STRATTON Kimberly B and LIEBER Andrea Eds 2016 Crossing Boundaries in Early Judaism and Christianity Essays in Honor

Crossing Boundaries in Early Judaism and Christianity
Supplements to the
Journal for the Study
of Judaism
Editor
Benjamin G. Wright, III (Department of Religion Studies, Lehigh University)
Associate Editors
Hindy Najman (Theology & Religion Faculty, University of Oxford)

Eibert J.C. Tigchelaar (Faculty of Theology and Religious Studies, KU Leuven)
Advisory Board
A.M. Berlin – K. Berthelot – R. Bloch – G. Bohak

J.J. Collins – K. Hogan – P.W. van der Horst
O. Irshai – S. Kattan Gribetz – A.K. Petersen – S. Mason – J.H. Newman
M. Popović – I. Rosen-Zvi – J.T.A.G.M. van Ruiten – M. Segal – J. Sievers
W. Smelik – G. Stemberger – L.T. Stuckenbruck – J.C. de Vos
VOLUME 177
The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/jsjs

Crossing Boundaries in Early
Judaism and Christianity
Ambiguities, Complexities, and Half-Forgotten
Adversaries: Essays in Honor of Alan F. Segal
Edited by
Kimberly B. Stratton and Andrea Lieber
LEIDEN | BOSTON
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Segal, Alan F., 1945–2011, honouree. | Stratton, Kimberly B., editor.
Title: Crossing boundaries in early Judaism and Christianity : ambiguities,
complexities, and half-forgotten enemies essays in honor of Alan F. Segal
/ edited by Kimberly B. Stratton and Andrea Lieber.
Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, 2016. | Series: Supplements to the
Journal for the study of Judaism, ISSN 1384-2161 ; VOLUME 177 | Includes
bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016035045 (print) | LCCN 2016041626 (ebook) | ISBN
9789004332300 (hardback : alk. paper) | ISBN 9789004334496 (E-book)
Subjects: LCSH: Judaism—Relations—Christianity. | Christianity and other
religions—Judaism. | Bible—Criticism, interpretation, etc. | Rabbinical
literature—History and criticism. | Church history—Primitive and early
church, ca. 30–600. | Judaism—History—Post-exilic period, 586 B.C.–210
A.D.
Classification: LCC BM535 .C77 2016 (print) | LCC BM535 (ebook) | DDC
296.09—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016035045
Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface.
issn 1384-2161
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isbn 978-90-04-33449-6 (e-book)
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Contents
List of Abbreviations xI
List of Contributors xX
Alan F. Segal: A Life in Perspective 1

Kimberly B. Stratton
Introduction to the Volume 17

Andrea Lieber
Part 1
Two Powers in Heaven (Heavenly Ascent and Angelification)
1 The Self-Glorification Hymn from Qumran 25

John J. Collins
2 Theosis through Works of the Law: Deification of the Earthly Righteous

in Classical Rabbinic Thought 41
Jonah Chanan Steinberg
3 From the Covenant of the Rainbow to the Covenant at Sinai, from the
Pilgrimage to the Temple to the Vision of the Chariot, from the Blessing
of the First Fruits to the Priestly Blessing, and from the Tiqqun leil
Shavuʿot to the Revelation of the Shekhinah 74
Rachel Elior
Part 2
Rebecca’s Children ( Jewish Christian Origins)
4 Some Particulars about Universalism 117

Ellen Birnbaum
5 Imagining Jesus, with Food 138

Michel Desjardins
viii contents
6 Antiquity’s Children: History and Theology in Three Surveys 154

Tzvee Zahavy
Part 3
Paul the Convert (Conversion, Apostasy, Identity)
7 Giving Up the Godfearers 169

Ross S. Kraemer
8 Marcion and Boundaries 200

Stephen G. Wilson
9 The Interpreter as Intertext: Origen’s First Homily on the Canticle

of Canticles 221
Celia Deutsch
10 Translation and Transformation: The Coptic Soundscapes of

The Thunder: Perfect Mind 255
Jared C. Calaway
Part 4
Life after Death (Death and Treatment of the Dead)
11 Maccabees, Martyrs, Murders, and Masada: Noble Deaths and Suicides

in 1 and 2 Maccabees and Josephus 279
Jonathan Klawans
12 The Lament of the Martyrs and the Literature of Destruction

(Rev 6:10) 300
William Morrow
13 A Rabbinic Translation of Relics 314

Jeffrey L. Rubenstein
contents ix
Part 5
Sinning in the Hebrew Bible (Morality, Theodicy, Theology)
14 The Golden Rule in Classical Judaism 335

Jacob Neusner
15 From Theodicy to Anti-theodicy: Midrashic Accusations of God’s

Disobedience to Biblical Law 344
Adam Gregerman
Appendix: Complete List of Publications 361

Bibliography 368
Index 403
List of Abbreviations
1 Apol. Justin, Apologia i = First Apology

1–2 Chr 1–2 Chronicles
1–2 Clem. 1–2 Clement
1–2 Cor 1–2 Corinthians
1–2 Kgs 1–2 Kings
1–2 Macc 1–2 Maccabees
1–2 Pet 1–2 Peter
1–2 Sam 1–2 Samuel
1–2 Thess 1–2 Thessalonians
1–2 Tim 1–2 Timothy
2 Esd 2 Esdras
1Q28b Qumran text: Sb (a.k.a. 1QSb) = Rule of the Blessings (appendix
to 1QS)
1QHa Qumran text: Hodayota or Thanksgiving Hymnsa (incl. Teacher
Hymns)
1QM Qumran text: Milḥama or War Scroll
1QS Serek Hayaḥad or Rule of the Community (a.k.a. Community
Rule)
4Q22 Qumran text: paleoExodm (a.k.a. 4QpaleoExodm)
4Q174 Qumran text: 4QFlor (MidrEschata) (a.k.a. 4QFlorilegium) =
Florilegium, also Midrash on Eschatology
4Q175 Qumran text: Test (a.k.a. 4QTest) = Testimonia
4Q181 Qumran text: AgesCreat B
4Q285 Qumran text: Sefer Hamilḥamah
4Q394 Qumran text: 4QMMTa (a.k.a. 4QMMT, a.k.a. MMT) = Miqṣat
Maʿaśê ha-Toraha = Some Observances of the Law
4Q405 Qumran text: ShirShabbf (a.k.a. Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice)
4Q427 Qumran text: Ha
4Q431 Qumran text: He
4Q471 Qumran text: War Scroll-like Text B
4Q471b Qumran text: Self-Glorification Hymn (= 4QHe?) (olim Prayer of
Michael)
4Q472 Qumran text: Eschatological Work B
4Q482 Qumran text: papJubi?
4Q491 (comprising a, b, c) Qumran text: Ma
4Q520 Qumran text: papUnclassified frags. (verso)
4Q521 Qumran text: 4QMessAp = Messianic Apocalypse
xii list of abbreviations
4Q529 Qumran text: Words of Michael ar

4Q540 Qumran text: apocrLevia? ar (olim AhA [bis] =TLevig? ar)
4Q541 Qumran text: apocrLevib? ar (olim AhA = TLevih? ar)
4Q549 Qumran text: Visions of Amramg? ar (olim Work Ment. Hur
and Miriam ar)
AB Anchor Bible
AB Assyriologische Bibliothek
ABD Anchor Bible Dictionary. Edited by David Noel Freedman.
6 vols. New York: Doubleday, 1992
ABR Australian Biblical Review
Abraham Philo, On the Life of Abraham
ACW Ancient Christian Writers
AE Année épigraphique
Ag. Ap. Josephus, Against Apion = Contra Apionem
AHR American Historical Review
AJA American Journal of Archaeology
AJS Association for Jewish Studies
ANRW Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt: Geschichte und
Kultur Roms im Spiegel der neueren Forschung. Part 2, Principat.
Edited by Hildegard Temporini and Wolfgang Haase. Berlin:
de Gruyter, 1972–
Ant. Josephus, Jewish Antiquities
APOT The Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha of the Old Testament.
Edited by Robert H. Charles. 2 vols. Oxford: Clarendon, 1913
Abot R. Natan Abot de Rabbi Natan
Autol. Theophilus of Antioch, Ad Autolycum = To Autolycus
ASOR American Schools of Oriental Research
b. ʿAbod. Zar. Babylonian Talmud ʿAbodah Zarah
b. Ber. Babylonian Talmud Berakhot
b. ʿErub. Babylonian Talmud ʿErubin (Eruvin)
b. B. Bat. Babylonian Talmud Baba Batra
b. B. Meṣ. Babylonian Talmud Baba Meṣiʿa
b. B. Qam. Babylonian Talmud Baba Qamma
b. Giṭ. Bablyonian Talmud Giṭṭin
b. Ḥag. Babylonian Talmud Ḥagigah
b. Ḥul. Babylonian Talmud Ḥullin
b. Mak. Babylonian Talmud Makkot
b. Meg. Babylonian Talmud Megillah
b. Menaḥ. Babylonian Talmud Menaḥot
b. Naz. Babylonian Talmud Nazir
list of abbreviations xiii
b. Pesaḥ. Babylonian Talmud Pesaḥim

b. Sanh. Bablyonian Talmud Sanhedrin
b. Šabb. Babylonian Talmud Šabbat
b. Soṭah Babylonian Talmud Soṭah
b. Sukkah Babylonian Talmud Sukkah
b. Taʿan. Babylonian Talmud Taʿanit
b. Yebam. Babylonian Talmud Yebamot
b. Yoma Babylonian Talmud Yoma
BA Biblical Archaeologist
BAR Biblical Archaeology Review
Barn. Barnabas
BECNT Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament
BETL Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium
BHLAMA Bibliotheca Hagiographica Latina Antiquae et Mediae Aetatis.
2 vols. Brussels, 1898–1901
Bib Biblica
BibInt Biblical Interpretation Series
BJS Brown Judaic Studies
BN Biblische Notizen
BZAW Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft
C. Ap. Josephus, Contra Apionem = Against Apion
Cant Canticle of Canticles (= Song of Songs)
Carn. Chr. Tertullian, De carne Christi = The Flesh of Christ
CBQ Catholic Biblical Quarterly
CD Cairo Genizah copy of the Damascus Document
Cels. Origen, Contra Celsum = Against Celsus
CIJ Corpus Inscriptionum Judaicarum. Edited by Jean-Baptiste
Frey. 2 vols. Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1936–1952
CIL Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum. Berlin, 1862–
CIRB Corpus inscriptionum regni Bosporani. Edited by I. Shruve
et al., Moskow: Nauka, 1965 (in Russian)
Col Colossians
Comm. Cant. Commentarius in Canticum
Comm. Jo. Origen, Commentarii in evangelium Joannis
Comm. Zach. Didymus the Blind, Commentarii in Zachariam
Congr. Philo, De congressu eruditionis gratia = On the Preliminary
Studies
Contempl. Philo, De vita contemplativa = On the Contemplative Life
Dan Daniel
Deut Deuteronomy
xiv list of abbreviations
Deut Rab. Deuteronomy Rabbah

Dial. Justin, Dialogus cum Tryphone = Dialogue with Trypho
Diogn. Diognetus
DJD Discoveries in the Judean Desert
DSD Dead Sea Discoveries
DSS Dead Sea Scrolls
DSSSE The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition. By Florentino García
Martínez and Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar. Leiden: Brill; Grand
Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000
Eccl Ecclesiastes
Ep. Pliny the Younger, Epistulae
Ep. Greg. Origen, Epistula ad Gregorium Thaumaturgum
Ep. Marcell. Athanasius, Epistula ad Marcellinum de interpretatione
Psalmorum = Letter to Marcellinus on the Interpretation of the
Psalms
Eph Ephesians
Eph. Ignatius, To the Ephesians
ETL Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses
Exod Exodus
Exod Rab. Exodus Rabbah
ExpTim Expository Times
Ezek Ezekiel
Fug. Philo, De fuga et inventione = On Flight and Finding
Gal Galatians
Gen Genesis
Gen Rab. Genesis Rabbah
Good Person Philo, That Every Good Person Is Free = Quod omnis probus
liber sit
Gos. Thom. Nag Hammadi text: II 2 Gospel of Thomas
GRBS Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies
Hab Habakkuk
Haer. Irenaeus, Adversus haereses (Elenchos) = Against Heresies
Heb Hebrews
Herm. Vis. Shepherd of Hermas, Vision(s)
Hist. Tacitus, Historiae = Histories
Hist. eccl. Eusebius, Historia ecclesiastica = Ecclesiastical History
Hom. Cant. Origen, Homiliae in Canticum
Hom. Exod. Origen, Homiliae in Exodum
Hom. Ps. Origen, Homiliae in Psalmos
Hos Hosea
list of abbreviations xv
HR History of Religions
HSCP Harvard Studies in Classical Philology
HTR Harvard Theological Review
HUCA Hebrew Union College Annual
ICC International Critical Commentary
IGCVO Inscriptiones Graecae Christianae Veteres Occidentis. Edited
by Wessel, Carolus, Antonio Ferrua, and Carlo Carletti. Barii:
Edipuglia, 1989
Ign. Ignatius
IGRom Inscriptiones Graecae ad res Romanas pertinentes. Edited by
R. Cagnat, J. Toutain, G. Lafaye, V. Henry. Paris: Académie des
inscriptions & belles-lettres (1906 –)
IJO Inscriptiones Judaicae Orientis. Edited by David Noy, Alexander
Panayotov, Hanswulf Bloedhorn, and Walter Ameling. 3 vols.
Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism. Tübingen: Mohr
Siebeck, 2004
In Gen. Didymus the Blind, In Genesim
Inc. Athanasius of Alexandria, De incarnatione = On the Incarnation
Int Interpretation
Isa Isaiah
Jas James
JAJ Journal of Ancient Judaism
JAAR Journal of the American Academy of Religion
JBL Journal of Biblical Literature
JECS Journal of Early Christian Studies
Jejun. Tertullian, De jejunio adversus psychicos = On Fasting, against
the Psychics
Jer Jeremiah
JES Journal of Ecumenical Studies
JIWE Jewish Inscriptions of Western Europe. By David Noy. 2 vols.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993, 1995
JJS Journal of Jewish Studies
JÖIA Jahreshefte des Österreichischen archäologischen Instituts
Josh Joshua
JQR Jewish Quarterly Review
JRS Journal of Roman Studies
JSJ Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic, and
Roman Periods
JSOT Journal for the Study of the Old Testament
JSOTSup Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series
xvi list of abbreviations
JSPSup Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha Supplement

Series
JSQ Jewish Studies Quarterly
JTS Journal of Theological Studies
Judg Judges
J.W. Josephus, Jewish War
Lam Lamentations
Lam Rab. Lamentations Rabbah
LCL Loeb Classical Library
Lev Leviticus
Lev Rab. Leviticus Rabbah
LSTS Library of Second Temple Studies
m. Ḥag. Mishnah Ḥagigah
m. Meg. Mishnah Megillah
m. Menaḥ. Mishnah Menaḥot
m. Moʿed Qaṭ. Mishnah Moʿed Qaṭan
m. Sanh. Mishnah Sanhedrin
m. Soṭah Mishnah Soṭah
m. Taʿan. Mishnah Taʿanit
m. Yad. Mishnah Yadayim
m. Yebam. Mishnah Yebamot
Magn. Ignatius, To the Magnesians
Mal Malachi
MAMA Monumenta Asiae Minoris Antiqua. Manchester and London,
1928–1993
Marc. Tertullian, Adversus Marcionem = Against Marcion
Mart. Pol. Martyrdom of Polycarp
Matt Matthew
ME Medieval Encounters: Jewish, Christian and Muslim Culture in
Confluence and Dialogue
Mek. Mekilta
Metam. Apuleius, Metamorphoses = The Golden Ass
Mic Micah
MT Masoretic Text
Neh Nehemiah
NHC Nag Hammadi Codices
NJPS Tanakh: The Holy Scriptures: The New JPS Translation accord-
ing to the Traditional Hebrew Text
NRSV New Revised Standard Version (Bible)
NRTh La nouvelle revue théologique
list of abbreviations xvii
NT New Testament
NTS New Testament Studies
Num Numbers
Num Rab. Numbers Rabbah
OECT Oxford Early Christian Texts
OJPS The Holy Scriptures. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication
Society of America, 1917
Op mundi Philo of Alexandria, De opificio mundi = On the Creation of
the World
OTG Old Testament Guides
OTP Old Testament Pseudepigrapha. Edited by James H. Charles
worth. 2 vols. New York: Doubleday, 1983, 1985
Pan. Epiphanius, Panarion (Adversus haereses) = Against All
Heresies
Pesiq. Rab Kah. Pesiqta de Rab Kahana
Phil Philippians
Philoc. Origen, Philocalia
Phld. Ignatius, To the Philadelphians
Pirq R. El. Pirqe Rabbi Eliezer
Pol. Ignatius, To Polycarp
Praescr. Tertullian, De praescriptione haereticorum = Prescription
against Heretics
Princ. Origen, De principiis (Peri archon) = First Principles
PRK Pesiqta de Rab Kahana
Prov Proverbs
Ps(s) Psalm(s)
PSB Princeton Seminary Bulletin
PTS Patristische Texte und Studien
QG Philo of Alexandria, Quaestiones et Solutiones in Genesin =
Questions and Answers on Genesis
RB Revue biblique
Ref. Hyppolitus, Refutatio omnium haeresium (Philosophoumena)
= Refutation of All Heresies
REJ Revue des études juives
Rev Revelation
RevQ Revue de Qumran
RGRW Religions in the Graeco-Roman World
RHPR Revue d’histoire et de philosophie religieuses
Rom Romans
RSV Revised Standard Version (Bible)
xviii list of abbreviations
SC Sources chrétiennes. Paris: Cerf, 1943–

S. Eli. Rab. Seder Eliyahu Rabbah
SBL Society of Biblical Literature
SecCent Second Century
SFSHJ South Florida Studies in the History of Judaism
Sir Sirach/Ecclesiasticus
SJ Studia Judaica
SJLA Studies in Judaism in Late Antiquity
Song Song of Songs (= Canticle of Canticles)
Song Rab. Song of Songs Rabbah
Spec. Laws Philo, On the Special Laws = De specialibus legibus
SPhilo Studia Philonica
SPhiloM Studia Philonica Monograph Series
SR Studies in Religion/Sciences Religieuses
SSEJC Studies in Scripture in Early Judaism and Christianity
ST Studia Theologica: Nordic Journal of Philosophy
STDJ Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah
StPatr Studia Patristica
Sus Susanna
SymS Symposium Series
t. Ḥag. Tosefta Ḥagigah
t. Menaḥ. Tosefta Menaḥot
t. Soṭah Tosefta Soṭah
Tanḥ. Tanḥuma
TAPA Transactions of the American Philological Association
Tg. Neof. Targum Neofiti
Tg. Ps.-J. Targum Pseudo-Jonathan
Tob Tobit
Trad. Apost. Apostolic Tradition
Trall. Ignatius, To the Trallians
TRE Theologische Realenzyklopädie. Edited by Gerhard Krause and
Gerhard Müller. Berlin: de Gruyter, 1977–
USQR Union Seminary Quarterly Review
VC Vigiliae Christianae
Vermes The Complete Dead Sea Scrolls in English. By Geza Vermes. New
York: Penguin Books, 1997
WBC World Biblical Commentary
Wis Wisdom of Solomon
list of abbreviations xix
WMANT Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen

Testament
WTJ Westminster Theological Journal
y. Ber. Jerusalem Talmud Berakot
y. Bik. Jerusalem Talmud Bikkurim
y. Moʿed Qaṭ. Jerusalem Talmud Moʿed Qaṭan
y. Šeb. Jerusalem Talmud Šebiʿit
y. Taʿan. Jerusalem Talmud Taʿanit
Zech Zechariah
ZPE Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik
ZTK Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche
List of Contributors
Ellen Birnbaum
is an independent scholar who lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Together
with Professor John M. Dillon of Trinity College Dublin, she is currently pre-
paring a new introduction to, translation of, and commentary on Philo’s
On the Life of Abraham for the Philo of Alexandria Commentary Series.
Jared C. Calaway
Ph.D., is a visiting assistant professor of religion in the Department of
Philosophy and Religion at Illinois College in Jacksonville, Illinois. He is the
last graduate student Alan Segal saw to completion. He researches the inter-
sections of sacred space, sacred time, and human-divine encounters in ancient
Jewish and Christian literature.
John J. Collins
is Holmes Professor of Old Testament at Yale Divinity School. He has written
widely on apocalypticism, Dead Sea Scrolls and other subjects.
Michel Desjardins
is Professor of Religion and Culture at Wilfrid Laurier University, in Waterloo,
Canada. He has taught and published in early Christianity, comparative reli-
gions, the academic study of religion, and the scholarship on teaching and
learning.
Celia Deutsch
is Research Scholar in the Department of Religion at Barnard College/Columbia
University (New York City). She publishes in the area of early Judaism and
early Christianity, with particular attention to mystical traditions. Dr. Deutsch
is a member of the Congregation of Our Lady of Sion. She is active in local and
international interfaith relations, and publishes in the field of Jewish-Christian
relations.
Adam Gregerman
is Assistant Professor of Theology and Religious Studies and Assistant Director
of the Institute for Jewish-Catholic Relations at Saint Joseph’s University in
Philadelphia, PA.
list of contributors xxi
Rachel Elior
is John and Golda Cohen Professor emerita of Jewish Philosophy and Jewish
Mystical Thought at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. She is the author
of numerous works on early Jewish Mysticism, kabbalah, Sabbatianism and
Hasidism. The recipient of many honors, she was awarded the 2006 Gershom
Scholem Prize for the Study of Kabbalah and Jewish Mysticism by the Israel
Academy of Sciences and Humanities.
Jonathan Klawans
is Professor of Religion at Boston University. His most recent book is Josephus
and the Theologies of Ancient Judaism (New York, Oxford University Press, 2012).
Ross S. Kraemer
is Professor Emerita of Religious Studies and Judaic Studies at Brown University.
A graduate of Smith College (where she first met Alan Segal in 1967 in a Hebrew
class) and of Princeton University (where Alan was a very last minute reader
of her doctoral dissertation), she has published extensively on women’s reli-
gions, and on diaspora Judaism, in the Greco-Roman Mediterranean. She is
presently completing a study of the late antique Mediterranean diaspora in the
wake of the Christianizing of the Roman empire, to be published by Oxford
University Press.
Andrea Lieber
is Professor of Religion at Dickinson College where she holds the Sophia Ava
Asbell Chair of Judaic Studies. Her scholarship focuses on the study of early
Jewish and Christian mysticism. She is the author of The Essential Guide to
Jewish Prayer and Practices (Penguin/Alpha Books 2012).
William Morrow
is Professor of Hebrew and Hebrew Scriptures in the School of Religion at
Queen’s University, Kingston Ontario. He received his Ph.D. from the University
of Toronto.
Jacob Neusner
is Emeritus Professor at Bard College.
Jeffrey L. Rubenstein
is Skirball Professor of Talmud and Rabbinic Literature in the Skirball
Department of Hebrew and Judaic Studies at New York University. His research
includes Talmudic Narratives, Ancient Jewish Law, and Jewish Ethics.
xxii list of contributors
Rabbi Jonah C. Steinberg

