Jesus' teaching, other ("hermeneutical") research has sought to place the NT reports of such conflict in their proper context.

Curiously, Sanders himself provides salient examples of both approaches. On the one hand, Sanders vigorously denies that the Pharisees would have conflicted with Jesus if the latter had ever summoned "sinners" to repent and worship Israel's God in accordance with Torah and established Jewish practice. This, I suggest, is a historical judgment: What the NT reports to have happened could not have happened because of what we know from research into the NT world (viz., the Pharisees and their theology).

On the other hand, Sanders famously proposed that the conflict between Jesus and the Pharisees was rooted precisely in Jesus' acceptance of "sinners" without calling them to repent. Though this is also a historical judgment, I would like to draw our focus on its more intentionally hermeneutical focus. Here Sanders doesn't question the gospels' reports of conflict with Pharisees but rather reinterprets the causes and significances of that conflict. This reinterpretation is called for precisely because Sanders knows more about the Pharisees than what is reported in the NT texts and so can interpret those texts with some clearer idea of how the texts would have been interpreted by their original audiences (who likewise would have known more about the Pharisees).

Clearly the distinction between "historical" and "hermeneutical" research is neither hard nor fast. But I would like to suggest that our research into the World of the New Testament holds out particular promise for our interpretation of the NT, and not simply our estimation of its "reliability." As an experiment to text this hypothesis, as you read about "the historical Jesus," whether in the news or in scholarly monographs, notice how often some piece of contextual evidence is said to prove Jesus could not have said some thing he is reported to have said.

The current story of "Gabriel's Revelation" [see my previous post here] is a compelling instance. For some, the discovery of this particular datum of NT context (that some Jews spoke of/expected a dying and rising Messiah-figure) "proves" that the NT kerygma of Jesus' crucifixion and resurrection on the third day is a repackaging of a traditional story and not a report of a historical event. Even granting the authenticity of this ink-on-stone tablet (which April DeConick has aptly described as "odd"), the most this text offers to NT research is a crisper focus and clarification of the (after all) Jewish message of an actually crucified and resurrected Messiah-figure, Jesus.

As our discussion progresses, we ought to shift our understanding of NT context away from verification and authentication of historical claims to consider the way our understanding of the NT world affects our reading and understanding of the texts themselves.