Ph.D. is a Jewish Chaplain at Harvard University and Director of Harvard Hillel.
He has taught Talmud and Rabbinics at the Jewish Theological Seminary of
America, the Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies of the American Jewish
University, and the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College, and served as
Associate Dean of the Rabbinical School of Hebrew College.
is Associate Professor of Humanities and Religion at Carleton University, spe-
cializing in the comparative study of ancient Mediterranean religions. Her
work interrogates structures of power and discourses of resistance in early
Jewish and Christian writings, focussing especially on magic, gender, and
violence.
Stephen G. Wilson
retired as Chancellor’s Professor emeritus at Carleton University, Ottawa. His
current research interests focus on apostasy and defection in Late Antiquity
and the development of a religious studies approach to the study of Christian
origins.
Tzvee Zahavy
was ordained at Yeshiva University where he studied under Rav J. B. Soloveitchik,
received his PhD in Religious Studies from Brown University, and was profes-
sor for many years of Classical and Near Eastern Studies at the University of
Minnesota, where he received a Distinguished Teaching Award. He has pub-
lished widely on the history of Judaism, with special emphasis on the devel-
opment and phenomenology of Judaic prayers and on the talmudic laws of
kashrut.
Alan F. Segal: A Life in Perspective
This volume began as a Festschrift to honor the scholarly contributions and

influence of Alan F. Segal. Sadly, it became a memorial volume following
Alan’s death February 13, 2011 due to complications from leukemia. Many of
the papers in this volume were originally presented at a colloquium held in
December 2010, to celebrate Alan’s retirement from 30 years of teaching at
Barnard College. Alan unfortunately was unable to attend the colloquium, hav-
ing entered the hospital the day before. He did have a chance to speak with
the attendees from his hospital bed via Skype during the dinner and appreci-
ated the fact that everyone was enjoying a day of scholarly engagement and a
fine meal in his honor. Thankfully, Alan knew that this volume was in process,
although he sadly did not live to see its completion.
1 Scholarship
The title of the volume reflects the broad and evolving interests covered by Alan
over the course of his scholarly career. Crossing Boundaries in Early Judaism and
Christianity: Ambiguities, Complexities, and Half-Forgotten Adversaries derives
from a line in Paul the Convert.1 It also aptly captures the leitmotif that links
most of Alan’s work: boundary crossing, either through conversion, heavenly
ascent, or passage to the Otherworld in death. During his prolific career, Alan
published several significant and ground-breaking studies that shifted our
understanding and approach to early Christianity and rabbinic Judaism.2
The brilliance and enduring influence of Alan’s research derive from Alan’s
ability to see a bigger picture, make connections between traditions, and
look for patterns, often by paying close attention to the similarities between
texts in different religious traditions. While most scholars are trained to mas-
ter a narrow terrain, Alan took the risks inherent in stepping outside of a
1 Alan F. Segal, Paul the Convert: The Apostolate and Apostasy of Saul the Pharisee (New Haven:
Yale University Press, 1990), xi.
2 Alan published ninety-five books and articles in his career on early Judaism and Christianity,
mysticism, gnosticism, life after death, and resurrection, but also on magic, computers, and
social scientific approaches to understanding religion. In this Introduction, I will limit my
discussion to his most significant publications.
© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��6 | doi ��.��63/9789004334496_002

2 Stratton
single field to answer bigger questions. Like the subjects of his research, Alan
crossed boundaries. He understood that religions do not operate in academi-
cally defined silos, but in complex societies populated by complicated human
beings, who are psychologically driven by wants, needs, and fears. For this rea-
son, Alan engaged with a variety of social-scientific theories and approaches
that illuminated ancient sources and enabled him to reveal new angles on
familiar material.
This interdisciplinary approach enabled Alan to propose groundbreak-
ing and often controversial theories about the origins of rabbinic Judaism,
Christianity, and gnosticism. Since most of the scholarship on Judaism and
Christianity had historically been shaped by confessional commitments, Alan’s
ability to shed these blinders and see the same material with fresh eyes was
cutting-edge and redefined the way scholars approach this material today. As a
Jew, studying early Christian writings from a Jewish perspective and as Jewish
documents, Alan recast our understanding of both Judaism and Christianity.
Rather than thinking about the two faiths in terms of parent and child, or new
dispensation and old, Alan rejected any whiff of Christian triumphalism and
presented both faiths as simultaneous and competing attempts by first-century
Jews (and a few gentiles) to grapple with the social and political pressures
created by Hellenistic and, later, Roman cultural and political domination.
A new generation of scholars has been nurtured on this approach and the
fields of early Judaism and Christianity emerge radically redefined as a result.
Alan completed his PhD in 1975 at Yale University under the direction of
Judah Goldin and Nils Dahl. His selection of a rabbinicist and New Testament
scholar as directors and mentors reflects Alan’s early commitment to study
rabbinic texts within a larger social context that included not only Hellenistic
Jewish writings, such as Philo and Josephus, but early Christian documents as
well. Alan’s dissertation was published two years later as Two Powers in Heaven:
Early Rabbinic Reports about Christianity and Gnosticism.3 Alan’s interdisci-
plinary use of primary source materials in Two Powers enabled him to draw
connections between scattered rabbinic references to “two powers in heaven,”
visions of the throne in Merkavah mysticism, Paul’s ecstatic conversion, and
the gnostic demiurge.
His methods and conclusions contributed to, and challenged reigning
assumptions in, multiple fields. For example, he borrows form criticism and
tradition history from New Testament studies to date rabbinic sayings against
3 Alan F. Segal, Two Powers in Heaven: Early Rabbinic Reports about Christianity and Gnosticism,
SJLA 25 (Leiden: Brill, 1977).
Alan F. Segal: A Life In Perspective 3
extra-rabbinic writings, which was a novel method at the time.4 Based on his
findings he argues that the rabbinic polemic against ‘two powers’ dated back as
far as the second century and was limited to Palestine. Extra-rabbinic sources
allow him to trace a tradition of ‘two powers,’ usually YHWH and an angel, back
even earlier to the Maccabean period. This ‘two powers’ tradition, he argues,
is the source for christological identifications of Jesus as God and for gnos-
tic demiurge mythology. Philo’s references to a “second god” or logos demon-
strate that such a line of thought was widespread and acceptable to at least
some devout Jews in the first century. It was only later, following the failed Bar
Kochbah revolt, that rabbis rejected belief in ‘two powers’ as a form of heresy,
forcing a schism between these competing Jewish sects. The “radicalization of
gnosticism,” in particular, Alan argues, “was a product of the battle between
the rabbis, the Christians and various other ‘two powers’ sectarians who inhab-
ited the outskirts of Judaism.”5
Alan regarded the ‘two powers’ controversy to lie at the very heart of the
origin, development, and eventual separation of Christianity and gnosticism
from rabbinic Judaism. Two Powers in Heaven posed provocative questions for
scholars of early Christianity and gnosticism, as well as for rabbinic studies.
It also definitively demonstrated the relevance of studying each tradition’s
writings for understanding the texts and traditions of the other two.6 While
some scholars saw Two Powers in Heaven as overreaching in its conclusions and
the connections it drew,7 others saw it as brilliant for its ability to illuminate
vexing problems regarding Christian and gnostic origins.8 Whether accepted
or rejected, the arguments in Two Powers demanded attention and established
Alan as a significant new scholar to enter the field.9 Indeed, in 1997 a panel
at the annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature examined the leg-
acy of Two Powers after twenty years. In her blog post celebrating Alan’s life
4 Segal, Two Powers, ix–x.

5 Segal, Two Powers, 265.
6 Segal, Two Powers, xii.
7 Charles W. Hedrick, review of Two Powers in Heaven: Early Rabbinic Reports about Christianity
and Gnosticism, by Alan F. Segal, JBL 99, no. 4 (1980): 638–39; Jack N. Lightstone, review of
Two Powers in Heaven: Early Rabbinic Reports about Christianity and Gnosticism, by Alan F.
Segal, SR 10, no. 4 (1981): 494.
8 G. Quispel, review of Two Powers in Heaven. Early Rabbinic Reports about Christianity and
Gnosticism, by Alan F. Segal, VC 33, no. 1 (March 1979): 86–87; Francis T. Fallon, review of Two
Powers in Heaven: Early Rabbinic Reports about Christianity and Gnosticism, by Alan F. Segal,
JAAR 49, no. 1 (March 1981): 142.
9 According to Google Scholar, Two Powers in Heaven has been cited by 322 scholarly books and
articles, indicating its significant impact.
4 Stratton
(February 14, 2011) April DeConnick describes Two Powers as “brilliant” and
a “classic.” It also laid the foundation for his subsequent studies, especially
Rebecca’s Children and Paul the Convert.
Alan’s next major publication built upon his proposition that Christianity
and rabbinic Judaism developed simultaneously in response to the same
social and political circumstances and through exegetical debates over
the same biblical passages. Rebecca’s Children: Judaism and Christianity in the
Roman World provides a sweeping diachronic examination of the devel-
opment of these two religions, tracing their emergence from the social and
political pressures and upheavals of the Second Temple period to the second
century CE.10 Alan focuses his discussion around the concept of ‘covenant’ as
the root metaphor for Judaism, threading this mythological and ideological
concept through history from the Persian satrapy of Judea to the split between
Christianity and rabbinic Judaism. By keeping the idea of covenant at the
fore, Alan makes this long swath of history comprehensible. As a further aid,
he brings fresh insights, informed by social sciences such as economics and
anthropology, to illuminate primary source data, often drawing analogies to
modern phenomena. For example, he compares the Hellenistic world and its
brand of cultural syncretism to modernization and secularization as encoun-
tered in post-colonial societies.11 He describes religious competition and rivalry
in the Hellenistic and Roman worlds as a form of ancient “pluralism” and uses
psychology to explain Paul’s conversion to this new sect of Judaism.12 Rebecca’s
Children consequently represents one of Alan’s most accessible books; he
presents the vagaries of ancient history in plain and often entertaining terms,
avoiding excessive use of specialist jargon.
Like Two Powers in Heaven, Rebecca’s Children makes some novel and con-
troversial arguments. By situating Christianity in the social and political milieu
of Second Temple Judaism, and treating it as just another Jewish sect, com-
parable to Pharisees, Sadducees, Revolutionaries and Essenes, Alan illumi-
nates the similarities and continuities between Judaism and Christianity. He
situates the Jesus movement and early Christian community solidly within
apocalyptic Judaism, which he understands through the lens of anthropology
to be a response to economic, social, and psychological deprivation.13 While
many New Testament scholars have eschewed the apocalyptic layer in Jesus
10 Alan F. Segal, Rebecca’s Children: Judaism and Christianity in the Roman World (Cambridge:
Harvard University Press, 1986).
11 Segal, Rebecca’s Children, 114.
sayings as later additions, Alan argues that Jesus himself used apocalyptic lan-
guage when he referred to himself as the Son of Man. Jesus’s resurrection, Alan
argues, was not a unique sign of divinity, as later understood by the church,
but followed logically, according to Jewish apocalyptic traditions and expecta-
tions, upon his death as a martyr.14 Alan’s deep understanding of Jewish his-
tory in this period informed his interpretation of evolving christological labels
and beliefs.
Also departing from many New Testament scholars, who saw Paul’s shift to
Christianity as a prophetic call and not a sudden rupture, Alan draws on psy-
chology to understand Paul’s conversion as a radical break from his previous
Pharisaic identity. Alan applies theories of cognitive dissonance to show how
Paul shifts his religious identification even while building on Pharisaic tech-
niques of biblical exegesis to resolve the problem posed by Jesus’s humiliating
crucifixion.15 Alan draws on knowledge of rabbinic argumentation to clarify
many opaque aspects of Paul’s theology of the cross. Similarly, Alan’s knowl-
edge of the New Testament and early Christian writings enabled him to his-
torically reconstruct the Pharisaism of the first century, which he regarded as a
direct antecedent of the post-destruction rabbinic movement. Alan details the
rupture between these two Jewish sects, each of which inherited the idea of
covenant and reinterpreted it in light of the Roman conquest and destruction
of the second Jerusalem temple.
While some reviewers found the book to be light in primary sources and
heavy in broad generalizations,16 the metaphor that it presents to describe the
relationship between Judaism and Christianity reframed scholarly discourse
on the topic.17 Responsible scholars could no longer describe Christianity as
the offspring of Judaism, suggesting supercession. Rather, the idea that both
religions emerged from and responded to the same cultural pressures during

16 Seth Schwartz, review of Rebecca’s Children: Judaism and Christianity in the Roman World,
by Alan F. Segal, BA, March 1989, 43–45; E. P. Sanders, review of Rebecca’s Children, Judaism
and Christianity in the Roman World, by Alan F. Segal, JTS 39, no. 2 (October 1988): 581–84.
17 According to Google Scholar, Rebecca’s Children received 68 reviews and notices and has
been cited by 176 scholarly books and articles, demonstrating its positive reception and
influence. James D. Tabor, review of Rebecca’s Children: Judaism and Christianity in the
Roman World, by Alan F. Segal, HR 28, no. 2 (1988): 183, described the book as “compelling,”
and an “amazingly succinct introduction to this fascinating period of Jewish and Christian
origins”; Peter Richardson, review of Rebecca’s Children: Judaism and Christianity in the
Roman World by Alan F. Segal, SR 16, no. 4 (1987): 498, described the book as “a delightful
read for scholar and student alike.”
6 Stratton
the same time period and often in competition and conflict with each other
became a new operating paradigm. Furthermore, Alan again demonstrated
the importance of studying the two religions in concert; scholars who sought
to understand either Judaism or Christianity without reference to the writ-
ings of the other religion risked misapprehension. While this approach had
been accepted already among some scholars of early Christianity, who looked
to Jewish texts for insights into formative Christianity,18 Alan established that
Christian writings could fill some of the gaps between the Bible and rabbinic
literature. This was a radical idea until Alan demonstrated its usefulness.
Furthermore, Alan’s employment of social sciences to understand many of
the dynamics in the development of Judaism (and Christianity) during the
Hellenistic period also represented a new direction in the field that has left its
permanent mark.
Paul the Convert: The Apostolate and Apostasy of Saul the Pharisee contin-
ues the methods and arguments Alan developed in Two Powers in Heaven and
Rebecca’s Children. This book represents a return to Alan’s close textual read-
ings, demonstrated in Two Powers in Heaven, and presents a careful and intri-
cate argument that Paul’s ecstatic conversion resulted from a form of ascension
mysticism known later in Judaism as Merkavah mysticism. Paul the Convert is
also Alan’s most daring and controversial, as well as influential and acclaimed
book. It was an Editor’s Choice and the main selection of the History Book Club
and an alternate selection for the Book of the Month Club and Jewish Book
Club. It garnered especially wide attention among scholars of Christianity and
launched Alan onto the lecture circuit among Christian churches. It has also
been translated into French.19
Alan’s innovation in Paul the Convert was to regard Paul as a Jew rather than
Christian and to take his writings seriously as representative of Jewish ideas
and experiences in the first century CE. By situating Paul within his Jewish
context rather than in the light of later Christian interpretations of him, Alan
reframes the meaning and intent of Paul’s theology. For example, Paul’s refer-
ences to the Glory of the Lord and his claim that the faithful will be transformed
into the image of Christ both have close parallels with technical terminology in
later Merkavah mysticism.20 Alan thus concludes that Paul was a first-century
18 For example, E. P. Sanders, Paul and Palestinian Judaism: A Comparison of Patterns of
Religion (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1977); and E. P. Sanders, Jesus and Judaism (Philadelphia:
Fortress, 1985).
19 Alan F. Segal, Paul le converti: Apôtre ou apostat, trans. Anne Pamier, Patrice Ghirardi, and
Jean-Francois Sene (Paris: Bayard, 2003).
20 Segal, Paul the Convert, 40–41.
witness to developing Jewish mysticism. Furthermore, ideas such as the Body

of Christ or the Glory of the Lord acquire different theological meanings in
a Jewish mystical context from one shaped by Augustine or, later, Luther, as
is frequently the case in traditional Christian interpretations. Alan also takes
Paul’s account of his conversion seriously; he surmises, based on Paul’s descrip-
tion of a heavenly ascent (2 Cor 12:2–5) combined with Luke’s account of Paul’s
prophetic call in Acts of the Apostles (9:3–9, 22:6–21), that Paul had a mysti-
cal experience in which he encountered Jesus as the angelic figure seated in
heaven. Paul believes salvation lies in a corporeal identification with this sav-
ior, resulting in a mystical transformation and immortalization.21
Alan argues that Paul provides the link between, on the one hand, the Angel
of the Lord and the figure on the divine throne in Jewish apocalyptic texts, and,
on the other hand, Jesus as Lord in Christianity and the Kavod in later Merkavah
mysticism.22 Alan situates Paul’s vision in a thick description of first-century
Jewish mystical ideas drawn from the Dead Sea Scrolls, Enochic literature, and
references to Metatron in pseudepigrapha, as well as descriptions of Moses
and the logos in Philo’s writings. Alan’s command of such a broad array of early
Jewish writings enabled him to identify similar ideas and language across a
diverse array of texts and genres, leading him to interpret Paul’s conversion
and theology in a radically new way. For example, Alan argues that in light of
the crucifixion, which posed a significant hurdle to Jewish acceptance of Jesus
as the Messiah, Paul interprets Jesus’s heavenly enthronement as a reward for
his martyrdom, which fulfilled and confirmed apocalyptic predictions.
Alan argues that although Paul underwent a radical break from Pharisaism
as a result of his vision and ensuing conversion, he nonetheless incorpo-
rates Pharisaic methods of exegesis to authorize his conviction that Jews and
Gentiles should be united as one body in their faith in Christ and through
baptism.23 Alan notes that, ironically, Paul’s effort to unify Jews and gentiles in
the body of Christ was the first step toward the eventual separation of Judaism
and Christianity. This was not Paul’s intention, Alan emphasizes; despite com-
mon misunderstandings of his writings, Paul never rejected Judaism or the
Torah. Rather he understands its application to gentiles in a different way in
light of his ecstatic vision and his understanding that salvation comes through
mystical transformation.
Paul the Convert was extremely well-received by most reviewers, who
regarded Alan’s breadth of scholarship to be refreshing and the case he built to
21 Segal, Paul the Convert, 22, 35.

22 Segal, Paul the Convert, 62–63.
23 Segal, Paul the Convert, 60.
8 Stratton
be persuasive.24 Importantly, Alan broke down barriers between Judaism and

Christianity, recasting Paul as a Jewish mystic and his brand of Christianity
as a Jewish reform movement. Alan’s use of sociological models instead of
theological presuppositions again found favor with most reviewers. Richard
Hays, for example, describes Alan’s analysis as “distinctive” and “cutting
edge.”25 F. F. Bruce states that the book “abounds in welcome fresh insights.”26
Paul the Convert furthered Alan’s ongoing effort to rethink the relationship
between Judaism and Christianity and to question the boundaries between
New Testament scholarship and Judaic Studies. The legacy of this book and
its tremendous impact attest to the significant contribution it made in chang-
ing the study of ancient religion. Paul the Convert also appealed to the general
public and reflected Alan’s commitment to reaching across the religious divide
with his scholarship and to building bridges between Jews and Christians.
He did this in many other ways, which I will discuss below.
Life after Death: A History of the Afterlife in Western Religion constitutes a
monumental study of Western beliefs about the afterlife and a profound
and searching meditation on the humanistic enterprise.27 While the book is
framed, in its introduction and conclusion, by statistics and anecdotes about
religion in America and the events of 9/11, it focuses primarily on examining
beliefs about life after death in the ancient world. Covering socio-historical and
religious developments in ancient Egypt, Mesopotamia, Persia, and Greece as
background, it advances the work of Alan’s previous three books by illuminat-
ing the history of and relationship between Judaism and Christianity. Alan
reveals how beliefs about the afterlife, mystical revelations, and martyrdom
provide windows onto the emerging and often contested structures and values
of Judaism and Christianity in the early centuries of the Common Era, when
the religions were developing. Throughout his discussion, Alan demonstrates
a correspondence between the transcendent values of a society and its ideals
for the afterlife. Alan’s goal, in Life after Death, is to show how beliefs about
the afterlife answer social needs and change over time in response to social
changes. The result destabilizes contemporary beliefs about the afterlife, show-
ing them to be time-bound, contingent, and essentially social mirrors: “current
24 There are fifty-five reviews or notices of Paul the Convert, and, according to Google
Scholar, it has been cited in 454 scholarly publications, mostly positively.
25 Richard B. Hays, “A New Jewish Reading of Paul,” review of Paul the Convert: The Apostolate
and Apostasy of Saul the Pharisee, by Alan F. Segal, Int 46, no. 2:184.
26 F. F. Bruce, review of Paul the Convert: The Apostolate and Apostasy of Saul the Pharisee, by
Alan F. Segal, AHR 96, no. 3 (June 1991): 823–24.
27 Alan F. Segal, Life after Death: A History of the Afterlife in Western Religion (New York:
Doubleday, 2004).
lives affect notions of the afterlife; notions of the afterlife affect our behavior
in this one.”28 Alan also probes the inevitable question: “ ‘cui bono?’ To whose
benefit is this belief in the afterlife?” revealing the link between power, social
class, and who controls the dissemination of religious ideas.
The book begins with a view of afterlife beliefs in ancient Near Eastern
civilizations that had significant cultural influence on biblical Israel, namely
Egypt, Mesopotamia, and Canaan, and includes a chapter on Israel during the
period of the First Temple (c. 950–587 BCE). Alan proposes that beliefs in life
after death during this period largely reflected the natural environment and
climate. For example, in Egypt, the reliable flooding of the Nile, combined with
natural barriers that protected the country, contributed to creating an endur-
ing cultural and political stability that is reflected in Egyptian beliefs about
the afterlife. In Canaan, on the other hand, where life depended on the unreli-
able supply of rain from year to year, myths about seasonally dying and res-
urrecting gods dominated; humans, at best, could hope for veneration from
their descendents at ritual feasts marking the beginning of the rainy season
in fall. Alan states that “it is not hard to see that in envisioning the quality
of a person that survives death, the Canaanites, like the Egyptians and the
Mesopotamians, were also making judgements about what was important and
transcendent in human life; they were finding ways of describing the mean-
ing and final purpose of the earthly ‘self.’ ”29 To many people’s surprise, given
the importance of afterlife beliefs in Christianity, the Hebrew Bible does not
indicate a belief in an afterlife.30 Ancient Israel appears to be unique and odd
in this regard, compared to other civilizations in the ancient Near East, which
boasted very involved and culturally significant notions of life after death. Alan
proposes that the Bible’s silence may be a deliberate attempt to avoid idola-
try, since many of the forbidden practices identified in the Bible are related to
ancestor worship and funeral practices.
In part two, Alan shifts his attention to the post-exilic period, examining
the complex afterlife beliefs of Second Temple Judaism and the cultures that
dominated it: Persian and Hellenistic. Drawing an analogy from the quintes-
sential ‘Jewish’ food, lox and bagels,31 Alan humorously argues that Jews bor-
rowed many ideas about the afterlife from Greeks and Persians but ultimately
made them fully their own. In fact, in the case of resurrection, it is possible that
the Jews invented the idea and introduced it to Zoroastrians rather than the
other way around, although Alan ultimately rejects this hypothesis. Looking
28 Segal, Life after Death, 10.

29 Segal, Life after Death, 113–14.
10 Stratton
again for parallels between social structures and afterlife beliefs, Alan notes
that dualist beliefs often appear in close communities and usually combine
with belief in a bodily resurrection; this was true in Zoroastrianism as well as
in early Judaism. The opposite belief held true, however, in Hellenism, where
Platonic dualism negated matter and therefore the body; resurrection of the
dead was rejected by Greeks in favor of belief in an immortal soul. Alan also
sees a connection between disposal of the corpse and expectations about its
abode after death: cultures that bury their dead tend to regard deceased souls
as inhabiting a murky subterranean region while those that cremate see the
soul rise to heaven.32 In this section, Alan traces the shift in Judaism from ada-
mant rejection of an afterlife to belief in resurrection, which he places squarely
in response to the persecutions under Antiochus Epiphanes, which led to the
Maccabean revolt in 167 BCE.33
In part three, Alan focuses more closely on the social and political dynamics
that generated beliefs in resurrection and the apocalyptic texts, such as Daniel
12, that first espoused it. Alan links the Book of Daniel ideologically to the pro-
ducers of the Dead Sea Scrolls; both writings “reveal to us a millenarian commu-
nity living in expectation of the immediate end of the world.”34 Alan draws on
evidence from modern Native Americans to understand better the sociology of
millenarian communities, linking eschatological expectations to deprivation
and social revitalization. Chapter eight includes an exploration of Religiously
Interpreted/Altered States of Consciousness (RISC/RASC) to understand the
visionary writings of pseudepigrapha and Merkavah mysticism, which attest
to changing ideas about the afterlife in Judaism. The visionary “in his altered
state becomes a kind of eschatological verifier, going to heaven to see what is in
it.”35 In this section Alan also examines how the Platonic idea of an immortal
soul contributed to ideas of the afterlife in antique Judaism and Christianity,
blending with a belief in resurrection during the last centuries BCE and the
first centuries CE; initially Christianity rejected belief in an immortal soul, but
eventually accepted it as the church spread throughout the Hellenistic world,
where immortality of the soul was widely accepted among gentiles. Building
on his previous research in Rebecca’s Children and Paul the Convert, Alan shows
that Christology developed out of the apocalyptic identification of Jesus with
the Son of Man figure in Daniel 7:13–14.

Part four traces beliefs in the afterlife from late antiquity to modernity, cover-
ing Christianity, rabbinic Judaism, and Islam. Furthering previous arguments,
Alan describes Paul as a Jewish apocalyptic-mystagogue. Paul’s notions of res-
urrection, Alan argues, are firmly Jewish and apocalyptic; they are based on his
mystical experience of the risen Christ, whom he identifies as the ascended
Messiah and heavenly redeemer.36 Alan demonstrates that Paul’s conception
of resurrection for believers combines Jewish apocalyptic beliefs in resurrec-
tion of the body with Greek notions about continuity of life after death, which
Paul frames in terms of a spiritual body that is glorified and perfected in a spiri-
tual state.37 The Gospels, in contrast, emphasize the physical, corporeal nature
of Jesus’s resurrection, Alan shows. These two conceptions remain in tension
with each other throughout Christian history. Martyrdom, for example, relied
entirely upon belief in physical resurrection—both of Jesus and of those who
imitated him to the point of death. Other Christians, who are often labeled
‘gnostic’ and are more closely aligned with Pauline thinking, Alan argues, inter-
preted the resurrection in spiritual or mystical terms and considered martyr-
dom to be inessential and misguided.38 These Christians also rejected belief in
a physical resurrection.
This section of Alan’s study offers insights not only into evolving beliefs
about life after death and the social factors that contributed to establishing
them, but into early Christian controversies and conflicts over martyrdom,
resurrection, and gnosticism. Alan’s wide-ranging discussion touches on many
aspects of early Jewish and Christian belief, illuminating the emergence of
these two religions out of the crucible of Roman occupation and persecution.
In the process, Alan illuminates wide and diverse areas of early Christian his-
tory and academic debate, including the relationship of Jesus and Mary, Mary’s
role/authority in the church, and debates over dualism and ‘gnosticism’ in the
second and third centuries.
Life after Death presents a wide-ranging and probing examination of beliefs
in the afterlife that raises profound questions about selfhood, identity, and
the existence of a soul. The chapter labeled “Afterword: Immortal Longings”
explores scientific evidence for out-of-body and near-death experiences before
turning philosophical in its consideration of transcendence and human striv-
ing in art and culture as a response to human mortality. This profoundly rich
and provocative book compiles a lifetime of reflection and learning, drawing

12 Stratton
together the history of Western religion and humanistic aspiration through the
lens of afterlife beliefs. Alan muses about this undertaking:
It follows that in investigating “the Undiscover’d Country” of the after-

life, we are actually investigating our own self-consciousness through the
mirror of our culture. The words we use will be the words our culture
gives to us for understanding these ‘peak experiences’ in our conscious-
ness. The journey to heaven is also a journey into the self. This conclu-
sion becomes inescapable. Saying that, however, is saying a great deal
more than that we build our afterlife out of our imaginations. It is saying
that we then invest those imaginative constructions with the authority
of reality through a very complicated social procedure. Whether we can
say anything more about the afterlife and our conscious perception of it
will have to wait until the conclusions of this book, if not the conclusion
of our personal life!39
The relevance and urgency of Life after Death resonate on every page. The
events of 9/11 occurred when Alan was nearing completion of the manuscript
and raised the specter of Islamic fundamentalism and its use of afterlife beliefs
to recruit martyrs and endorse terrorism as religiously justifiable. Alan directly
addresses these developments and demonstrates the importance of under-
standing Western beliefs in the afterlife and their link to social inequities, reli-
gious ideology, and politics. Alan seeks to diminish the power of these beliefs
and to relativize them through this monumental historical study.
Life after Death has garnered significant appreciation and attention from
academic reviewers, the media, and general readers. It was selected as a Book
of the Month by the Book of the Month Club and was a featured selection of
the History Book Club, Behavioral Science Book Club and Quality Book Club. It
was also voted one of the four Best Books in Religion for 2004 by the Associated
Press. In addition to garnering numerous positive reviews, it is cited by 224
scholarly books and articles. The book also launched Alan into the media lime-
light: he appeared on the Leonard Lopate Show (WNYC) to discuss life after
death and was featured on NPR’s Talk of the Nation. He also gave an interview
for the History Channel on the History of Hell.
Alan’s final book, Sinning in the Hebrew Bible: How the Worst Stories Speak for
Its Truth, was published posthumously.40 In it Alan examines perplexing stories

40 Alan F. Segal, Sinning in the Hebrew Bible: How the Worst Stories Speak for Its Truth (New
York: Columbia University Press, 2012).
in the Hebrew Bible that revolve around moral ambiguity to argue for the antiq-
uity of the Bible and the reality of Israelite society in the First Temple period.
This book represents Alan’s response to biblical minimalists, who, he claims,
argue that there never was a biblical Israel and that the Bible is entirely a fic-
tional document produced during the Persian and Hellenistic periods.41 Alan
rejects this position as ideologically motivated and un-academic. In Sinning
in the Hebrew Bible, Alan focuses on literary doublets, stories that repeat in
parallel fashion two or more times in the text. For example, the rape and mur-
der of a Levite’s concubine (Judg 19) mirrors the story of angels visiting Lot in
Sodom (Gen 19), before the city is destroyed; the sacrifice of Jephtha’s daughter
(Judg 11) parallels the binding of Isaac (Gen 22). In each of these doublets, one
story ends happily through divine intervention while the other ends in violence
and horror with no sign of God. Even stories that end well still raise alarming
moral questions by presenting biblical characters engaging in unscrupulous
behavior: Abraham offers his wife, Sarah, to the Pharaoh (Gen 12) and, later, to
the Philistine king Abimelech (Gen 20) as his sister in order to safeguard his
own life; he agrees to sacrifice his son, Isaac, to God without protest or nego-
tiation despite negotiating on behalf of residents in the doomed city, Sodom
(Gen 18:23–32).
Alan uses these doublets to argue that Hebrews during the period of the First
Temple (approx. 950–586 BCE) used mythical stories about their ancestors to
work out problematic moral dilemmas in their own time before Deuteronomy
resolved these questions legally.42 Thus, marriage between half-siblings was
evidently legal, as was child sacrifice, Alan surmises. By reading biblical stories
in light of each other, Alan sheds light on moral themes that continue to resur-
face, demanding attention.
Alan’s attempt to use these stories to confirm the existence of the Israelite
kingdoms, Judah and Samaria, during the Iron Age is less convincing, since
it requires acceptance of the historical narrative offered by the Bible to con-
textualize them.43 Alan seeks to link ‘mythic’ narratives of the patriarchal
period, described in Genesis, to events in the time of David and Solomon, the
only evidence of which comes from the Deuteronomic History. Nonetheless,
Alan’s readings of these problematic stories offer stimulating insights that will
illuminate them for many readers. Alan also discusses some of the important
archaeological finds that relate to the Hebrew Bible, thus bringing together
41 Segal, Sinning in the Hebrew Bible, 9.

42 Segal, Sinning in the Hebrew Bible, 112.
43 A.-J. Levine, review of Sinning in the Hebrew Bible: How the Worst Stories Speak for Its Truth,
by Alan F. Segal, Choice 50, no. 6 (2013): 1071.
14 Stratton
in one place an informative and thought-provoking study of ancient Israel.

While it is unlikely this book will convince biblical minimalists, it will appeal
to readers interested in understanding the historic backdrop to many biblical
stories. Alan’s readings, which are sensitive to the negative gender stereotyp-
ing that prevails in the Bible, also offer important counter-narratives to those
widespread in traditional interpretations. It is refreshing to read, for example,
that Eve was more intelligent than Adam and the leader in the primal couple,
or that Tamar was assertive and legally justified in seducing her father-in-law,
Judah (Gen 38). Sinning in the Hebrew Bible reflects Alan’s lifetime of teaching
these texts to undergraduate and graduate students. His depth of knowledge
and passion for the biblical material resound in every page of this book.
2 Academic Service
Throughout his professional life Alan actively participated in and contributed

to scholarly societies such as the American Academy of Religion, Society of
Biblical Literature, Canadian Society of Biblical Studies, Association for Jewish
Studies, and the prestigious Studiorum Novi Testamenti Societas, to which
membership is by invitation only. In 1990–1991 Alan served as the president
of the Canadian Society of Biblical Studies even though he was no longer res-
ident in Canada at the time; Alan’s involvement in and commitment to the
CSBS remained deep decades after he left the University of Toronto to take
up his position at Barnard College in 1980. His book, Life after Death, won the
Frank W. Beare Award from the society in 2006. Alan served on the steering
committees of numerous SBL units, helping to found and shepherd new sec-
tions on topics dear to him, such as the “Jewish and Christian Mysticism unit,”
the “Social History of Formative Christian and Judaism section,” the “Paul and
Politics consultation,” and “Jewish-Christian Dialogue in the First Centuries.”
Alan’s involvement and leadership in these units reflected his dedication to
mentoring junior members of the guild and to fostering scholarship on ancient
religion and Jewish-Christian dialogue.
In addition to his ground-level participation in academic societies, Alan
served behind the scenes on numerous adjudication committees, including
the Best First Book Award for the American Academy of Religion and the
Charlotte Newcombe Doctoral Dissertation Fellowship. He also served on
the boards of directors for various organizations, including the World Alliance
of Interfaith Organizations, and on advisory boards for academic publish-
ers, such as Columbia University Press, the AAR Dissertation Series, and the
Journal of Biblical Literature.
Throughout his career, Alan was highly sought as a guest speaker by inter-
faith associations, churches, and universities; in 1999 he gave the Wolfson
Lectures at Trinity College, Dublin, on “The Social Sources of Hebrew Notions
of Life after Death” and “Altered States of Consciousness and Life After Death.”
He was also the keynote speaker at the Irish Bible Society’s annual meeting
that same year. Alan gave numerous interviews for the media on topics such
as Hell, life after death, and Jewish and Christian relations. Additionally Alan
contributed actively to Barnard College and its alumnae association, leading
special tours of biblical sites for Barnard alumnae and teaching alumnae semi-
nars. Alan’s position at Barnard allowed him to supervise doctoral students in
the graduate program in religion at Columbia University and, over the years,
many of his former students have made significant contributions to the field of
ancient religion in their own right.
3 Mentorship and Friendship
Of those who had the pleasure to take courses with Alan or the opportunity
to be supervised by him, everyone remarks fondly on his warmth, generosity,
sense of humor, and availability. Alan always responded promptly to e-mail
inquiries, would take phone calls at home, even on weekends, and made him-
self available to meet for lunch or just to chat. He was not only concerned
about his students’ academic success, but he cared deeply for their personal
well-being as well. He offered advice and counsel on romantic dilemmas and
heartbreak as readily as scholarly conundrums. I remember that in response to
the break-up of my marriage, he suggested I try J-Date since Jewish men make
great husbands. One of his recent doctoral students, Asha Moorthy, wrote that
Alan had an earnest desire to see her through the program and worried about
the difficulties she would face after he was gone; he would always “go to bat” for
his students. “Looking back,” she writes, “I also appreciate how approachable,
good humored and relatable he was. He was not only a tremendous scholar but
also a good man.” Jared Calaway, Alan’s last student to complete the PhD, wrote
hauntingly and beautifully about Alan in a blog post the day after his death:
“Driving to the university today, my memory fragmented and the fragments
raced and collided in a chaotic chorus, moving from memory to memory with-
out any clear direction: the way he signed my copy of his life after death book,
comments he has given about my work, the first words he ever said to me,
advice about life, his exuberant love of tea, his equal love of electronics.” Jared
describes Alan as a polymath and an academic mystagogue, who ushered him
through the mysterious liminal experience of graduate school.
16 Stratton
Those who knew Alan professionally will remember him perhaps most
fondly as he held court in the lobby bar at one of the main hotels during SBL/
AAR meetings. He worked hard and was immensely productive, but he always
had time to kibbitz over a beer and share jokes and good humor. Fortunately
those memories endure even while they are difficult to transmit to others who
did not know him. Alan leaves a significant and lasting legacy to the academic
community, one that will continue to shape scholarly discourse about the
emergence and interrelationship of Judaism and Christianity. His insights have
not only transformed the academic field but have contributed to changing
interfaith relations among the faithful as well. Alan felt strongly about this; like
the character he so ardently studied, Paul, Alan himself crossed boundaries
and sought to bridge the two religions and communities through knowledge,
understanding, and mutual respect. His wisdom and insight have inspired
many, some of whom contributed essays to this volume. I will let their work
speak to Alan’s brilliance and enduring legacy.
Introduction to the Volume
Andrea Lieber
Alan’s research interests and publications ranged broadly over the course of his
career, covering topics as diverse as ancient magic, conversion, and christology.
For this reason, it is no surprise to find that those wishing to honor Alan in this
memorial volume also reflect diverse backgrounds, interests, and approaches.
We have chosen to organize the chapters according to their affinity with Alan’s
work; the volume is divided into five sections, one for each of Alan’s books.
Part 1 Two Powers in Heaven
The chapters in this first section all engage topics related to Alan’s published
dissertation and first book, Two Powers in Heaven: Early Rabbinic Reports about
Christianity and Gnosticism; they deal with questions related to Heavenly
Ascent, angelification, and visions of the Merkavah. John J. Collins and Jonah
Steinberg take up the ambiguous status conferred by angelification in rabbinic
texts and the Dead Sea Scrolls. In “The Self-Glorification Hymn from Qumran,”
Collins grapples with a theme that was of great importance to Alan’s scholar-
ship: is there any evidence of a ritual practice of heavenly ascent in the litera-
ture of the Dead Sea Scrolls that might shed some light on the development
of Jewish mysticism? Drawing on the work of P. S. Alexander, Collins focuses
on the enigmatic text of “The Self-Glorification Hymn,” a fragmentary text of
the Hodayot scroll that has been read as evidence of angelic transformation.
Reviewing the textual variants of the fragments and its relationship to other
hymnic material, he considers the key ambiguities of this text: Who is the
speaker in this exaltation text? Is it the Teacher of Righteousness? An angelic
being? An eschatological figure? Is the self-exaltation and heavenly enthrone-
ment of this figure paradigmatic for the community? Collins concludes that
though relevant to the history of Jewish mysticism, the text does not provide
clear evidence of mystical practice among the Qumran sectarians.
In “Theosis through Works of the Law: Deification of the Earthly Righteous
in Classical Rabbinic Thought,” Steinberg considers similar questions in rab-
binic midrashim. Expanding on a paper he originally submitted for a class he
took with Alan, Steinberg argues that theosis—the process of divinization—
is a key motif in early rabbinic literature. Steinberg identifies a form of the-
osis in rabbinic thought that differs from the way this motif takes shape in

18 Lieber
early Christian literature. In contrast with the Christian concept of theo-

sis that entails identification with Jesus Christ, in the rabbinic view, theosis
entails identification with the Torah as the path to divinization. In articulating
this theory, Steinberg coins the term “theosis through works of the law” to
describe the role that acts of righteousness and adherence to the Torah play
in the rabbinic understanding of deification. He reads patristic sources against
early rabbinic midrashim, suggesting that the two strains of thought are in
conversation with one another.
Rachel Elior’s essay, “From the Covenant of the Rainbow to the Covenant
at Sinai, from the Pilgrimage to the Temple to the Vision of the Chariot, from
the Blessing of the First Fruits to the Priestly Blessing, and from the Tiqqun
Leil Shavuot to the Revelation of the Shekhinah,” begins with the question of
why the festival of Shavuot, known by many names in the biblical context and
clearly described there as one of three pilgrimage festivals, is not referred to
in the Mishnah by any of its biblical names. The rabbis do not associate any
specific mitzvoth with this festival, and as Elior argues, suppress key elements
of the ancient tradition, including the time when it is to be celebrated. Elior
shows, through a discussion of a wide range of sources from the Dead Sea
Scrolls to the Zohar, that rabbinic disputes over Shavuot can be traced to a
complex polemic about the sacred calendar and who has the authority to set
the principles that would govern its cycles.
Part 2 Rebecca’s Children
The three papers in this section develop arguments Alan makes in Rebecca’s
Children, which describes the simultaneous emergence of Judaism and
Christianity from the social and political turmoil and intellectual efferves-
cence of the Mediterranean world during the Hellenistic and Roman periods.
In “Some Particulars about Universalism,” Ellen Birnbaum engages with
Alan’s argument in Rebecca’s Children that rabbinic Judaism should be con-
sidered universalist (rather than particularist) as much as Christianity tradi-
tionally is. Birnbaum challenges the very use of the terms ‘universalist’ and
‘particularist’ to describe Christianity and Judaism, respectively. She argues
that these terms are unhelpful binaries, burdened with assumptions about each
tradition (namely, that Christianity’s universalism is ‘good’ and that Judaism’s
particularism is ‘bad’), and as such, should be avoided in scholarly discourse.
She argues that these value-laden terms obscure the key questions that well-
meaning scholars intend to address: “in what specific ways are religious tradi-
tions, practices, and concepts open to others and in what specific ways are
they not open to others?” Exploring the motifs of chosenness, proselytism
Introduction To The Volume 19
and salvation in sources ranging from Hebrew Bible through New Testament,
Birnbaum demonstrates the imprecision of the terms ‘universalism’ and
‘particularism’ and shows how these generalizations lead us away from a
nuanced understanding of these traditions.
Michel Desjardins’ chapter resonates with Rebecca’s Children in his use of
the social sciences for drawing analogies that clarify aspects of ancient reli-
gion. “Imagining Jesus, with Food” draws on Desjardins’ field research explor-
ing the role food plays in the spiritual lives of contemporary religious people.
His approach is trans-historical; he argues that first-century Jews, including
Jesus, would not have been substantially different from modern-day communi-
ties when it comes to the role of food in religious life. Viewing narratives about
the life of Jesus through the lens of his own research, Desjardins meditates on
five key themes that would have been relevant to Jesus: food offerings to the
deities; dietary restrictions; fasting; food prepared for special religious occa-
sions; and charity. His reading suggests that certain themes we would assume
to be important for Jesus (feeding the hungry, for example) are not as promi-
nent in the Gospel narratives as we might expect.
In “Antiquities Children: History and Theology in Three Surveys,” Tzvee
Zahavy crosses into territory infrequently explored by scholars, asking whether
the personal religious values of the modern historian has an implicit impact
on the scholars’ construction of ancient history. Comparing Rebecca’s Children
with two other works by Jewish scholars of other denominations, Zahavy
suggests that the religious identity of each author is evident in the way they
frame their histories, projecting a contemporary framework onto the evidence
of Jewish antiquity that is both a legitimate and useful scholarly perspective.
Exploring the way each author contextualizes the ancient synagogue, the
Pharisees and Jewish sectarianism, the Temple’s destruction and apocalyptic
thought, Zahavy suggests that these key motifs are read as antecedents to the
theological worldview held by each scholar.
Part 3 Paul the Convert
Alan’s third book, Paul the Convert, considers the complex intersection of iden-
tity and belief in the case of Paul of Tarsus’s conversion or apostasy. The four
papers in this section all consider topics related to conversion, identity, and
drawing or crossing religious boundaries in early Judaism and Christianity, and
the broader Greco-Roman world. In “Giving Up the Godfearers,” Ross Kraemer
argues that the time has come for scholars of ancient Judaism to move away
from the use of the term ‘Godfearers’ to refer to the category of gentile adher-
ents to Jewish practices and beliefs. On the one hand, she points to a lack of
20 Lieber
compelling evidence to support this meaning of the term theosebes as referring

specifically to those who “fear” God. On the other hand, she suggests that as
a theoretical or conceptual construct, the category is far too broad, is replete
with scholarly projections, and actually eclipses important elements of the
complexity of religious identity in the ancient world. After a thorough discus-
sion of the ancient evidence where this term appears, Kraemer highlights the
value of considering each example of gentile participation in Jewish practice
individually and in context.
In “The Interpreter as Intertext: Origen’s First Homily on the Canticle of
Canticles,” Celia Deutsch reflects on Origen’s interpretive method in his read-
ing of Song of Songs. She suggests that the exegete uses his own experiences to
interpret the biblical text, using his autobiographical narratives as an intertext
that drives the interpretive process. Because Origen identifies himself with the
Bride in the song, Deutsch’s analysis lends itself to a discussion of the gendered
nature of Origen’s hermeneutics. She shows how the motifs of nuptial intimacy
and withdrawal that permeate the biblical text are read by Origen to symbol-
ize the nature of divine revelation itself, and are thus also a metaphor for the
interpretive process. Deutsch concludes that Origen’s homily represents a per-
formative reading of Song of Songs that models for the Cesarean community
how they might also seek God-Logos-Bridegroom through the text, and thus
become, like Origen, both interpreter and intertext.
Steve Wilson, in “Marcion and Boundaries,” considers Marcion as a key
figure in drawing the boundaries of the early Christian community, specifi-
cally positioning Marcion against Judaizing sects. He looks at the way Marcion
and his followers rejected certain mainstream markers of Christian identity,
while affirming their own communal unity by affirming a new set of ideologi-
cal commitments and practices. Wilson’s analysis focuses on Marcion’s reading
of Paul as a source for Marcion’s dualism, and explores Marcion’s attempt to
distance the early narratives of Jesus’s life and teaching from the Hebrew Bible
as a source of authority for Christians. He suggests that the social and political
context of Marcion’s work are important factors to help explain the develop-
ment of Marcion’s ideas. Responding in part to the persecution of Christians
by Rome, and also to internal tensions within the early Christian community,
Wilson positions Marcion as a disaffected believer who chose to sever Christian
ties to Judaism altogether rather than buy into the more normative narratives
of covenental supersession.
Jared Calaway explores the idea of translation as conversion in “Translation
and Transformation: The Coptic Soundscapes of The Thunder: Perfect Mind.”
A text with a particularly complex translation history, Thunder is an Egyptian
poem that survives as a Coptic copy of an earlier Coptic translation of an even
Introduction To The Volume 21
older Greek version. What is the political or cultural significance of translating

from the culturally dominant language of Greek to the more parochial Coptic?
Focusing on the text’s sonority—how the poem would have sounded to its
Coptic-speaking audience when read or performed—Calaway pays careful
attention to the poem’s literary features. He shows how alliteration, wordplay
and rhythm reveal its Coptic character, while also highlighting the sections of
the poem that seem more convincingly Greek. He concludes that the transla-
tion of Thunder into Coptic was an act of literary transformation, and that the
Coptic version merits consideration as an important work in its own right.
Part 4 Life after Death
Alan’s monumental study of beliefs about life after death demonstrates the
constructed and socially contingent nature of such views; ideas about the
afterlife reflect a community’s values and idealized vision of itself. The follow-
ing papers all touch on topics related to death and the treatment of the dead in
early Judaism and Christianity. In “Maccabees, Martyrs, Murders and Masada:
Noble Deaths and Suicide in 1 and 2 Maccabees and Josephus,” Jonathan
Klawans calls for a more nuanced and precise approach to the categories of
martyrdom and noble death in the study of ancient Judaism. He posits a typol-
ogy of noble death based on a reading of Josephus and 1 and 2 Maccabees,
and uses this typology as a lens for analyzing the Masada suicides. Klawans
derives the typology of the ‘Maccabee’ from the non-martyrological death nar-
ratives in 1 Macabees. ‘Martyr’ is a category reserved for those who elected a
premature death in service of God, as exemplified in the narratives of 2 and
4 Maccabees. ‘Murderer’ refers to a kind of sacrilegious killing that brings the
wrath of God on the community, developed most fully in Josephus, The Jewish
War. Klawans concludes that the Masada suicides do not conform well to any
of the patterns set out in his typology, suggesting in fact that they cannot be
considered noble deaths at all.
Continuing with the theme of martyrdom, but taking a different approach
in “The Lament of the Martyrs and the Literature of Destruction (Rev 6:10),”
William Morrow explores the Jewish context of the ‘martyred saints prayer’ in
Rev 6:10, drawing specifically on two Jewish literary themes he terms “rhetoric
of lament” and “literature of destruction” (following David Roskies). Reviewing
parallels in biblical and pseudepigraphic sources, he situates the lament as a
complaint against God that includes a prayer for divine justice. As literature
of destruction, the lament of the martyrs is read as an expression of mourning
for the destruction of the community of faith, exemplified in the martyrdom
22 Lieber
of the saints. This analysis provides rich literary context for appreciating the
emotional depth of the text.
Jeffrey Rubenstein, in “A Rabbinic Translation of Relics,” presents an analy-
sis of two rabbinic accounts of the death and burial of R. Eleazar b. R. Shimon
found in Pesiqta d’Rav Kahana and the Babylonian Talmud. Rubenstein shows
how elements of these narratives that seem unusual in the context of rabbinic
sources are illuminated when read against the background of Christian prac-
tices related to the death and burial of martyrs, specifically the cult of relics.
Drawing on the work of Peter Brown, Rubenstein shows that the ancient prac-
tice of the translation of relics sheds light on perplexing aspects of the rabbinic
account, in particular the conflict recorded over the possession of R. Eleazar b.
R. Shimon’s corpse and the location of his burial.
Part 5 Sinning in the Hebrew Bible
Alan’s final and posthumous book, Sinning in the Hebrew Bible, consid-
ers stories about egregious immoral acts in accounts from Genesis and the
Deuteronomic History. The chapters in this section also discuss themes related
to morality, theology, and theodicy. Jacob Neusner’s essay, “The Golden Rule in
Classical Judaism,” begins with a reflection on challenges of the comparative
method in the academic study of religion, a project that was near and dear to
Alan. Neusner proposes that a principle or proposition that is shared by mul-
tiple religious systems does not play a significant role in the construction of
any particular religious system. He tests this theory through consideration
of ‘the Golden Rule’ in Jewish thought. On the one hand, rabbinic discourse
gives the Golden Rule such centrality as to posit it as equivalent to the whole
of the Torah itself. Yet, Neusner shows that in applied practice, the Golden Rule
does not have the weight the rhetorical tradition gives it.
In “From Theodicy to Anti-Theodicy: Midrashic Accusations of God’s
Disobedience to Biblical Law,” Adam Gregerman studies the theme of anti-
theodicy in the Midrash on Lamentations. In a departure from other scholarly
readings of midrashim that emphasize the articulation of traditional theodicy
and the affirmation of God’s ultimate righteousness, Gregerman instead dem-
onstrates an anti-theodic trend that challenges a worldview that blames the
Jews for their own suffering. While he does not deny the prominence of theod-
icy in midrashic literature, Gregerman identifies an important trend in which
some rabbis were willing to accuse God of profound injustice. The complex-
ity that Gregerman brings out is the way in which this rebuke of God in fact
co-exists with an ongoing relationship of faith.
Part 1
Two Powers in Heaven
(Heavenly Ascent and Angelification)
∵
CHAPTER 1
The Self-Glorification Hymn from Qumran

John J. Collins
Fellowship with the angels is a fairly common motif in the sectarian writings
from Qumran, especially in the Hodayot, but we do not find in the Scrolls any
accounts of ascent to heaven, other than the pseudepigraphic accounts of the
ascents of Enoch and Levi, which are presumably older texts inherited by
the sect. Consequently, the question of mysticism in the Scrolls has been con-
troversial. The objection is often raised that the Scrolls do not attest to a mysti-
cal praxis, or any rituals associated with ascent to heaven. There is, however,
one text that has been thought to provide evidence of a practice of ascent.
A fragmentary text known as the Self-Glorification Hymn has been taken,
by such a sober critic as Philip Alexander, to show “that there was an active
practice of ascent within the Qumran community. Ascent was not just some-
thing done by certain spiritual superheroes in the past (though their example
was important in showing it was possible), but something that could still be
achieved in the here and now. . . . The ascension in the Self-Glorification Hymn
is not just a case of celestial tourism, viewing the wonders of heaven, and
receiving prophetic and/or priestly commission. It involves transformation—
angelification or apotheosis.”1 But the text itself is quite enigmatic, even apart
from its fragmentary nature.
1 The Textual Evidence
The discussion of the Self-Glorification Hymn involves four fragmentary texts,

and these are commonly divided into two recensions.2 One of these texts was
part of the Hodayot scroll from Qumran Cave 1, but only small fragments sur-
vive, and its significance was not apparent until the other copies had been pub-
lished. The first copy to attract scholarly attention was 4Q491 11 (or 4Q491c).
1 Philip Alexander, The Mystical Texts, LSTS 61 (London: T&T Clark, 2006), 90.
2 The fullest edition is that of Michael O. Wise, “‫מי כמוני באלים‬: A Study of 4Q491c, 4Q471b,
4Q427 7 and 1QHa 25:35–26:10,” DSD 7 (2000): 173–219. For a useful synopsis of 4Q471b, 4Q427
7 and 4Q491 11, with minimal reconstruction, see Devorah Dimant, “A Synoptic Comparison
of Parallel Sections in 4Q427 7, 4Q491 11 and 4Q471B,” JQR 85 (1994): 157–61.

26 Collins
This was published by Maurice Baillet in Discoveries in the Judean Desert 7

in 1982, as part of the War Scroll, and dubbed “The Canticle of Michael and
the Canticle of the Just.”3 The text spoke of a throne in the council of the gods,
and the speaker claimed to dwell, or to have taken a seat, in heaven. Baillet
assumed that such exalted claims could only be made by an angel. Hence
the title, “Canticle of Michael.” At a conference at New York University in
May, 1985, Morton Smith directed his scathing criticism at Baillet’s interpreta-
tion. An archangel, Smith reasoned, would not need to boast. He had been
created an archangel and doubtless took his throne in the heavens for granted.
This parvenu not only boasts of his throne, but in doing so makes clear that he
was not originally at home in the heavens. He was “reckoned” with the “gods.”4
Consequently, the speaker must be an exalted human being. Smith regarded
this finding as indirect support for his argument that Jesus of Nazareth had
also engaged in similar practices.
The other copies of the text came to light in the 1990s. In 1994 Eileen Schuller
published a fragment of a Hodayot scroll, 4Q427, fragment 7, which contains
phrases reminiscent of, or even identical with, phrases in 4Q491c.5 She also
drew attention to similar phrases in a very fragmentary hymn in 1QHa 26:6–14.
Martin Abegg then argued that 4Q491c was not part of the War Rule, but was
related to the Hodayot.6 Finally, 4Q471b, which had also been classified as part
of the War Rule, was published by Esti Eshel.7 In collaboration with Hartmut
3 Maurice Baillet, Qumrân Grotte 4.III (4Q482–4Q520), DJD VII (Oxford: Clarendon, 1982),
26–29.
4 Morton Smith, “Ascent to the Heavens and Deification in 4QMa,” in Archaeology and History
in the Dead Sea Scrolls: The New York University Conference in Memory of Yigael Yadin, ed.
Lawrence H. Schiffman, JSPSup 8/ASOR Monographs Series 2 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990),
181–88 (186).
5 Eileen Schuller, “A Hymn from a Cave Four Hodayot Manuscript: 4Q427 7 i+ii,” JBL 112 (1993):
605–28. See now the official edition of 4Q427: Eileen Schuller, “427. 4QHodayota,” in Qumran
Cave 4. XX. Poetical and Liturgical Texts Part 2, ed. Esther Chazon et al., DJD XXIX (Oxford:
Clarendon, 1999), 77–124 (96–108).
6 Martin G. Abegg Jr., “Who Ascended to Heaven? 4Q491, 4Q427, and the Teacher of
Righteousness,” in Eschatology, Messianism, and the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. Craig A. Evans
and Peter W. Flint, Studies in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Related Literature 1 (Grand Rapids:
Eerdmans, 1997), 61–73, especially 64–70. See also Abegg’s comments on 4Q491c in Michael
Wise, Martin Abegg Jr. and Edward Cook, The Dead Sea Scrolls: A New Translation (San
Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1996), 167–8.
7 Esther Eshel, “4Q471b: A Self-Glorification Hymn,” RevQ 17 (1996): 176–203. See now the offi-
cial edition of 4Q471b: Esther Eshel, “471b. 4QSelf-Glorification Hymn (=4QHe frg. 1?),” in
Chazon et al., Qumran Cave 4, 421–32.
The Self-glorification Hymn From Qumran 27
Stegemann she also discovered another fragment pertaining to this manu-

script, 4Q431, which was part of the Hodayot.8
The three Hodayot manuscripts (4Q427, 4Q431 and 1QHa 26) are clearly
manuscripts of the same text. The relationship of 4Q491c to these manuscripts
is not so close. Most scholars regard it as a different recension of the same
composition.9 Florentino García Martínez has questioned whether it belongs
to the same text at all.10 He acknowledges that there are some common expres-
sions, and a common theme of self-exaltation, but he argues that these only
require a generic relationship. In my own view, the common elements are
explained more satisfactorily by a genetic relationship, but the point is not
of decisive importance. Even a different recension may have had a different
literary setting and be understood in a different way. The only evidence link-
ing 4Q491c to the Hodayot consists of the parallels to the other Self-Exaltation
texts. Baillet had associated it with other fragments relating to the eschato-
logical war. Abegg argued persuasively that the fragments collected in 4Q491
reflect two distinct hands (4Q491 a and b).11 He also argued that the height
of the lines in 4Q491c was different from that of the rest of 4Q491b, but the
difference is only 0.2 mm. The main reason for detaching 4Q491c from the
War fragments was thematic: there is nothing like the Self-Exaltation Hymn
in 1QM.12 García Martínez argues that it is safer to regard it as part of the same
manuscript as 4Q491b, which is in the same hand, so that its literary context is
the eschatological war.13 But the point is not proven either way. Even a single
manuscript can contain distinct compositions. The fragments of 4Q491c do
not contain any fragments relating to the eschatological war. The relationship
to the War texts is not decisively disproven, but it is not proven either.
8 See the edition of 4Q431 by Eileen Schuller, “431.4Q Hodayote,” in Chazon et al., Qumran
Cave 4, 199–208.
9 Wise, “‫מי כמוני באלים‬,” 213–5, argues that 4Q491c is the older recension. Eshel, “4Q471b:
A Self-Glorification Hymn,” 201, suggested that it was the later recension.
10 Florentino García Martínez, “Old Texts and Modern Mirages: The ‘I’ of Two Qumran
Hymns,” in Qumranica Minora I. Qumran Origins and Apocalypticism. by Florentino García
Martínez, ed. Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar, STDJ 63 (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 105–25 (114–8). See also
his longer treatment, “Ángel, hombre, Mesías, Maestro de Justicia? El Problemático ‘Yo’
de un Poema Qumránico,” in Plenitudo Temporis. Miscelánea Homenaje al Prof. Dr. Ramón
Trevijano Etcheverría, ed. J. J. Fernández Sangrador and S. Guijarro Oporto, Bibliotheca
Salmanticensis, Estudios 249 (Salamanca: Universidad Pontificia, 2002), 103–31.
11 Abegg, “Who Ascended to Heaven?” 64–60. 4Q491a corresponds to 1QM 14. 4Q491b echoes
passages in 1QM but has no parallels longer than a few words.
12 Abegg, “Who Ascended to Heaven?” 69.
13 García Martínez, “Old Texts and Modern Mirages,” 114.
28 Collins
The text in 4Q491 begins with references to the awesome deeds of God, and
refers to the rejoicing of the holy ones in the third person (either indicative or
jussive). The reference in vs. 4 to “the council of the humble for an everlasting
congregation” is typical of the claims of transformation in the Hodayot, and it
suggests that the hymn relates in some way to the experience of the commu-
nity. We do not have the beginning of the passage in the 4Q491 manuscript. We
do appear to have it in 1QHa, in very fragmentary form. It begins ‫למשכיל מזמור‬.
The text of the two manuscripts is not identical, but both have a section deal-
ing with the praise of God.
In 4Q491c line 5 we have a reference to “a mighty throne in the council
of the gods” on which certain kings and nobles may not sit. This is followed
by a series of quite immodest claims in the first person: “None can compare
to my glory; no one is exalted except me. . . . I am reckoned with the gods, and
my dwelling is in the holy council.” In vs. 6 we find the words ‫ אני ישבתי‬fol-
lowed after a gap by a word that is plausibly reconstructed as ‫בשמים‬. (Baillet
actually joined a fragment with the word ‫ בשמים‬at this point, and this has been
accepted by most scholars, but it is disputed by Wise, although Wise restores
the word anyway).14 This lends itself to the interpretation that the speaker
is seated on the mighty throne, but it could mean I have made my abode,
or I dwell. The word ‫ ישבתי‬is partly preserved in 4Q471/4Q431, but this phrase
is not fully preserved in any of the manuscripts.
In addition to these claims of exaltation, the speaker makes a number of
other striking statements: “my desire is not of the flesh.” We might contrast the
sons of God in the Book of the Watchers, whose desire was of the flesh, but we
need not infer that the speaker is an angel. Rather, like Enoch, he could be a
human being who wants to be with the angels.
‫מ]יא לבוז נחשב ביא‬: who has been accounted contemptible like me (or on
account of me?). 4Q471/431 reads ‫ כמוני‬at the end. If it is construed correctly as
“like me,” it brings to mind the servant in Isaiah 53, who was ‫נבזה ולוא חשבנהו‬,
“despised, and we did not esteem him.” There are also many allusions to this
poem in the so-called Teacher Hymns (1QHa 10–16), to which we will return
below.15 The servant also is exalted in the end. Whether the 4Q491 text should
be understood in light of the Hodayot recension is disputed, however. It is pos-
sible that the preposition ‫ ביא‬should be understood as “on account of me.”
In that case, the speaker need not himself have been subjected to contempt.
14 Wise, “‫מי כמוני באלים‬,” 180.

15 See especially Michael O. Wise, The First Messiah. Investigating the Savior before Christ
(San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1999), 290.
The following verse, vs. 9, however, favors the view that the speaker has
endured some humiliation. It reads “who bears afflictions (‫ )צערים‬like me?”
The word ‫ צערים‬does not occur in Isaiah 53, but the theme is the same. But
here again the preceding word has to be restored, and it is conceivable that the
passage read “who takes away griefs like me.”
“[Y]et who compares to me for [la]ck of evil.” The word ‫חדל‬, which is
restored in 4Q491, is clear in 4Q471, but there the word ‫ רע‬has to be joined from
another fragment, and there may be some space between the two words. The
servant in Isa 53:3 was ‫נבזה וחדל אישים‬, “despised and lacking among men.”
Esti Eshel restores ‫ חדל [אישים ומי יסבול] רע‬in 4Q471 (“lacking [among men,
and who bears] evil”) but there is not enough space for all those letters.16 She
restores ‫“( מי יסבו]ל רע‬who bears evil”) in 4Q491, and this makes a good parallel
with “who bears afflictions” but it does not account for the use of ‫ חדל‬in 4Q471.
Eileen Schuller translates “and there ceases evil.”17 Yet another possibility is to
take ‫ רע‬as a friend, a sense in which the word is used in this text, so “who lacks
a friend as I do?” This latter construal might again echo Isaiah 53, ‫חדל אישים‬,
but is less likely in view of the author’s insistence that God is his friend and the
angels, or elim, are his companions.
4Q491c lines 9–11 refer to the speaker’s prowess as teacher or as judge. “Never
have I been instructed” (‫)אין נשניתי‬18 and no teaching . . . who will arraign me,19
and compare with my judgment?” The ground for such boasting is “my station
is with the gods,20 my glory abides with the sons of the king.” In 4Q472/4Q431
the speaker claims to be “beloved of the King, a friend to the Holy Ones,” and
so none can oppose him.
At 4Q491c line 12, there is a transition, marked by a large ‫ל‬, followed by a call
to the righteous to proclaim. Wise has persuasively argued that the ‫ ל‬should be
understood as the first letter of a new composition. It is a preposition, normally
attached to the following word (in this case ‫מלך‬, compare 4Q427 7 i 13), but
separated out here to mark the transition.21 There is no such transition marker
in the Hodayot recension. The second composition begins with an imperative
16 Esther Eshel, “The Identification of the ‘Speaker’ of the Self-Glorification Hymn,” in
The Provo International Conference on the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. Donald W. Parry and
Eugene Ulrich, STDJ 30 (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 619–35 (620).
17 Schuller, “427. 4QHodayota,” in Chazon et al., Qumran Cave 4 99.
18 On the anomalous Hebrew, see Wise, “‫מי כמוני באלים‬,” 190. Cf. Job 35:18.
19 Cf. Job 9:19.
20 So also 4Q427 7 i 11.
21 Wise, “‫מי כמוני באלים‬,” 192–3. He cites parallels from 4Q22 (4QpaleoExodm) where
enlarged waws are so used.
30 Collins
‫זמרו‬, “sing hymns,” in 4Q471 and 4Q427. Wise infers that in the Hodayot recen-
sion, the two compositions have become a single hymn.22 The title of the
addressees is preserved in 4Q427, but there it is ‫ידידים‬, beloved, rather than
‫ צדיקים‬righteous ones. The term ‫ ידידים‬picks up on the singular ‫ ידיד‬a few lines
before: “I am beloved of the king.” While very little of this canticle is preserved,
it is clear that the addressees are being exhorted to sing praise to “the king.”
Two issues are crucial to the interpretation of this text. First, what is the
relation of the first-person passage to the hymnic material that precedes and
follows it? Second, who is the speaker in the first-person section?
2 The Relation to the Hymnic Material
In the Hodayot recension, at least, the composition is designated as a ‫ מזמור‬for

the ‫משכיל‬. In the context of the Scrolls, the Maskil is most probably a sectar-
ian leader, although the word could have a more general sense. In the imme-
diate context, he must at least be a leader of a congregation in praise. Wise
argues that “the term ‫ מזמור‬should be taken in its full etymological sense. In the
Hodayot redaction this poem was sung or chanted, perhaps accompanied by
musical instruments.”23 If the psalm, in its Hodayot recension, is intended for
liturgical use, then it can presumably be recited by different people on differ-
ent occasions. Even the 4Q491 manuscript indicates a hymnic context (“let the
holy ones rejoice,” line 2). This hymnic context is strengthened in the Hodayot
redaction, where the second composition is fused with the first one, so that the
hymn both begins and ends with communal praise.
Wise draws a direct inference about the speaker in the first-person sec-
tion from the context of communal praise: “each individual member of the
user group spoke of himself or herself. At least by the stage of the Hodayot
redaction, they declaimed in unison and chanted, singing of their singular
significance at the behest of a worship leader, the Maskil. Even the structure
of 4Q491c seems to require that a group recited the first-person speech con-
tained in the short form of the Canticle. The rhetorical effect of a group recit-
ing first-person narrative with substantial theological content must have been
quasi-credal.”24 The idea that the exaltation of the first-person speaker is com-
munal, or something that can be shared by all members of the community,

derives some support from 4Q521 2 ii 7, which says that God will “honor the
pious on the throne of an eternal kingdom.”
But even if we grant the liturgical use of this composition, it does not follow
that each member of the community spoke of himself. It may be helpful here
to recall the biblical hymns of thanksgiving, of which the Hodayot are an adap-
tation.25 The classic psalm of thanksgiving may be illustrated by Psalm 118.
The psalm begins with a call to give thanks, then an affirmation that the Lord
answered the psalmist’s prayer “and set me in a broad place.” This is followed
by several affirmations of the value of trust in the Lord. There is a somewhat
vague description of distress (“all the nations surrounded me”). The fact that
the enemies are nations suggests that the speaker is the king. The psalmist
confesses that the Lord has punished him but gives thanks that he was not
given over to death. There are indications of a procession to the temple: “Open
to me the gates of righteousness,” (Ps 118:19), “bind the festal procession with
branches” (118:27). In Psalm 118:22–27 the speaker is in the plural. (“This is the
day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it”). The psalm concludes
with another call to give thanks to the Lord for he is good. The psalmist appar-
ently goes to the temple in procession with friends, and they participate in
the thanks and praise, but the focus is on the deliverance of an individual.
Similarly, Psalm 30 is a psalm of thanksgiving of an individual (“for you have
drawn me up and did not let my foes rejoice over me”), but there is a call to “his
faithful ones” to join in giving praise to the Lord.
The Self-Exaltation Hymn is not properly a thanksgiving psalm—the
speaker does not admit that he ever needed to be rescued. The point of analogy
for our purpose is that the psalms show that people can be called on to praise
God for the deliverance or exaltation of another. We cannot safely assume that
everyone who joins in the praise is thinking of him- or herself. Rather, as Philip
Alexander also argues, the speaker is “someone special. His experience is not
something that anyone can achieve, though he can still lead others into a state
of closer communion with the heavenly host.”26
Wise also admits that the claims made in the first-person section of this
hymn “are too specific to one person’s situation, too individualistic, to have
been a group’s self-designation ab origine. What group, for example, each and
25 John J. Collins, “Amazing Grace: The Transformation of the Thanksgiving Hymn at
Qumran,” in Psalms in Community: Jewish and Christian Textual, Liturgical, and Artistic
Traditions, ed. Harold W. Attridge and Margot E. Fassler, SBL Symposium Series
25 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2003), 75–85.
26 Alexander, The Mystical Texts, 88.
32 Collins
every one, could stake a literal claim to teaching beyond compare?”27 But if the
claims are those of an individual, who might that individual be?
3 The Identity of the Individual
The first editor of this text, Maurice Baillet, dubbed it a “Canticle of Michael.”
He only hinted at his reasoning: “commentaire de son nom.”28 The passage that
most readily suggests a play on Michael’s name is found only in the Hodayot
recension, ‫מי כמוני באלים‬, “who is like me among the gods.” Baillet thought the
fragment pertained to the War Rule, and in 1QM 17 it is Michael’s authority
that is lifted up among the ‫( אלים‬1QM 17:7). Morton Smith’s objection that an
archangel would not need to boast about being reckoned among the elim is
not decisive. The speaker claims to be greater than the elim, not less.29 Baillet’s
suggestion was not as ridiculous as Morton Smith made it seem. If the text is
read in the context of the eschatological war, Michael is the only figure who
is said to be exalted among the elim. If the text is not read in the context of the
war, this argument loses its force. Nonetheless, Smith’s objection seems to me
to carry some weight. The more significant objection to the identification with
Michael lies in the references to bearing contempt and evil. But as we have
seen, these passages in 4Q491 require restoration, although the case is stronger
in the Hodayot recension. Also the references to teaching are hardly appropri-
ate for Michael.30
Perhaps the most obvious candidate for identification with the Speaker
is the Teacher of Righteousness, in light of the references to the speaker’s
teaching and legal ability.31 Of course we know very little about the Teacher,
unless we ascribe to him the so-called Teacher Hymns (1QHa, cols. 10–16).
While the authorship of these hymns cannot be proven beyond doubt, they
constitute a distinctive bloc of material within the Hodayot in which a figure
with a distinctive voice claims that God has made himself great through him
27 Wise, “‫ ”מי כמוני באלים‬218.

28 Maurice Baillet, “Les manuscripts de la Règle de la Guerre de grotte 4 de Qumrân,” RB 79
(1972): 217–26.
29 See the defence of the identification with Michael by García Martínez, “Old Texts and
Modern Mirages,” 122–24.
30 García Martínez, “Old Texts and Modern Mirages,” 121, questions whether a teaching func-
tion is implied: “the reading of ‫ והוריה‬in 4Q491 is most uncertain.”
31 So Abegg, “Who Ascended to Heaven?” This interpretation is also viewed sympathetically
by Alexander, The Mystical Texts, 89. Wise, “‫מי כמוני באלים‬,” 418, argues that the singular
voice is that of the Teacher, but that it is appropriated by the entire community.
(‫)הגבירך בי‬.32 This figure is evidently a teacher: he claims, “through me you

have enlightened the face of many” (1QHa 12.27). He also complains of adver-
sity, and complains repeatedly that other, false teachers have rejected him.
There are several points of contact between these hymns and the references
to the Teacher of Righteousness in the Pesharim,33 and so the hypothesis that
these are hymns of the Teacher is an economical one, even if it is not strictly
necessary. The question is, then, whether the speaker in the Teacher Hymns is
the same as the speaker in the Self-Exaltation Hymn.
The speaker in the Teacher Hymns also claims to have been exalted to the
heavenly realm: “I thank you, Lord, because you saved my life from the pit, and
from the Sheol of Abaddon have lifted me up to an everlasting height, so that
I can walk on a boundless plain. And I know that there is hope for someone you
fashioned out of dust for an everlasting community. The depraved spirit
you have purified from great offence so that he can take a place with the host
of the holy ones, and can enter in communion with the congregation of the
sons of heaven” (1QHa 11.19–22). Moreover, he complains that he has suffered
rejection, and he does so in terms that recall the Servant Songs in Isaiah. So, for
example, 1QHa 16.26–7: “I sojourn with sickness and my heart is stricken with
afflictions. I am like a man forsaken.” In 1QHa 12.8, and again in 12.23, he com-
plains that “they do not esteem me” using the verb ‫ חשב‬that is used in Isa 53:3,
“despised, and we did not esteem him.” The speaker in the Self-Exaltation
Hymn asks, “who has been accounted contemptible like me?” In 1QHa 15:10 the
speaker says “my tongue is like your disciples,” recalling Isa 50:4, “the Lord God
has given me a disciple’s tongue” (‫)לשון למודים‬. Wise argues that towards the
end of the Teacher Hymns the teacher “came to speak of himself as the Servant
of the Lord in concentrated fashion. He made allusion after allusion to the pas-
sages of Isaiah that modern scholars designate Servant Songs and others to
portions that might easily be so construed.”34 Even if some of his examples are
thematic rather than verbal, the correspondences are considerable.35 As we
have seen, the Self-Exaltation Hymn is often restored to say that the speaker
32 See especially Michael Douglas, “The Teacher Hymn Hypothesis Revisited: New Data for
an Old Crux,” DSD 6 (1999): 239–66.
33 Philip. R. Davies, “History and Hagiography,” in Beyond the Essenes: History and Ideology in
the Dead Sea Scrolls, BJS 94 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987), 87–105. Davies argues that the
pesharim depend on the Hodayot.
34 Wise, The First Messiah, 290.
35 See my more detailed assessment of Wise’s argument, “A Messiah before Jesus?” in
Christian Beginnings and the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. John J. Collins and Craig A. Evans
(Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2006), 15–35, especially 22–23.
34 Collins
has been despised or borne evil. If these restorations are correct, they give
some substance to the proposal that the speaker in the Self-Exaltation Hymn
is the Teacher.
But there are also significant differences between the claims made in the
Teacher Hymns and what we find in the Self-Exaltation Hymn. While the speaker
in the Teacher Hymns claims to have been lifted up, and entered into commu-
nion with the sons of heaven, he has first been “purified from great offence”
(1QHa 11.21). He asks, “I a creature of clay, what am I? Mixed with water, as whom
shall I be considered? What is my strength? For I find myself at the boundary
of wickedness and share the lot of the scoundrels” (11.24–5). Or again, “And I,
dread and dismay have gripped me, all my bones have fractured, my heart has
melted like wax in front of the fire, my knees give way like water which flows
down a slope, for I have remembered my guilty deed with the unfaithfulness of
my ancestors. . . .” (12.33–34). There is no such self-doubt in the Self-Exaltation
Hymn. While the Teacher Hymns contrast the weakness of flesh with the
wondrous counsel of God (11.28–29), the speaker in 4Q491c 7 insists that his
desire is not of flesh. The speaker in 1QHa 15.28–9 asks in good biblical fashion,
“who is like you, O Lord, among the gods?36 Who is like your truth? Who is just
before you when he is judged? No spirit can reply to your reproach, no host
can stand up against your anger.” In contrast, the Self-Exaltation Hymn seems
almost blasphemous: “who is like me among the gods?” (4Q471 7 4); “who
can summon me and compare with my judgment” (4Q491c 10). The author of
the Teacher hymns never boasts that no one can compare with him in glory,
or with his teaching. Morton Smith, who “thinks immediately of the author
of the Hodayot,” concluded that “this speaker’s claim to have been taken up
and seated in heaven and counted as one of the gods (‘elim) is more direct and
explicit than anything I recall in the Hodayot or in any other of the Dead Sea
documents.”37 Despite the possible echoes of the Servant Songs, it is difficult
to imagine that the author of the Teacher Hymns also wrote the Self-Exaltation
Hymn. It should be noted that the most extreme claim, “who is like me among
the gods?” is found in the Hodayot recension.
Other attributions are possible, although none is conclusive. One attractive
possibility is that this hymn may have been put on the Teacher’s lips after his
death, in celebration of his triumphant exaltation. Wise argues that the redac-
tor who inserted this hymn into the Hodayot meant for the reader or user to
36 Exod 15:11.

37 Smith, “Ascent to the Heavens,” 187.
think of the Teacher Hymns, and so of the Teacher himself.38 The lack of any
self-doubt, or expression of unworthiness, might be more intelligible if the
claims were being made on behalf of a person who was already exalted. In
4QH this hymn comes at the end of the community hymns. The Self-Exaltation
Hymn could be read as a capstone of the Hodayot, expressing the final vindica-
tion and exaltation of the persona of the other hymns.
Another possibility is that this hymn was authored not by the Teacher of
Righteousness, but by another, later and less modest, sectarian teacher. This
possibility has been argued especially by Israel Knohl, who even identified
the individual in question as Menahem the Essene, who greeted the young
Herod as “king of the Jews” according to Josephus.39 Knohl identifies this
Menahem as “the king’s friend” of the Self-Exaltation Hymn, but the king in the
hymn is clearly God. Knohl’s proposal has been widely criticized, and involves
numerous questionable inferences.40
Yet another possibility, which I myself proposed and was further argued by
Esti Eshel, is that the figure in question is not an actual historical being at all,
but an eschatological figure, the one who would “teach righteousness at the end
of days,” according to CD 6:11, or the “Interpreter of the Law” who would arise
with the Branch of David in the last days according to 4QFlorilegium (4Q174)
1.11, or the eschatological High Priest, who would also have a teaching function.41
The identification of the speaker in the Self-Exaltation Hymn as an eschato-
logical figure might seem to be precluded by his need for endurance and the
contempt he suffers. But an analogy can be found in a fragmentary Aramaic
text, 4Q541, which speaks of a figure who “will atone for all the children of his
generation,” and is accordingly thought to be the eschatological High Priest.42
The description brings to mind the prediction of an eschatological High
38 Wise, “‫מי כמוני באלים‬,” 218. Peter Schäfer, The Origins of Jewish Mysticism (Tübingen: Mohr
Siebeck, 2009), 150, goes farther: “some kind of Teacher of Righteousness redivivus: the
founder of the sect who was imagined by his later followers as elevated into heaven and
expected to return at the end of time as the priestly Messiah in order to lead the members
of the community in a final battle.” This rather fantastic scenario goes far beyond the
evidence of the text, and is reminiscent of the early theories of Dupont-Sommer.
39 Israel Knohl, The Messiah before Jesus: The Suffering Servant of the Dead Sea Scrolls.
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000). On Menahem the Essene, see Josephus,
Ant. 15.372–9; Knohl, The Messiah before Jesus, 54–5.
40 See my review of Knohl’s book in JQR 91 (2000): 185–90, reprinted in Collins and Evans,
Christian Beginnings and the Dead Sea Scrolls, 37–44.
41 John J. Collins, The Scepter and the Star (New York: Doubleday, 1995), 148; Eshel,
“The Identification of the ‘Speaker,’ ” 635.
42 See Collins, The Scepter and the Star, 88–9.
36 Collins
Priest in the Testament of Levi, chapter 18.43 This figure is also a teacher: “his
words are like the words of heaven, and his teaching is in accordance with the
will of God. His eternal sun will shine, and his light will be kindled in all the
corners of the earth; and it will shine on the darkness.” (Compare T. Levi 18:4:
“He will shine as the sun on the earth and will remove all darkness from under
heaven. . . .”). But the Aramaic text also speaks of adversity: “They will speak
many words against him, and they will invent many [lie]s and falsehoods
against him, and speak shameful things about him. Evil will overthrow his gen-
eration. . . . His situation will be one of lying and violence and people will go
astray in his days and be confounded.” The priest in question, like the royal
messiah, is expected to have an earthly career, in which he will endure adver-
sity, but triumph in the end. To some degree, this future figure is imagined by
analogy with the historical Teacher, and the historical figure prefigures the one
who will teach righteousness at the end of days.44
The idea that the eschatological, or ideal, High Priest would have angelic
status derives support from 1QSb, the Scroll of Blessings.45 The blessing of
the chief priest reads: “May you be as an Angel of the Presence in the Abode
of Holiness to the glory of God. . . . May y]ou attend upon the service in the
Temple of the Kingdom and decree destiny in company with the Angels of
Presence, in common council [with the holy ones for] everlasting ages.” No
other text, however, suggests that the eschatological High Priest should be
exalted above the elim.
Philip Alexander, who favors authorship by the Teacher, cautions that “we
should probably not distinguish too sharply between historical and eschato-
logical contexts here.”46 In effect, he tries to accommodate all the interpreta-
tions that have been proposed, except for Michael:
43 See especially Emile Puech, “Fragments d’un apocryphe de Lévi et le personage escha-
tologique. 4QTest Lévic–d et 4QAJa,” in The Madrid Qumran Congress, ed. Julio Trebolle
Barrera and Luis Vegas Montaner (Leiden: Brill, 1992), 2.449–501.
44 This is disputed by Emile Puech, “540–541. 4QApocryphe de Lévia–b? ar: Introduction,”
in Qumrân Grotte 4. XXII. Textes Araméens Première Partie. 4Q529–549, DJD 31 (Oxford:
Clarendon, 2001), 215, who argues that the text was composed before the time of the
Teacher. He dates the manuscripts about 100 BCE.
45 The precise addressee of this blessing is disputed. See Eshel, “The Identification of the
‘Speaker,’ ” 633. The fact that this scroll also includes, in col. 5, a blessing for the “prince of
the congregation,” that he may “establish the kingdom of his people forever” suggests that
the referent here is the eschatological High Priest.
If we assume that the original Self-Glorification Hymn was composed by

the Teacher of Righteousness, who, in the manner of his ancestor Levi,
established his priestly and prophetic credentials within the community
by an ascent to heaven, then it would make sense to see each successive
Maskil as reaffirming the Teacher’s experience, and as demonstrating in
his own right his fitness to lead the community. And in doing so he would
be anticipating the eschatological high priest who would finally and
permanently achieve angelic priestly status in all its fullness at the end
of days.47
4 Ascent to Heaven?
Like Morton Smith, Alexander assumes that the author of this text claimed
to have made a round trip to heaven: “If the speaker did ascend to heaven,
his sojourn was clearly temporary. Like a sailor returning from a voyage to a
distant land, he has come back to tell the tale (4Q491c 1 8).”48 Alexander relies
here on Baillet’s reconstruction of the text, at a point where it is now dis-
puted. Baillet and Smith read a reference to seafarers in line 8, but Wise claims
that Baillet misjoined a fragment at this point.49 There are some accounts of
temporary ascents to heaven in the Dead Sea Scrolls (most notably those
of Enoch and Levi).50 These are attributed to famous ancient, legendary per-
sons, not to members of the ‫ יחד‬or their contemporaries. A relevant precedent
can be found in the claims of Hebrew prophets to have stood in the council of
the Lord, and the ascent of Levi has paradigmatic relevance for later priests.
Alexander interprets the supposed ascent in line with these precedents: “The
ascent on the face of it functions as a prophetic commissioning: the speaker
acquires heavenly knowledge, which, in accordance with the foreordained
purposes of God, he brings back to his community.”51 But no Hebrew prophet
claims to have a throne in heaven, or to be reckoned with the gods, and the
Self-Exaltation Hymn does not describe any act of commissioning. Rather,
the focus is on the exaltation, even transformation, of the speaker. Moreover,

50 For a maximal review of the evidence, see James R. Davila, “Heavenly Ascents in the Dead
Sea Scrolls,” in The Dead Sea Scrolls after Fifty Years: A Comprehensive Assessment, ed. Peter
W. Flint and James C. VanderKam (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 2.461–85.
38 Collins
it is not at all clear to me that the reference here is to a temporary sojourn

in heaven. If the supposed speaker is indeed the Teacher, the reference may
be to his exaltation after death. In that case, later teachers, or other mem-
bers of the community, could only claim the experience proleptically. If the
presumed speaker is the Teacher at the end of days, then the experience is
entirely proleptic.
Exaltation to the angelic realm is the destiny of the righteous after death
in several Jewish apocalypses. This is the implication in Dan 12, where the
maskilim are said to shine like the stars. The association with the angelic host
is explicit in the Epistle of Enoch (1 Enoch 104:2, 4, 6). It is often said that this
future expectation is actualized, or claimed as a present experience, in the
Hodayot, not only in the Teacher Hymns (e.g., 1QHa 11:19–23) but also in
the Community Hymns (e.g., 1QHa 19:10–14).52 The sectarian can “become
united (‫ )יחד‬with the sons of your truth and in the lot with your holy ones . . . so
that he can take his place in your presence with the perpetual host.” This fel-
lowship with the angels is normally understood in a liturgical context. The sec-
tarians join with the angels in the divine praise. Even the Songs of the Sabbath
Sacrifice should be understood in this way. The community may be transported
to heaven in spirit to join the angelic choir, but there is no description of the
process of ascent through the heavens, such as we find in the apocalypses, and
no question of heavenly enthronement.
As we have seen, the Self-Exaltation Hymn implies a level of exaltation and
glorification that goes beyond any of this. If we are correct in assuming that the
speaker claims to sit on the “mighty throne in the congregation of the gods,” he
is in select company. The paradigm case for the view that the visionary ascent
had its goal in heavenly enthronement is provided by Enoch in Sefer Hekalot
or 3 Enoch. Rabbi Ishmael relates that when he ascended on high to behold
the vision of the chariot he was greeted by Metatron, who has several names,
including Enoch son of Jared. Metatron tells him how he was taken up from
the generation of the Flood, and how “the Holy One, blessed be he, made for
me (Metatron) a throne like the throne of glory” (10:1). Sefer Hekalot, how-
ever, is several centuries later than the Dead Sea Scrolls. Even then, enthrone-
ment in heaven had its dangers. When Aher came to behold the chariot and
saw Metatron he exclaimed “there are indeed two powers in heaven.” Then
Metatron was given sixty lashes of fire and made to stand on his feet (16:1–5).53
52 See further John J. Collins, Apocalypticism in the Dead Sea Scrolls (London: Routledge,
1997), 110–129.
53 Philip Alexander, “3 (Hebrew Apocalypse of) Enoch,” OTP 1.268.
There were, however, several older traditions in which people other than
God were said to be enthroned in heaven.54 Most obvious is Psalm 110, where
the figure who is invited to sit on the Lord’s right hand is not only a king, but
also a priest, after the order of Melchizedek. The one like a son of man in
Daniel 7 is not explicitly said to be enthroned, but since plural “thrones” are
set it is reasonable to assume that one of them is meant for him. The “Son
of Man,” or Elect One, in the Similitudes of Enoch is a heavenly, pre-existent
figure, although he is also called “messiah.” He is repeatedly said to sit on the
throne of glory (1 Enoch 62:5; 69:27, 29; compare 45:3; 47:3; 51:3; 55:4; 60:2; 61:8;
62:2–3. The Son of Man is similarly enthroned as judge in Matt 19:28; 25:31, and
he is seated at the right hand of the Power in Mark 14:62. Jesus is seated at the
right hand specifically qua High Priest in Hebrews 8:1. Occasionally, thrones
are promised to the faithful on a less exclusive basis. In 1 Enoch 108:12, God
will set each of the faithful on the throne of his honor. In the Gospels, the
apostles are promised that they will sit on thrones judging the twelve tribes
of Israel.55 Nearly all these cases are eschatological, and reflect permanent
exaltation, even if the throne has a temporary function, such as judging.
A rare case of enthronement that is not necessarily eschatological is found in
the dream of Moses in Ezekiel the tragedian. This takes place on the summit
of Mt. Sinai, rather than in heaven, and is interpreted symbolically by Jethro,
although it may reflect a tradition about the apotheosis of Moses.56 But in gen-
eral, thrones connote permanent exaltation, rather than temporary ascent for
the purpose of commissioning.
The way the boasts of exaltation function in the Self-Exaltation Hymn
can be understood by analogy with such figures as the Son of Man in the
Similitudes of Enoch or the exalted Christ in the New Testament. The righ-
teous in the Similitudes take comfort from the fact that they have a heavenly
counterpart, the Righteous One or Elect One, in heaven, who will eventually
preside over the judgment of the kings and the mighty. They also hope that
they will eventually dwell with him in heaven, without necessarily all sitting
on the throne of glory.57 If we assume that the speaker in the Self-Exaltation
Hymn was himself despised and subjected to grief, then the servant of Isaiah
or the exalted Christ would provide a closer analogy, insofar as he shared
the experience of the human community. The Qumran texts do not suggest
54 See further Collins, The Scepter and the Star, 142–4.
55 Matt 19:28; Luke 22:30.
56 See Wayne Meeks, “Moses as God and King,” in Religions in Antiquity: Essays in Memory of
Erwin Ramsdell Goodenough, ed. Jacob Neusner (Leiden: Brill, 1968), 354–71.
57 Cf. 1 Enoch 71:16–17.
40 Collins
that the exalted figure atoned for his followers by his death, and so their use
of the Servant Songs is different from what we find in the New Testament,
but the analogy is interesting nonetheless.58 If the Self-Exaltation Hymn does
indeed refer to the Teacher, then it glorifies him to a far greater degree than
is suggested anywhere else in the Dead Sea Scrolls. But then, the text is excep-
tional on any interpretation.
5 Conclusion
I return in conclusion to the assessment of Philip Alexander, with which I

began. It does not seem to me that the Self-Exaltation Hymn provides reliable
evidence “that there was an active practice of ascent within the Qumran com-
munity.” While the text is fragmentary and open to different interpretations,
it does not seem to speak of a temporary sojourn in heaven, or of prophetic
and/or priestly commissioning. Alexander is right, however, that “it involves
transformation—angelification or apotheosis.”59 How far that transformation
is paradigmatic for a whole community remains unclear; the individual envi-
sioned is clearly exceptional. The text is surely relevant to the history of Jewish
mysticism, but whether it has any relevance to any mystical practice, in the
way that Morton Smith claimed, is very doubtful.
58 See further Collins, “A Messiah Before Jesus?” 33–4.

59 Alexander, The Mystical Texts, 90. Schäfer, The Origins of Jewish Mysticism, 150, writes:
“In his ‘angelified’ status he would have anticipated what the earthly community fanta-
sized regarding the communion with the angels, namely, the physical transformation into
divine beings, the elim, who surround God and praise him forever.” He continues: “This is
not ‘deification,’ as some scholars have it,” but he does not explain how “physical transfor-
mation into divine beings” is not “deification.”
CHAPTER 2
Theosis through Works of the Law: Deification

of the Earthly Righteous in Classical Rabbinic
Thought
Jonah Chanan Steinberg
1 Introduction
The notion that human beings might attain divine nature or partake in divine
identity is a prominent idea in early Christian thought. Although controver-
sial, the concept endures in Christian theology to this day, enshrined in the
catechism of the Roman Catholic Church and especially important in Eastern
Orthodoxy, particularly in its monastic tradition. Some argue that ‘theosis’—
becoming divine—is the essence and the highest end of Christianity.1 In this
study I show that a concept of theosis, albeit not called by that Greek name, is
1 For guiding my study of the patristic and later Christian teachings on theosis, I acknowl-
edge foremost Jules Gross’s pioneering doctoral study, La divinization du Chrétien d’apres les
Pères Grecs (Paris: Gabalda, 1938), recently translated by Paul A. Onica as The Divinization
of the Christian according to the Greek Fathers (Anaheim: A & C, 2002). Controversial as
Gross’s conclusions may be, especially among scholars who are also Christian theologians,
his work is a great treasury of traditions of theosis in early Christian thought. So too are
Norman Russell’s recent studies, The Doctrine of Deification in the Greek Patristic Tradition
(New York: Oxford University Press, 2004) and Fellow Workers with God: Orthodox Thinking on
Theosis (Crestwood: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2009). I also found great help in Michael
J. Christensen and Jeffrey A. Wittung’s volume Partakers of the Divine Nature: The History
and Development of Deification in the Christian Traditions (Grand Rapids: Rosemont, 2007).
Divinization is enjoying a resurgence in Christian scholarship and theology, as attested,
for example, by Veli-Matti Kärkkäinen’s monograph One with God: Salvation as Deification
and Justification (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2004), which aims to reconcile recent
developments in Luther studies with Eastern Orthodox and Catholic concepts of theosis;
by the anthology, Theosis: Deification in Christian Theology, ed. Stephen Finlan and Vladimir
Kharlamov (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2006); and by Daniel A. Keating’s Deification and Grace
(Naples, FL: Sapientia Press, 2007). Each of these has encouraged and enhanced this present
project. I am influenced, too, by work that Crispin Fletcher-Louis has shared at SBL meetings,
as well as in his doctoral dissertation Luke-Acts: Angels, Christology and Soteriology (Tübingen:
Mohr Siebeck, 1996), and especially in All the Glory of Adam: Liturgical Anthropology in the
Dead Sea Scrolls (Leiden: Brill, 2002).

42 Steinberg
also a notable and even essential feature of early rabbinic thought and nascent
Talmudic tradition, evidenced by rabbinic teachings of the first five centuries
of the Common Era. Close similarities in theme, and sometimes even in word-
ing, indicate that Jewish and Christian teachings on divinization developed
in relation to one another. The differences between early rabbinic and early
Christian teachings on divinization frequently suggest a knowing contention
between the two emerging religions with regard to the pathway of theosis.
In Christian sources, identification of oneself with Jesus as Savior and Logos
becomes the key for human involvement in God’s nature. In the rabbinic
sources to be examined here, by contrast, righteous action and identification
of oneself with Torah constitute the way of attaining divine glory.
To put a point on my argument, I give the rabbinic concept of divinization
that this study explores a name that would have outraged the pioneers of the
corresponding Christian doctrine. I term the Jewish idea theosis through works
of the law. ‘Works of the law’ is another term of Christian coinage,2 born to
indicate the scriptural commandments, and the corresponding minutiae of
earthly life, for devotion to which rabbinic Jews were often derided by the
fathers of the Church.
Any dichotomy between Christianity and Judaism schematized simplisti-
cally in terms of ‘faith vs. works’ runs a high risk of caricature. Early Christian
teachers saw urgent need for loving-kindness in practice, and early rabbinic
teachers were urgently concerned about particulars of religious belief.3 Still
2 The term ‘works of the law’ has direct precedent within Jewish parlance, not least ‘Maʿaseh
Torah’ in the DSS (4QMMT), and certain usages of the terms ḫok (law), mitzvah (command-
ment), and even, in a specific sense, Torah itself (e.g., Lev 15:32, Mal 4:4) in Hebrew scripture.
However, the Greek ἔργων νόμου (works of the law) develops a very distinct and derogatory
Christian meaning, perhaps best translated as ‘those minutiae of praxis with which Jews are
so preoccupied.’ This sense is most emphatic in Gal 2:16: “Knowing that a man is not justified
by works of the law, but through faith in Jesus Christ, even we have believed in Christ Jesus,
in order to be justified by faith in Christ, and not by works of the law, because by works of the
law shall no one be justified.” Rabbinic Judaism develops a categorically opposite view of the
relationship between law and salvation, as we shall see.
3 The former claim, regarding early Christianity, is easily demonstrated, e.g., by John 13:33–34;
Gal 5:12–25; Rom 12:10–18; 1 Cor 12:25; Eph 4:2, 32; Phil 2:4; 1 Thess 4:9, etc. The claim that
early rabbis, post-70 CE, cared urgently about matters of belief is somewhat more contro-
versial; their founding convocation at Yavneh is often regarded as (or taken as a narrative
emblem for) the birth of a new Jewish ideological pluralism and toleration, by contrast to
the sectarianism of Second Temple times. See Shaye J. D. Cohen, “The Significance of Yavneh:
Pharisees, Rabbis, and the End of Jewish Sectarianism,” HUCA 55 (1984): 27–53. However,
see also Martin Goodman’s response in “The Function of Minim in Early Rabbinic Judaism,”
in Geschichte-Tradition-Reflexion: Festschrift für Martin Hengel zum 70. Geburtstag, ed. Hubert
Theosis through Works of the Law 43
it is fair to say that most patristic writers saw devotion to works of the law,
absent belief in Jesus as redeemer, as an off-ramp from the highway to divinity,
whereas the early rabbis represented here saw righteous acts and adherence to
Torah as the highway itself.
2 Deification or Angelification?
Some of the key rabbinic teachings in this study feature angels, who appear
not only as paradigmatic creatures of divine will, but also as place-holders
in a status that human beings might attain and even exceed; and angels also
serve as key witnesses to the glorification of human beings in these sources.
In a separate book-length study, I have assembled an enormous array of clas-
sical rabbinic midrashim that liken the first human beings, the forefathers, the
prophets, the priests, the rabbis, and the righteous of Israel to the angels, and
that hold out to the faithful the hope of a station in God’s highest and inner-
most rank of attendants—and I have traced the origins and development of
this trope from biblical and Second Temple-period sources into the Talmudic
tradition.4 So I must now explain why I speak here of theosis, identification of
oneself with God, nothing less.
Quite simply, ‘angelification’ will not suffice to describe what is afoot in the
rabbinic teachings I present in this study. In gathering these sources, I have
imposed a rigorous standard, and I have not included as evidence of ‘theo-
sis’ numerous rabbinic teachings that hold out angelic nature as a possibility
for humankind.5 That selective principle may not always mirror the ideas of a
Cancik, Hermann Lichtenberger, and Peter Schäfer (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), 1.501–10,
Daniel Boyarin’s Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity (Philadelphia: University of
Pennsylvania Press, 2004), especially 44–45, and of course Alan Segal’s Two Powers in Heaven:
Early Rabbinic Reports about Christianity and Gnosticism (Leiden: Brill, 1977). The sect at the
Dead Sea would never have made the Mishnah’s declaration of Avot 10:1, “All Israelites have
a share in the World to Come”; but, as the Mishnah immediately goes on to enumerate those
excluded from the World to Come on ideological grounds, the rabbinic novum proves actu-
ally to be an attempt to define religious or doctrinal as opposed to ethnic Israel. The diversity
of religious ideology represented within classical rabbinic sources should not deafen us to
the vehemence, and often the anxiety, with which varying positions are staked and argued
in those sources.
4 “Angelic Israel: Self-Identification with Angels in Rabbinic Agadah and its Jewish Antecedents”
(PhD diss., Columbia University, 2003).
5 I have included those in “Angelic Israel,” 244–406, and I aim here to single out sources that are
actually about deification. Peter Schäfer has illustrated at length in his dissertation, Rivalität
44 Steinberg
tradition in which the angelic is sometimes blurred verbally and conceptually

with the divine.6 However, my aim is to make the clearest case that some early
rabbinic thinkers, as well as early Christian ones, cherished a hope of taking
part in God’s own nature and glory.
The midrashic illustrations in this study indicate a view of humankind as
existing on a continuum of beings ranging upward from animals to people to
angels to God.7 Yet, consistently, the position of a human being on that con-
tinuum or ladder does not appear static, nor even bounded in possibility by
animals on one side and angels on the other. The station of the human being is
variable and axiologically contingent, having to do with values in action—and,
at least in the ideal, the human being is upwardly mobile on the continuum
to the ultimate degree.8 Depending on righteous action or lack thereof, the
zwischen Engel und Menschen: Untersuchungen zur rabbinischen Engelvorstellung (Berlin:

de Gruyter, 1975), that angels very often function in midrash as straw men for assertions of
higher human potential. To stop at parity between human beings and ministering angels is,
then, to miss the point of such sources. However, it is still important to differentiate between
superlative angelification and outright divinization, and the latter is the subject of this pres-
ent study.
6 This slippage begins in biblical sources, as with the term ‘angel of YHVH.’ Whether or not the
biblical Psalms aim to proffer divine-angelic identity to human beings as “b’nei elim” (e.g., in
Ps 29:1), the sectarian writings from Qumran certainly evidence such a belief, as in 4Q181 1,
II 3–6, where God is said “to bring close some from among the sons of the earth to be con-
sidered with him in the community of celestials” (beyḫad ‘elim). Didymus the Blind, in 4th
century Alexandria, taught that human beings who participate in the Word may, like angels,
be termed “gods”: Comm. Zach. 94.25, 28; 95.2; In Gen. 109.12; 159.3, 5 230.14; 346.11; 277.26.
Cf. Russell, The Doctrine of Deification, 156 (and n. 68).
7 It is sometimes more accurate to say that Israelite males are seen as existing on a continuum
ranging from animals, gentiles, and Israelite women to Israelite men to angels to God. Some
early rabbinic teachings glorify both Eve and Adam in the Garden (e.g., Lev Rab. 11:1) but
others see the female as detracting from the divine likeness in humanity, e.g., Gen Rab. 21:5,
which reads Gen 3:22 as meaning, “So long as there was only Adam, he was ‘as the One;’ but
when his rib was taken from him [to make woman] it was ‘to know good and evil.’ ” Much rab-
binic antipathy toward the female may be attributable to the fact that women—who birth,
diaper, feed, and cohabit with males—undermine a male rabbinic desire to pass oneself off
as an angel. Women know otherwise, and are all too often loathed for it.
8 In saying that the human being is located ‘axiologically’ on a ladder of beings, I am borrow-
ing directly from an observation of Norman Russell: that in some modern Eastern Orthodox
thinking “the person is not a natural but an axiological category (i.e. a category to do with
values)” (Fellow Workers with God, 29). That is very much so in the midrashic sources to fol-
low (and the same may be observed with regard to the Yiddish category ‘mensch,’ in Jewish
culture generally and particularly in Hasidic teachings).
human being may share in God’s own essence and primacy, or the human
being may prove to be the least and lattermost of all earthy creatures.9
Christians of the period in question were vigorously debating the ques-
tion of Jesus’s discrete personhood and spirit vis-à-vis God’s own, and we can
observe that they faced a related quandary, or mystery, in their thinking about
theosis and union with God for the faithful.10 I juxtapose rabbinic and patristic
teachings in this study not only to show parallelism and rivalry between the
two nascent traditions, but also because the Christian writings help make clear
what the Jewish teachings are trying, in their own idiom and for their own reli-
gious purposes, to figure out and say.11
3 ‘Theosis’ as Christian Phenomenon and Term
There is no distinct word for ‘theosis’ in classical rabbinic sources; but the
term does not emerge in Christianity either until the fourth century, when it is
coined by Gregory of Nazianzus (Oration 4.71), and the word is not systemati-
cally defined by a Christian theologian until Dionysus the Areopagite in the
sixth century.12 Nonetheless, the concept or phenomenon that the term ‘theo-
sis’ denotes clearly exists in Christian thought much earlier, arguably from the
9 Evidently some early rabbis, as well as early fathers of Christianity, imbibed something
of Platonism in conceiving of the human spiritual quest as a transit from earthliness to
divinity.
10 Any Christian thinker’s distinctive conceptualization of Jesus as both human and divine
will go hand in hand with and even determine that same thinker’s concept of possible
union of the human being with God. I am grateful to Paul Kolbet for urging me toward a
clear articulation of this point and for his helpful reading of a draft of this paper.
11 On the one hand, for both the Jewish and the Christian traditions it is an inescapable
axiom of monotheism that insofar as a human being (or, for that matter, an angel) is
a creature with discrete identity, that created being is by definition subordinate to its
divine creator. On the other hand, both traditions conceive of deification, attainment of
God’s own essence, as an actual, ontic possibility for human beings. The midrashim that I
take up in this study are likely roots of the later Jewish mystical idea that God will not be
fulfilled or complete, in God’s own self, unless and until humanity manifests divinity—or,
to speak less ecumenically, unless and until Israel completely receives and fulfills Torah.
That mystical notion also has roots in such early midrashim as Tanhuma, Vayetze, 10,
where God swears that neither he nor his throne will be complete until the blotting out of
Amalek is accomplished by Israel.
12 Russell, Fellow Workers with God, 22.
46 Steinberg
start. As Norman Russell has said, “All the earlier patristic writers who refer to
deification took it for granted that their readers understood what they meant.”13
What did they mean? By way of canonical Christian expressions of the con-
cept, we may point to the statement about Jesus in 2 Pet 1:4: “He has granted
to us his precious and magnificent promises, so that by them you may become
partakers of the divine nature.” In 1 Cor 15:49, Paul proclaims: “Just as we are
like the one who was made out of earth [viz. Adam], we will be like the one
who came from heaven [viz. Jesus].” In Rom 8:29: “For those God foreknew
he also predestined to be conformed to the image of His Son,” and the Son,
in turn, is identified as “the image of the invisible God” in Colossians 1:15.
In 2 Cor 3:18: “We are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing
glory.” In 1 John 3:2: “We know that when he appears, we shall be like him.”14
The eschatology of the Gospel of John, particularly in the 14th and 15th chap-
ters, speaks in hierarchical terms but also collapses Jesus into God and the
faithful into Jesus, and, conversely, imbues the faithful with Jesus’s identity,
and Jesus, in turn, with God’s. For example, 14:20: “On that day you will realize
that I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you.”15
As to patristic teachings that follow the Gospels and Epistles and predate
the term ‘theosis,’ the second-century Irenaeus taught that Jesus as Christ
and Logos “became what we are in order to make us what he is himself”
(Haer. 5, Preface). The influential fourth-century Alexandrian bishop
Athanasius taught, “He became human that we might become divine” (Inc. 54).
13 Russell, The Doctrine of Deification, 1. Similarly, Keating observes: “the content of the doc-
trine of deification may be present in the absence of the technical vocabulary,” and since
this is exactly the case in the relevant rabbinic midrashim, Keating’s rejoinder, “we cannot
simply follow a terminological trail in order to discover what the content of this doctrine
is,” and his methodological statement, “Once we grasp what the essential meaning of dei-
fication is, we can identify its content even when the vocabulary is absent” (Deification
and Grace, 8), aptly describe my approach in this present study.
14 Applying the aforementioned selective principle and quoting only teachings that unam-
biguously speak of taking part in God’s own nature means excluding from this list such
passages as Matt 13:43: “The righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their
Father,” borrowing from Dan 12:3 and parallel to Lev Rab. 28:1: “In return for the utmost
that the righteous achieve in this world in the performance of commandments and good
deeds, it is enough for them that the Blessed Holy One renews their countenance like the
circle of the sun, as it is said, ‘They that love him are like the sun’ ” (Judg 5:31).
15 It is telling, with respect to present-day attitudes concerning theosis, that I recently hap-
pened to hear several of these New Testament passages quoted in the passionate retort
of a passerby against the sermon of a street preacher at a major urban intersection. The
preacher was railing against what he termed the “heresy of theosis” and the gentleman
who bothered to remonstrate recited a number of these NT sources.
Ephrem the Syrian said, “He gave us divinity, we gave him humanity”16 (Hymns
on Faith 5:7).17 In their recent study of theosis as an early Christian doctrine,
Stephen Finlan and Vladamir Kharlamov aptly term the phenomenon a “redef-
inition of selfhood.”18
The present-day Catechism of the Roman Catholic Church quotes and
paraphrases the aforementioned church fathers, and Thomas Aquinas, in
propounding:
The Word became flesh to make us partakers of the divine nature: For
this is why the Word became man, and the Son of God became the Son of
Man: so that man, by entering into communion with the Word and thus
receiving divine sonship, might become a son of God. For the Son of God
became man so that we might become God. The only begotten Son of
God, wanting to make us sharers in His divinity, assumed our nature, so
that he, made man, might make men gods.19
16 In Dogma and Preaching, trans. Matthew J. O’Connell (Chicago: Franciscan Herald Press,
1985), 84, Joseph Ratzinger (now Pope Benedict XVI) writes of this “formula of exchange,”
as it is sometimes termed, that it “consists of God taking our human existence on himself
in order to bestow his divine existence on us, of his choosing our nothingness in order to
give his plenitude.”
17 I borrow this concatenation of patristic teachings directly from Russell, The Doctrine of
Deification, 23–24 and from the Catholic Catechism, cited below.
18 Finlan & Kharlamov, Theosis, 1. I would differ with Finlan and Kharlamov by not includ-
ing, as teachings of outright theosis, scriptures that prescribe imitation of God, e.g.,
Matt 5:48, John 14:12, Eph 5:1. Were I to include Christian teachings of imitatio Dei, the
number of parallel rabbinic sources to be quoted here would expand enormously, emu-
lation of God and of divine attributes being an extremely frequent rabbinic theme.
I focus in this study on teachings that clearly hold out the possibility of sharing in God’s
own essence or nature, a hope that cannot be presumed in every teaching that recom-
mends following the divine example in one’s behavior. On re-shaping of self-concept in
patristic thought, see also Paul Kolbet, “Athanasius, the Psalms, and the Reformation of
the Self,” HTR 99 (2006): 85–101. In particular, Kolbet observes that Athanasius taught
that God made the person of Jesus “resound in the Psalms before his sojourn in our
midst” so as to supply “the model of the earthly and heavenly man in his own person”.
(Ep. Marcell. 13), 94.
19 Catechism of the Catholic Church, Part One: “Profession of Faith,” Section 2, Chapter 2,
Article 3, Paragraph 1: I, §460. The closing words, “that he, made man, might make men
gods,” may reflect the aforementioned ontological slippage between the angelic and
the divine, if the Hebrew term in the background is elim or b’nei elim. Cf. also §1265
of the Catechism: “Baptism not only purifies from all sins, but also makes the neophyte
‘a new creature,’ an adopted son of God, who has become a ‘partaker of the divine nature,’
48 Steinberg
There it is, loud and clear and true to ancient sources—although this cat-
echetical point leads some present-day Christian teachers to cringe rather
than exult.20
Of course, anterior to the Christian framing and naming of theosis, ante-
rior to the Gospel and Epistolary teachings on partaking in divine nature, is
Genesis’ narration of humankind created “in the image of God” (Gen 1:27).
We might suggest the Hebrew words tselem elohim (“image of God”) or demut
elohim (“likeness of God,” Gen 5:1) as indigenous terminology for the deifica-
tion of humankind in Jewish tradition. Since the glorious reflection of God in
Adam figures in rabbinic thought as a goal to be regained, we might suggest
‘image and likeness of God’ as a Jewish value-concept corresponding to ‘theo-
sis.’ However, these biblical terms themselves rarely appear within the rabbinic
teachings that speak of divinization, perhaps because the words ‘image’ and
‘likeness’ would detract from the argument of actual ontic continuity between
righteous human beings and God.
4 Diversity in Rabbinic Thought
The exposition that follows here makes a strong case for a belief in deification
among the early rabbis. Yet one must acknowledge the wide diversity of early
rabbinic thought when beginning any account that details a distinct theme
within the legacy. The Talmudic tradition is a grand literary performance of
member of Christ and co-heir with him, and a temple of the Holy Spirit”; also §1272:
“Incorporated into Christ by Baptism, the person baptized is configured to Christ”; §1267:
“Baptism makes us members of the Body of Christ”; §1391 on Communion: “The princi-
pal fruit of receiving the Eucharist in Holy Communion is an intimate union with Christ
Jesus. Indeed, the Lord said: ‘He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and
I in him’ ”; §1988 on Grace and Justification: “Through the power of the Holy Spirit we take
part in Christ’s Passion by dying to sin, and in his Resurrection by being born to a new life;
we are members of his Body which is the Church, branches grafted onto the vine which is
himself; and §398 on man’s being “destined to be fully divinized by God in glory.”
20 Most notably in some strands of modern, Protestant Christian theology: see, among others,
Adolf von Harnack and his heirs, as cited by Russell (The Doctrine of Deification, 3–4),
notably Benjamin Drewery, who termed theosis “the disastrous flaw in Greek Christian
thought” (Origen and the Doctrine of Grace [London: Epworth, 1960], 200–01). Christians
who reject the concept of theosis as it is articulated in the Roman Catholic Catechism and
its antecedents, and in kindred formulations, generally deem the doctrine unbiblical and
Hellenistic in origin. See, for example, Plato’s statement in Theaetetus 176b that the goal
of human life is to be as like unto God as possible.
religious disagreement within a unifying movement. Even long before the

Babylonian Talmud crafted its distinctive mode of challenge and counter-
challenge into an intricately stylized art-form (correspondingly, some would
say, elevating uncertainty in the face of divine mysteries to a high religious
principle),21 there was a notable inclusive tendency in rabbinism, a capacity
to affirm conflicting possibilities. The first collections of rabbinic legislative
thought, the Mishnah and Tosefta, record differences of opinion; the earli-
est collections of rabbinic lore reflect diversity of ideology. A student’s heart
must be a “chamber of chambers,” capable of containing and comprehending
opposed positions on any given matter, urges a Tannaitic adage;22 two differing
schools of thought can both reflect “the words of the living God,” says a well-
known Talmudic story about the opposing camps of Shammai and Hillel;23 and
the Blessed Holy One appears to the people “like an image that shows aspects
to all sides,” in an aggadic account of Sinai, God addressing each Israelite in
personalized and singular terms,24 to cite just a few examples of the pluralistic
theme from a range of points in the history of classical rabbinic thought. This is
not to say—especially not in a study of rabbinism in relation to Christianity—
that early rabbinic thought lacked exclusionary tendencies and doctrinal red
lines, we will see some in this study. Still one must acknowledge the broad
boundaries established by the early rabbinic sources and the diversity within
them. Almost always, when one discovers a coherent and passionate tendency,
there will also be an opposing school of thought.
It is easy to find early rabbinic teachings that insist on utter dissimilarity
between God and humankind, arguably opposing the possibility of theosis.
Numerous rabbinic teachings proclaim the Blessed Holy One to be unlike flesh
and blood, and vice versa. One can also readily find early rabbinic rebukes
directed at those who esteem humanity too highly, or who intrude upon God’s
glory with probing speculations and grandiose pretensions.25 All of that seems
not in the least to have impeded another chorus of rabbinic voices that dared
to speak in terms of glorification.
One pioneering scholar of the classical sources, writing on a different
topic in the corpus, has rightly said, “Since almost every aggadic statement
can be offset by another that says just the opposite, all that we can conclude
21 See especially David Kraemer, The Mind of the Talmud: An Intellectual History of the Bavli
(New York: Oxford University Press, 1990), particularly 120–27.
22 t. Soṭah 7:12 (Eliyahu Rabbah 7).
23 b. ʿErub. 13b.
24 Yalkut Shimoni, Yitro 286.
25 Arguably that is the sense of m. Ḥag. 2:1, for example.
50 Steinberg
by collecting many examples of any one view is that it existed, not that it
dominated.”26 Even so, varying rabbinic opinions within the religion’s lore do
not cancel one another out, and the multi-vocal nature of the sources urges
giving each school of thought its due. As a matter of historical analysis, it
makes more sense to take up a theme and try to understand how and why it
figures in rabbinic thought than it does to drop the theme because one can find
contrary statements. What follows is the case for theosis as built with manifest
conviction and notable vehemence by those among the early rabbis who evi-
dently believed in it.
5 A Coherent Midrashic Theme
We can outline a distinctive rabbinic concept of divinization, emerging in

Roman Palestine of the first centuries CE, by way of three narrative teachings
from Genesis Rabbah, one on Adam, one on Abraham, and one on Jacob—
drawing a line from a rabbinic view of the first human being to a view of Israel
as represented by the eponymous patriarch. Of course the homilies in ques-
tion are not the sole interpretations, even in Genesis Rabbah, of the scriptural
moments they retell; and of course these midrashic accounts are distanced
from one another in the corpus by glosses on the intervening chapters and
verses of Genesis. Yet when we gather them together, we can see that these
three midrashim share a consistent conception of an ultimate possibility for
humankind, and they sketch a coherent doctrine27 concerning the way to actu-
alize that possibility. Once we recognize the doctrine, we can perceive it at
work in many other rabbinic sources and teachings.
5.1 On Adam
In connection with Gen 1:26, Genesis Rabbah 8:10 teaches:
26 Judith Hauptman, Rereading the Rabbis: a Woman’s Voice (Boulder: Westview Press,
1998), 9.
27 Again it bears saying that the absence of ideological unanimity in rabbinic sources should
not be taken to indicate that individual rabbis and groups of rabbis failed to care pas-
sionately about particular beliefs. The term ‘doctrine,’ while it is often misplaced in gen-
eralizations about classical rabbinic literature as a whole, is warranted when speaking
about particular motifs that reflect schools of thought within the larger movement. The
wide ideological tent pitched by rabbinism after 70 CE, which managed to include rival
spiritual perspectives (cf. Cohen, “The Significance of Yavneh”) should not keep us from
describing distinct schools of thought within that tent when they can be discerned.
Rabbi Hoshaya said: At the moment when the Blessed Holy One cre-
ated the first human being, the ministering angels mistook him [viz. the
human being] and sought to say before him, ‘Holy!’
The matter may be likened to the story of a king and a governor
(epharkhos, έπαρχος) who were riding in a chariot, and the people of the
province wished to call out [to the king], ‘Lord!’ (Domini) but did not
know which one he was. What did the king do? He shoved the governor
and put him out of the chariot, and then all knew that he was the
governor.
Just so, at the moment when the Blessed Holy One created the first
human being, the ministering angels mistook him and sought to say
before him, ‘Holy!’ What did the Blessed Holy One do? He cast a deep
sleep upon him, and then all knew that he was the human being.
Thus it is written, “Cease ye from man, who has breath in his nostrils, for
as what is he to be reckoned?” (Isa 2:26).
At first blush, this midrash may seem a disambiguation rather than a liken-
ing of Adam and God. An angelic trishagion to the human being would be
a ‘mistake’ in the narrative terms of this teaching. The anesthetic deep sleep
under which female is separated from male in the Genesis story here doubles
as a knocking of Adam down for the count, a categorical and emphatic, not to
mention ignominious and vaguely comedic differentiation of Adam from God.
Such is the lot of humankind, the midrash seems to say: on our backsides in the
dust, as opposed to the monarchical figure left standing in the chariot.
Adam’s initial divine glory and eventual diminution constitute a midrashic
theme widely attested by the time of Genesis Rabbah.28 Generally, however,
the loss of god-like appearance and stature takes place as retribution for the
transgression of the first human being. Our present midrash diminishes Adam
before he has done anything at all.29 In fact it is precisely inactivity, Adam’s
slumber, that separates him from God in the eyes of the angels. This midrash
28 E.g., Gen Rab. 3:22, 11:2, 12:6, and see Susan Niditch, “The Cosmic Adam: Man as Mediator
in Rabbinic Literature,” JJS 34 (1983): 137–46, and also Alexander Altmann, “The Gnostic
Background of the Rabbinic Adam Legends,” JQR, n.s., 35, no. 4 (April 1945): 371–91, espe-
cially 374–75.
29 If anything, Adam’s action in the garden, albeit a transgression, makes him more and not
less like God, per a plain sense reading of Gen 3:22. Our present midrash shrewdly avoids
the irony that is so glaring in the many midrashim that insist Adam became less and not
more like God on account of eating from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. I am
grateful to rabbinical student Mónica Gomery for her noting that the narrative moment
of the midrash is anterior to any action on the part of the human being.
52 Steinberg
indicates inertness, even before sin, as the essential inglorious aspect of human
existence. Life as an earth-creature, this account observes, inevitably entails
the experience and appearance of being different and separate from God.30
That is part of the story. The other part, lest we overlook it, is our having
been in the chariot in the first place, with the monarch, indistinguishable.31
The “people of the province,” who line the parade in the parable, are the angels.
(This is an account of the first and solitary human being, so no other cast-
ing is possible.) One would expect them to recognize the Sovereign, particu-
larly in contrast to a creature of clay. The remarkable point of this midrash is
that the human likeness to God was initially so true that it confounded and awed
the angels. Such too is humankind, the teaching says, at least in prototype.32
In the light of that daring assertion, the concluding proof-text of the midrash
can be seen as cutting both ways, disambiguating and likening. Initially we
might read the Isaianic verse as saying, “Don’t pay such great attention to man,
only transiently imbued with spirit, for what is he after all?” The audacious
aggrandizement of Adam in the initial image of the midrash suggests an oppo-
site reading: “Don’t mess with man, imbued with divine spirit, for, after all, to
what—or rather to Whom—may he be likened!”
The first point of our doctrinal outline:
1) The human being is originally a convincing likeness of God and becomes

dissimilar through idleness.
5.2 On Abraham
Moving from Adam to Abraham, we find a related midrash that stretches
to discover a textual contradiction in order to resolve it with a teaching of
divinization.33 The ostensible scriptural quandary is the discrepancy between
Gen 18:2, where Abraham lifts up his eyes to see three visitors “standing
over him,” and Gen 18:8 in which Abraham “stands over them.” Our midrash
adopts the ubiquitous rabbinic view that the visitors are angels (per Gen 19:1),
30 On the galling ignominy of being an earth-creature with a taste for transcendence, see
Gen Rab. 2:2, which interprets the earth’s state of ‘tohu vavohu’ as astonishment at this
human circumstance.
31 Of course one thinks of John 1:1, and of the concept ‘throne-partnership’ in the Book of
Wisdom, both of which I will consider alongside other rabbinic sources below.
32 Ps 8:5, though not overtly referenced, likely informs this midrash.
33 As in so much midrash, the exegesis is impelled by its conclusion rather than by the osten-
sible perplexity at its start. That is, one would have to desire the particular resolution in
order to come up with the ‘problem’ in the first place.
but rather than explain the shift in relative position of Abraham and his
guests as the movement of a subservient host rising to hover attentively over
honored visitors, the midrash dares a very different conceptualization in
hierarchical terms:
“And he stood over them”—Here you say “he stood over them,” but earlier
it says “standing over him.”
Rather understand it thus: Until he had done right by them, they stood
over him. Once he had done right by them, he stood over them. The awe of
him was cast upon them. The angel Michael trembled, the angel Gabriel
trembled.
Abraham achieves a status higher than the highest angels, to the point of strik-
ing awe into them, and he does so by performing a deed of mundane hospi-
tality. Ask anyone the question, “In whose presence do the angels tremble?”
Safe to say our midrash presumed the commonplace answer—“in God’s
presence”—when it shook its listeners by answering instead with a righteous
human being. The angels of this midrash descend to visit Abraham but find
themselves looking up awestruck at the man, and all he has done is feed them a
meal. Each point in the extremely compact midrashic narrative is worth spell-
ing out and emphasizing:
• The angels in question are of the highest order, named fixtures of God’s
guard, Michael, Gabriel.34
• Abraham becomes superior to them.
• Michael and Gabriel shudder in Abraham’s presence.
• Abraham achieves his superiority; it is not inevitable.
34 Where is the third visitor, commonly identified in midrash as the angel Refael? Why
does he not tremble too? The obvious implicit answer—obvious at least when one con-
siders other midrashim on the angels’ visit to Abraham—strengthens the point of our
present midrash. Michael’s errand, the annunciation of Isaac’s birth, has not yet com-
menced. Gabriel’s errand, the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, is even farther off.
Refael, on the other hand, as angel of healing, is busy in the moment of our midrash,
engaged with alleviating the pain of Abraham’s circumcision, just previous, so that the
patriarch can run around (per Gen 18:7) serving his guests. (See Gen Rab. 48:9; and cf. the
Theodor-Albeck edition, J. Theodor and Chanoch Albeck, eds., Bereschit Rabba, 3 vols.
[Berlin: Akademie, 1912–36], 485.) As he is occupied with a divine errand, Refael is not in
a position to be awed by Abraham’s action as are the inactive Michael and Gabriel. The
message: action determines one’s place on the ladder of beings in any given moment.
A human being engaged in a righteous deed is superior to an idle angel.
54 Steinberg
• Abraham attains superiority over the angels by way of action.

• The action in question, per the background scripture, is righteous but also
quotidian and earthly.
It is all too easy to dismiss works as belonging to a lower realm than lofty
ideas and spiritual faith, and correspondingly to dismiss glorifying language
used of earthly deeds as merely metaphorical or figurative, not seriously
meant. That would be failing to hear the teacher of our midrash on Abraham’s
glorification—which presumably is why he makes his point three times over:
“As soon as he did right by them, he stood over them.” He has said it once.
“The awe of him was cast upon them.” He has said it twice. “The angel Michael
trembled, the angel Gabriel trembled.” What he tells you three times is true.35
The glory that Abraham achieves is actual, as real as real can be.
We can now state two points of our distinctive rabbinic doctrine of theosis:
1) The human being is originally a convincing likeness of God and becomes

dissimilar through idleness.
2) The human being can regain divine glory through righteous action.
5.3 On Jacob (Israel)

Moving from Abraham to Israel—or at least to Jacob, putative Israel—we
discover the theme of deification again in a midrash that finds the epony-
mous patriarch asleep, but dreaming gloriously. The dream is Jacob’s famous
vision between Beer Sheba and Ḫaran, his slumbering head upon a stone, in
his mind’s eye a ladder spanning earth and heaven, “and angels of God going
up and down . . .” and here we come to the midrashic opening. The “ladder” of
Jacob’s dream is a masculine noun—not ‘it,’ in Hebrew, but ‘him’—and so the
verse is susceptible to a reading in which the angels are “going up and down
on him,” i.e. on Jacob.36 Genesis Rabbah 68:12 takes up the question of what it
would mean if Jacob himself bridged heaven and earth:
“And behold, angels of God ascending and descending on him.” (Gen 28:12)
Rabbi Hiyya and Rabbi Yanai—one said, “Ascending and descending
on the ladder;” and one said, “Ascending and descending on Jacob.”
35 I invoke Lewis Carroll’s The Hunting of the Snark (London: 1876), “Fit the First,” line 8, not
to mention Eccl 4:12.
36 This midrashic point might also entail an implied reading of Gen 28:12 as saying, “. . . and
behold he was a ladder.”
As to the one who says, “Ascending and descending on the ladder”—

that is easily understood.
As to the one who says, “Ascending and descending on Jacob”—They
were extolling and disparaging him,37 poking him, prodding him, goad-
ing him, as it is said, “Israel in whom I [God] shall glorify myself.” (Isa 42:1)
‘You are he whose image (ikonin, from εἰκών) is engraved on high!’
They would ascend above and see his image; descend below and find
him asleep.
The matter can be likened to a king, who sat and judged. Go up to the
palace and one finds him judging. Go out to the outskirts and one finds
him asleep.
First of all, we must note the obvious parallelism between this midrash and
the mysterious final verse of the first chapter of the Gospel of John: “Verily,
verily, I say unto you: Hereafter you shall see heaven open, and the angels
of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man” (John 1:51). In his
study, “The Son of Man’s Alter Ego,” Jarl Fossum has explored this parallelism,
and the scholarship on it, at length.38 With specific regard to the midrash in
Genesis Rabbah 68:12, I disagree with Fossum’s conclusion that “The doubling
of Jacob-Israel can be explained by the idea of a heavenly guardian angel
who looked like the human being to whom he was allotted.”39 The rabbinic
idea of an earthly person’s having an angelic alter ego, or apotropaic celestial
counterpart,40 is a somewhat kindred midrashic theme, I agree, but it is much
less daring than the present midrash on Jacob and not so closely related as
Fossum deems it to be. The idea of ‘guardian angel’ leads Fossum to back away
in his conclusion from more apt suggestions that he makes in the course of
his study, based on more closely related sources. Among those suggestions:
“The ‘image’ of Jacob on the heavenly throne is apparently the Glory of God”;41
Jacob is “enthroned as the Glory in heaven”;42 Jacob “was seen as the man-like
37 “Going up and down on him” seems here to mean something like the English colloquial-
ism, “building him up and knocking him down.”
38 “The Son of Man’s Alter Ego: John 1:51, Targumic Tradition and Jewish Mysticism,” in The
Image of the Invisible God: Essays on the Influence of Jewish Mysticism on Early Christology
(Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1995), 135–51.
39 Fossum, “The Son of Man’s Alter Ego,” 151.
40 E.g., Gen Rab. 77:3 and 78:3.
41 Fossum, “The Son of Man’s Alter Ego,” 142, with regard to b. Ḥul. 91b.
42 Fossum, “The Son of Man’s Alter Ego,” 143, referencing the Third Book of Enoch
(MS Montefiore).
56 Steinberg
figure upon the Merkabah”;43 and also that Justin Martyr was building on this
same trope when he taught, “Jacob was called Israel, and Israel has been dem-
onstrated to be the Christ, who is, and is called, Jesus,”44 and so, too, the author
of the Gospel of John when he “[went] so far as to suggest that Jesus was in
heaven at the same time as he was on earth.”45 I see the midrash in Genesis
Rabbah 68:12 arguing for continuity between earthly Israel and heavenly God,
to the point of identifying the one with the other—“Go up to the palace and
see him majestic in judgment; go out to the outskirts and see him, in the person
of Jacob-Israel, asleep.”
The midrash in Genesis Rabbah 68:12 certainly plays upon the cotempora-
neous rabbinic idea that “the image of the likeness of Jacob is engraved on [or
in some textual variants, “under”] God’s heavenly throne.”46 Genesis Rabbah
68:12 takes that image as much more than mere ornament, driving the concept
in the same direction as does Genesis Rabbah 78:6, where Gen 32:29 is inter-
preted as saying, “ ‘You rule (sarita) with Elohim’—you are he whose image is
engraved on high.”47 That parallel midrash reads as a session of Israel alongside
God on the throne of glory. Our midrash in 68:12 takes the statement one step
farther, and the only remaining step to take is superlative, emphasis on the
words “you are he.”48 As in the parable of the midrash, where one finds the king

44 Fossum, “The Son of Man’s Alter Ego,” citing Dial 75.2; 125.5; 134.6. Cf. ch. 58.
46 See Gen Rab. 78:3; 82:2; b. Ḥul. 91b; Pirqe R. El. 3; Num Rab. 4:1. The concept of Jacob’s fig-
uring on or under the divine throne is in turn related to a larger midrashic theme in which
the patriarchs Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob constitute the divine chariot or, in yet another
related tradition, form the three legs of a stable divine seat; cf. Gen Rab. 68:12. Also cf.
Targum Neofiti: “And he dreamed, and behold, a ladder was fixed on the earth and its
head reached to the height of the heavens; and behold, the angels that had accompanied
him from the house of his father ascended to bear good tidings to the angels on high, say-
ing: ‘Come and see the pious man whose image is engraved in the throne of Glory, whom
you desired to see.’ And behold, the angels from before the Lord ascended and descended
and observed him” (trans. Martin McNamara, Targum Neofiti 1: Genesis, The Aramaic
Bible 1A [Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1992], 140), paralleled in Targum Neofiti and
in Fragmentary Targum (Paris MS). Also a baraita in b. Ḥul. 91b: “They ascended to look
at the likeness above, and descended to look at the likeness of [God’s] image below.” On
the many traditions about Jacob’s image engraved on the Throne, see Elliot R. Wolfson,
Along the Path: Studies in Kabbalistic Myth, Symbolism, and Hermeneutics (Albany, NY:
State University of New York Press, 1995), 1–62, 111–86.
47 Reading sarita not as a verb of ‘struggling’ but of ‘ruling.’
48 One thinks of the “tat tvam asi” (“you are that”) of the Chandogya Upanishad (e.g., 6.10.3):
“Now that which is the Subtle Essence—this whole world has that as its soul. That is
himself (not a portrait or statue, which the midrash could have said) inactive
on the outskirts of the realm, the angels of the midrash ascend on high and see
“his image,”49 then descend below and find “him” asleep. Capitalize the H’s to
read the statement as it would have rung in ancient ears, a rousing verbal jolt.50
Israel is divinity asleep in the world. Humankind is God inexplicably slum-
bering in these earthly outskirts of the heavens.51 Moreover, our midrash is
emphatically critical of mere contemplation or speculation as an antidote to
human somnolence. (To recognize this implicit polemic in the midrash is likely
to see early evidence of an opposition that persists in Jewish culture to this
day with regard to Christian statements concerning justification of human-
kind through faith.) Vision without action, however glorious the dreaming, is
not enough to fulfill divine potential. Hence the angelic ‘hop on pop’ upon the
dreaming Jacob, poking and prodding him, perhaps derisively, but perhaps also
fearfully, with a verse proclaiming “Israel in whom God achieves glory.” Were
Jacob truly to wake, one imagines, the angels would scatter in dread. Here, once
again, the angels are not themselves the ultimate paradigm for the human
hero; they are witnesses to the possibility of a much greater glorification.
We can now finish our outline of the doctrine that connects our three
midrashim:
1) The human being is originally a convincing likeness of God, and

becomes dissimilar through idleness.
2) The human being can regain divine glory through righteous action.
Reality. That is Atman (Soul). That art thou, Svetaketu.” (Trans. Robert Ernest Hume,
The Upanishads, 2nd ed. [Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1996], 247).
49 The borrowed Greek word εἰκών may suggest paradigm or ideal.
50 Midrashim that feature parables about kings generally refer to God, another important
verbal and thematic clue as to how this midrash would have sounded to listeners of
its time.
51 Compare Gen Rab. 79:8 and 80:4, where Jacob dares to say to God, “You are the divine on
high and I am the divine below.” Granted, God responds to that assertion, according to the
midrash, by demonstrating, with the rape of Dinah, that Jacob has limited control over
his own earthly household; but the words have been spoken. That response on God’s part
may be not as much a negation of Jacob’s claim as an expression of the phenomenological
paradox inherent in theosis as experienced by the devout: the ‘redefinition of selfhood’
does not necessarily entail the ability to control one’s circumstances, only one’s self-
concept and one’s own actions. Our present midrash also resonates with Gen Rab. 68:10
and and 84:11, where Jacob responds to Joseph’s dream of the heavenly bodies bowing
down by saying, “Who revealed to you that my name was ‘Sun?’ ”.
58 Steinberg
3) It is not enough for the human being to envision or contemplate

connection with God; to realize divine identity one must stand up
and act in the world.
Having identified this rabbinic doctrine, we can see it quite frequently restated,
presumed, and elaborated in further midrashim. We can also note the ways in
which this rabbinic theme shares concepts and articulations with Christian
teachings and at the same time opposes them.
6 ore of the Midrashic Theme in Comparison with Christian

M
Doctrine
With the rabbinic sources that follow here, I gather evidence that makes a
Jewish doctrine of theosis—as I have outlined it in the previous segment—
difficult to deny. At the same time, I place these sources next to their Christian
counterparts, to demonstrate that the rabbis of these midrashim were articu-
lating a distinctive and even tendentious position within a wider religious phe-
nomenon of their time.
Leviticus Rabbah 11:1 claims, in the name of Rabbi Yirmiyah, that God called
Adam and Eve divinities (elohot) and enabled them to fly over the earth. The
statement is based on Proverbs 9:11, in which Wisdom soars “on the wings of
the heights of the city.” (We will return shortly to the place of Wisdom in rab-
binic thinking on deification.) Leviticus Rabbah brazenly takes the scriptural
phrase “terrible and awesome is He,” which clearly refers to God in Habakuk
1:7, as an allusion to Adam.52 Similarly, in Genesis Rabbah 8:1 (Albeck ed.),
Rabbi Shimon ben Lakish is quoted as teaching that the words “and the Spirit
of YHVH hovered on the face of the waters” (Gen 1:2) refers to “the spirit of
the first man.” That deifying statement may not seem contingent on righteous
action, but the very next line continues, “If a human being is meritorious, he
is told, ‘You preceded the ministering angels’; and if not he is told, ‘A gnat pre-
ceded you, a fly preceded you, a worm preceded you.’ ” That is to say, through
righteous action a human being can regain the nature of the primordial divine
spirit which hovered over the waters of Genesis and was instilled in Adam.
52 The same homily adds, in the name of Rabbi Yehuda bar Simon, quoting Rabbi Yehoshua,
“When God created the first man, he [viz. Adam] filled the whole world entirely.” Even if
we vocalize the verb as a pi’el, it is hard not to hear the seraphic description of God’s glory
in Isa 6:3 echoing in the midrashic words. That the midrash says “cosmos” (olam) and not
“earth,” as Isaiah has it, only emphasizes the divine glory ascribed to Adam.
Such a person thus can be numbered as the very first presence in the world,
God’s own, on the first (not the sixth) day of Genesis.53 The person who fails
to act righteously, on the other hand, personifies Adam only as the tail end of
earthly creation, posterior to all other beings.54
A series of opinions attributed in Genesis Rabbah 21:5 to sages of Mishnaic
fame, on the subject of Adam’s original nature, seems to dramatize rabbinic
dispute about the divine possibility in humankind. The discourse, as presented
by the midrashic redactor, begins with Rabbi Akiva chiding Rabbi Pappos
when the latter interprets “Lo the man is become as one of us” (Gen 3:22) as
meaning “as one of the ministering angels.” Is Rabbi Akiba saying that Rabbi
Papos’ angelifying teaching as has gone too far, or is he saying that his colleague
has spoken too loudly for such a powerful secret? The sense of the rebuke is
not quite clear;55 but, in any case, the immediately subsequent interpretation,
attributed to Rabbi Yehuda bar Simon, goes even farther. He is quoted as teach-
ing that “as one of us” means “as the Unique One of the Universe (keyiḫudo shel
olam) as in ‘Hear o Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One.’ ”56 There could not
be a more clear and categorical deification to Jewish ears.
Norman Russell, in his study on The Doctrine of Deification in the Greek
Patristic Tradition, espies an earlier trace of theosis in rabbinic thought when
he briefly takes up the interpretation of Psalm 82:6–7 in the Tannaitic Sifrei,
piska 306:
53 Jarl Fossum, in the title essay of The Image of the Invisible God, 25, notes that Justin Martyr
“identifies the angel Israel as the Son [and] says that he really ‘is God, inasmuch as he is
the Firstborn of all creation [. . .] and Israel was his name from the beginning.”
54 ‘Meriting,’ in rabbinic teachings, is almost always a matter of deeds. As to fully meriting
one’s own divine aspect, Lev Rab. 4:2, in the name of Rabbi Levi, teaches that, as in the
case of a commoner married to a royal daughter, there is no end to the good a man must
do to merit the gift of his own soul, “for she is from on high.”
55 Rabbi Akiva’s own alternative exegesis, “It means that the Blessed Holy One placed before
Adam two paths, one of life and one of death, and he chose another path,” may seem
more tame than Rabbi Papos’s interpretation. Yet we have noted that immortality (“a path
of life”) is a frequent marker of teachings that hold out the possibility of deification. Rabbi
Akiva, too, is interpreting the scriptural words “as one of us.” So his chiding response
to Rabbi Papos’s angelifying teaching might well be inflected as a rhetorical question:
“Is that all you suppose, Papos?”.
56 Gen Rab. 21:2, reading the verb in God’s statement of Gen 3:22 in the past tense, hears God
bemoaning the loss of a companion or counterpart: “Once God had sent him out of the
Garden He began to bewail him, saying, ‘Lo, the man was as one of us!’ ”.
60 Steinberg
Rabbi Simai said: All created beings that were created from the heavens,
their souls and bodies are from the heavens; and all creatures that were
created from the earth, their souls and bodies are from the earth, with
the exception of the human being, for his soul is from the heavens and
his body is from the earth. Therefore, if the human being practices Torah
and does the will of his Father in Heaven, he is like the creatures above,
as it is said, “I have said you are Elohim, and children of the Most High, all
of you,” (Ps 82:6) but if he does not practice Torah and does not do the will
of his Father in Heaven, he is like the creatures of the earth, as it is said,
“Howbeit you shall die like men.” (Ps 82:7).
Russell comments on this Sifrei passage: “What entitles human beings to be

called ‘godlike beings,’ or literally, ‘gods’ is their observance of the Torah.” That
is precisely my argument in this study; but it may be that Russell takes the
Sifrei passage somewhat too far in deeming its doctrine outright theosis. After
all, the Sifrei here bounds the alternatives for humankind with animals below
and angels above. Perhaps “children of the Most High” in this midrash aims
no higher than angelification. Later midrashim—like the Genesis Rabbah and
Leviticus Rabbah teachings quoted just above—clearly do argue divinization.
Rabbinic thought indeed did develop in a similar direction to the Christian
teachings on theosis that Russell compares with the Sifrei passage. Russell
looks to the Sifrei for Jewish roots in his account of the Christian doctrine of
theosis. It is equally possible, however, that rabbinic thought was goaded from
the mere angelification of the Sifrei to the bold divinization in Genesis Rabbah
and Leviticus Rabbah by the flourishing of theosis in Christianity.
Russell compares the Sifrei passage with a teaching by Theophilus of Antioch
(Autol. 2.27, cf. 2.24) from the same period, remarkably similar in wording:
If God had made humankind immortal from the beginning, He would

have made them God. On the other hand, if God had made them mortal,
God would have seemed to be the cause of their death. Consequently, God
made them neither immortal nor mortal, but capable of both. If human-
kind turned toward the things of immortality, by observing the precept
of God, they would receive immortality from God as a reward and would
become God (γένηται θεός). On the contrary, if they turned to the works
of death, by disobeying God, they themselves would be the cause of their
own death. For God made humankind free and independent.”57
57 As quoted by Russell, The Doctrine of Deification, 73.

Since his project is to trace thinking on theosis from such early teachings
onward, along the Christian branch, Russell does not note how Theophilus’s
wording is mirrored almost exactly in a subsequent rabbinic statement,
Genesis Rabbah 14:3, redacted some two centuries after Theophilus, speaking
in the name of Rabbi Tifdai quoting Rabbi Acha:
The Blessed Holy One said, “If I create him [viz. Adam] as a heavenly
being (min haelyonim) he will live and not die. If I create him as an earthly
being (min hataḫtonim) he will die and not live. So I will create him both
heavenly and earthly. If he sins, he will die; and if not, he will live.
The concept here is continuous with the Sifrei, but the form of the midrash in
Genesis Rabbah—hypothetically considering two possible courses, and attrib-
uting these considerations to God—is closer to Theophilus. Were we to see it
alone, we might deem this midrash in Genesis Rabbah to be merely a teach-
ing of angelification—the human being can find a place amid the angels—
having nothing to do with theosis. On the other hand, if we see the passage as
a rabbinic version of a teaching that Theophilus authored two centuries before
Genesis Rabbah took shape, we might conclude that the redactors who incor-
porated this teaching were following a Christian lead toward theosis. (“Rabbi
Acha” likely refers to a Palestinian Amora of the 4th century, but there was at
least one Acha who flourished in the era of the Tannaim; so, even admitting the
attribution as evidence, the chronology remains uncertain.) Immortality—
a linchpin in patristic thinking on divinization, as Russell, Jules Gross, and oth-
ers have illustrated58—is the crux of the midrash in Genesis Rabbah 14:3 and
of Theophilus’s teaching, and is not overtly indicated in the Sifrei passage. So
thematically, too, as well as structurally, we can see Genesis Rabbah 14:3 mov-
ing from the more moderate articulation of the Sifrei in the same direction as
intervening Christian thought.
I have said in the introduction of this study that it is too simplistic to dichot-
omize Jewish and Christian thinking on divinization simply as ‘works vs. faith.’
Theophilus’s teachings on divinization illustrate this point. He specifies “divine
law” and “performance of holy commandments” as keys to divinization (e.g.,
Autol. 2.27), although he also deems Christian baptism essential to true obedi-
ence and resurrection after death as necessary in attaining full salvation and
immortality.59 The author of the Gospel of James, too, wanted his followers to
58 Gross makes this point at length (The Divinization of the Christian, 12–28), and he also
notes that for Homer the words theos and athanatos are synonymous (12).
59 E.g., Autol. 2.27. Cf. Russell, The Doctrine of Deification, 103–05.
62 Steinberg
be “doers of the Word” (Jas 1:22), specifically the “implanted word” (Jas 1:21),
conceived as the guarantee of “the crown of life which God has promised to
those who love God” (Jas 1:12). Even Paul, in mid-outrage at the law-seeking
Galatians, rebukes them for “biting” and “devouring” one another in violation
of the all-encompassing command, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself,”
fulfillment of which Paul takes to be at least an indication, if not a guarantee,
of “living through the Spirit” (Gal 5:12–25).
On the other hand, it is not a surprise to find Christian and Jewish thought
on divinization diverging increasingly with regard to what Christians would
term ‘works of the law.’ We can describe the divergence well in terms of the
remedies conceived for Adam’s loss of divine stature by the two emerging reli-
gions. In Christian thought, earthly humankind ever after Adam proves unable
to find a way back to divine glory without the path blazed by Jesus, who super-
sedes the original human being as the ultimate paradigm.60 “For as in Adam
all die, so in Christ all will be made alive,” as Paul puts it (1 Cor 15:22).61 In
at least some rabbinic thought, by contrast, the earthly human being remains
fully repairable in practice, capable of regaining Adam’s original divine nature
by way of righteous behavior, and particularly through adherence to Torah. In
fact, when we consider the mediating role of Jesus in Christian theosis, we can
see Torah—as divine wisdom, word, and law—occupying a remarkably analo-
gous position in corresponding Jewish thought.
Gross, in his pioneering study on theosis in Christianity, illustrates that for
Paul, “the glorified Christ, who has become a ‘life-giving Spirit’ (1 Cor 15:45)
is like an atmosphere in which the baptized ones are immersed. He co-
penetrates them to the point of being ‘one body’ and ‘one spirit’ (1 Cor 12:12–13;
60 The Christian idea is summed up well in the final stanza of Charles Wesley’s carol, “Hark
the Herald Angels Sing”—“Come Desire of Nations, Come! Fix in us thy humble home. /
Rise, the woman’s conquering seed, bruise in us the serpent’s head. / Adam’s likeness now
efface; stamp thine image in its place. / Second Adam from above, reinstate us in thy
love”—as noted by Keating, Deification and Grace, 22.
61 Paul also says: “The first man was from the earth, a man of dust; the second man [viz.
Jesus] is from heaven. As was the man of dust, so are those who are of the dust; and as
is the man of heaven, so are those who are of heaven. Just as we have borne the image
of the man of dust, we will also bear the image of the man of heaven” (1 Cor 15:47).
Whatever Adam’s original potential may have been, in Paul’s view, he clearly believes that
postlapsarian humanity is inevitably a creature of the dust without the new saving para-
digm of Jesus. The Orthodox “Doxastikon at the Praises,” for the Feast of Annunciation,
proclaims: “Adam of old was deceived: Wanting to be God, he failed to be God. God
becomes man, so that He may make Adam God.”
cf. Eph 2:16).”62 Gross also notes how the theme of consubstantiality within
the trinity is extended to include baptized humankind; and he shows how the
fourth century teachings of Athanasius particularly develop an idea of consub-
stantiality with God for the faithful.63 Basil the Great of Cesarea (Cappadocia),
in the 4th century CE—around the time of Genesis Rabbah and Leviticus
Rabbah—expresses the same idea very beautifully, and also categorically as
deification:
When a sunbeam falls on a transparent substance, the substance itself

becomes brilliant and radiates light from itself. So too, Spirit-bearing
souls, illuminated by [Jesus-God], finally become spiritual themselves,
and their grace is sent forth to others. From this comes knowledge of the
future, understanding of mysteries, apprehension of hidden things, dis-
tribution of wonderful gifts, heavenly citizenship, a place in the choir of
angels, endless joy in the presence of God, becoming like God, and, the
highest of all desires, becoming God.
We can compare Basil’s concept that one becomes divine by first being shone
upon by God’s glory and then radiating divine glory oneself, or Paul’s concept
of baptism as becoming clothed in Christ so as to become part of the glorious
body of Christ (Gal 3), with a widespread midrashic theme in which donning
the fringed shawl is considered as wrapping oneself in divine glory so as to
shine with the radiance of God’s own presence.64 The rabbinic idea is usu-
ally hung exegetically upon a reading of “you shall see it” (Num 15:39)—that
is, the blue fringe—as “you shall see him”—that is, God—and often also on
Psalm 90:16, “Let your works [O God] appear to your servants and your splen-
dor upon their children.”65 Lest we suppose that the divine glory of the sacred
garment, however closely worn, is conceived in midrash as remaining external
62 Gross, The Divinization of the Christian, 84, and see his footnote 30 on the phrase εἰς
Χριστὸν ἐβαπτίσθητε (Gal 3:27).
63 Gross, The Divinization of the Christian, 168–69.
64 E.g., y. Ber. 1:2 (3c), and see David J. Halperin, The Faces of the Chariot: Early Jewish
Responses to Ezekiel’s Vision (Philadelphia: Coronet, 1988), 217–18 and the scholarship
cited there. The relatively late-redacted Midrash on Psalms (90:18) states the idea as fol-
lows: “When Israel covers up with fringes, let them not think that they are merely wearing
blue dye, rather Israel should contemplate the fringes as though they were wearing God’s
own glory.” The same segment of the Midrash on Psalms also suggests that Rebecca fell
from her camel when she espied Isaac because she saw him as the Angel of the Lord.
65 Compare also Gen Rab. 3:4, where God creates light by wrapping himself as with a gar-
ment, per Ps 104:2.
64 Steinberg
to the human wearer, rather than intrinsic, we should note how the theme of
clothing figures in Genesis Rabbah 21:5, already quoted in part above as evi-
dence of divinization in rabbinic thought. A view attributed to “the Rabbis”
in that midrash reads God’s statement that Adam was “as one of us” to mean
that Adam was like the angel Gabriel, per Ezek 9:2—“one in the midst of them
clothed in linen”—and also like a snail “whose garment is part and parcel
of itself.” The remark about the snail is incomprehensible, especially as the
culmination of the teaching, unless it means that attaining glorious identity
involves incorporating into oneself the radiance of the divine glory in which
one enfolds oneself. The odd simile of the snail becomes less perplexing in
view of Christian teachings about becoming one with the garment of divinity
in which one clothes oneself.
Rabbinic tradition most often emphasizes the two other verbs, aside from
seeing, that appear in connection with the fringes, namely, “and you shall
remember and do all the commandments of the Lord” (Num 15:39). The fringes
consistently figure in rabbinic thought as a mnemonic and an emblematic
instance of divine commandment, so the fringed garment is a banner for what
Christians would term ‘works of the law.’66 Divinizing rabbinic teachings that
feature the fringed garment resemble Christian thought inasmuch as they
share in a theme of enwrapping in divine glory so as to involve divinity in one-
self and radiate divine presence,67 but these teachings are also examples of
what I have termed ‘theosis through works of the law,’ and so they stand in
opposition to emergent Christianity.
Also by way of comparison with Christian thought on internalizing divin-
ity, we can note how Genesis Rabbah 39:11 begins a glorifying teaching about
Abraham by saying that the letter heh that was added to his name was none
other than the very letter with which God created the heavens and the earth.
The midrash goes on to say that Abraham, in that same moment, attained the
title “Creator of Heaven and Earth,” unmistakably God’s own sobriquet, and
that Abraham was so called because God deemed Abraham a partner in creat-
ing the world. God further says to Abraham in the midrash, “Hitherto, I had to
bless my world; henceforth, the blessings are entrusted to you; whomsoever
it pleases you to bless, bless.” Compare this to Basil’s teaching, quoted above,
with its “distribution of wonderful gifts,” its “sending forth of grace to others,”
its “becoming like God,” and even “the highest of all desires, becoming God.”
Yet the midrash in Genesis Rabbah 39:11 is distinctively rabbinic in a way that
66 E.g., Tanḫuma Koraḫ 12, b. Menaḥ. 43a.

67 Compare, too, the Babylonian Talmud’s statement, in Shabbat 25b, that on Sabbath eves,
Rabbi Yehudah bar Ilai would wrap himself in fringed sheets “and would resemble the
Angel of the Lord of Hosts.”
sets it apart from Basil and from other Christian thought. Abraham’s name and
his role—which is to say, his identity and his nature—converge with God’s
own for the sake of perfecting this present earthly world through righteous
action.68 Like the concept of Jacob as the bridge between heaven and earth,
which we have seen above, the midrash on Abraham is not as interested in
ascension, translation, or assumption of the human being into the heavenly
realm as it is in the perfecting of God’s earthly domain through the divine
human being—that is, fulfillment of the original divine potential of human-
kind not only in nature but in location.69
Leviticus Rabbah 36:4, in similarly glorifying terms, teaches divinization
of the human being in terms of world-making with an interpretation of
Isaiah 43:1—a verse that any scriptural reader not on the lookout for theosis
would likely skim through as being merely prefatory—“And now, thus says
the Lord, your Creator, Jacob, the One Who Shapes You, Israel.” Leviticus
Rabbah glosses:
Rabbi Pinchas in the name of Rabbi Reuben says: The Blessed Holy One
said to His world, “My world, my world, shall I tell you who creates you,
shall I tell you who shapes you? Jacob creates you; Israel shapes you—
as it is written, ‘your creator: Jacob; the one who shapes you: Israel.’ ”
An early rabbinic mind imbued with such an audacious teaching, and with the
others we have surveyed above, would likely consider the entire project of rab-
binic law—as embodied in the Mishnah, the halakhic midrashim, the emer-
gent Talmudic tradition—to be an enterprise of discerning and articulating
best practices for world-making, a sacred franchise for the exercise of divine
capacities with wisdom and devout care. Torah, in such a view, is not merely a
law entrusted to lowly and servile earth-creatures by a remote God dissimilar
from them in nature. Torah is the vehicle in which human and divine essences
converge, the means through which God achieves manifestation in human
aspect, and through which human beings attain divine aspect. If that concept
of Torah sounds remarkably like the Logos in Christian teachings on diviniza-
tion, the similarity is not a trivial coincidence.
68 The surrounding midrash is on the topic of God’s building Abraham into a great nation,
the merit of Abraham benefiting the world, and Abraham’s bringing the inhabitants
of the world to awareness of God and corresponding practices.
69 This may differ somewhat from a later attested rabbinic notion that the lifetimes of
Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob add up numerically to the distance between earth and heaven
(Num Rab. 18:21), a notion that arguably does aim upward and away from the material world.
66 Steinberg
7 Implanted Torah as Divine Nature
Often without thinking much about it, millions of Jews far and wide to this
day routinely avow that eternal life was implanted in us with the giving of the
Torah.70 What would the statement have meant in the world of the early rab-
bis? Compare, for example, Athanasius’s teaching that Christians “are divin-
ized by the Logos and from now on have as our inheritance an eternal life,”
a formulation that draws in turn on James’s concept of Christ as “implanted
Logos” in the lives of the faithful. In 4th century Alexandria, the influential
Didymus the Blind taught that when the Word of God comes to men and
dwells within them they are “deified by participation in the Word of God.”71
Compare, too, the earlier claim in the Epistle of Barnabas that the pre-existent
Christ, who participated in the world’s creation, now takes up residence in the
human heart and dwells within the faithful.72 Of course rabbinic religion dif-
fered pointedly with nascent Christianity over the identity and the imperatives
of Word. Yet there is remarkable similarity between the Christian idea of union
with God through participation in the Logos and the rabbinic concept of tak-
ing part in God’s nature and God’s presence through internalization of Torah.73
Judaism, too, evidently conceived of sharing in divine nature by becoming a
70 I refer of course to the closing blessing recited by each honoree in a public reading from
the Pentateuch: “Blessed are you, YHVH our God, Sovereign of the Cosmos, who gave us
a Torah of truth and implanted eternal life within us; blessed are you, YHVH, giver of the
Torah.” Millions of Jews are honored with the recitation of this blessing at some time or
another, and thus speak these words at some point in their lives.
71 Comm. Zach. 267. 4–13; and cf. 94. 23–95.5; Russell: The Doctrine of Deification, 154–61.
Jarl Fossum, in the title essay of The Image of the Invisible God, 19, notes that Philo “identi-
fies the divine image after which man was created as the Logos.” Fossum contrasts this
conception with Philo’s notion of “the heavenly or ideal Man,” and he says, “To Philo, the
likeness of man to God through the Logos is to be found in the mind (QG II: 62; Op mundi
69) while the Gnostics continued the genuinely Jewish tradition that the divine likeness
of man was to be found in the body.” In the midrash above, distinctly, we see a rabbinic
conception of the divine likeness in righteous action.
72 E.g., Barn 6:14–15. Second Clement, too, asserts that the Christ, and thus the Church,
pre-existed the sun and the moon (2 Clem 14:1)—“For she [the Church] was spiritual,
as was also our Jesus, but was revealed in the last days in order that she might save us.”
(2 Clem 14:2).
73 Daniel Boyarin has said, “Logos theology is not an essential and aboriginal distinguishing
mark of Christianity as opposed to Judaism but rather a common theological inheritance
that was construed and constructed as such a distinguishing mark via a virtual conspiracy
of orthodox theologians on both sides of the new border line” (Border Lines, 28–29).
vessel of divine indwelling through reception of God’s primordial and eternal

wisdom or word, identified as Torah.
The first midrash in Genesis Rabbah, glossing the first word of the Torah
in light of the eighth chapter of Proverbs, reads very much as a response or
counterpart to the opening of the Gospel of John, a Jewish answer to Logos-
theology and protology. In the beginning, says the midrash, was the Torah, with
God, mysteriously essential, intimate, treasured, and glorious—according to
the opening interpretations of Prov 8:30—and then, “The Blessed Holy One
looked into the Torah and created the world.” The pre-existent law, or word, is
translated into material form, and the implicit challenge is for human beings
to participate righteously and wisely in it. God looking into the Torah and cre-
ating the world makes for an elegant introduction to a midrashic corpus and
to the rabbinic enterprise entire, inasmuch as the work at hand is a matter of
‘looking into the Torah and creating.’ Beyond that analogical cleverness, the
first midrash in Genesis Rabbah strikingly opens the unitary God of Genesis to
an account of participatory union, reading bereshit not as “in the beginning,”
as we are wont to translate, but “with the first,” i.e. with Wisdom or with Torah
God created.74
Human likeness to God in respect of intimate and cosmos-shaping asso-
ciation with Torah proves to be much more than a matter of mere analogy or
imitation in much rabbinic thought. Personification of Torah, as epitomized in
midrash by the Israelite ancestors, is valorized as a path of glorification, a con-
vergence with God in essence. The consequence of manifesting the living (not
to say ‘incarnate’) Torah is conceived as a process of oneself becoming divine.
The following two adjoined teachings from Pesiqta Rabbati were redacted and
perhaps even first composed significantly later than the period under investi-
gation here,75 but they can start us well on a search for the roots of a concept
akin to Logos-mediated theosis in earlier rabbinic tradition. The teachings are
both based on Psalm 42:2, “My soul thirsts for Elohim,” read in conjunction
with Psalm 82:6, “I [God] have said, you are Elohim”—and the second teach-
ing in the sequence also depends on an interpretive reading of Genesis 27:28
as saying, “May he [God] give you the divine nature (ha’elohim) from the dew
of the heavens,” where “the dew of the heavens,” in the Sinaitic context of the
midrash, signifies Torah:
74 The very virtuosity of the midrash in Gen Rab. 1:1, elegantly circling back to its opening
text whilst completely undermining an accustomed reading of the lemma, literarily sug-
gests a mystery of human participation in divine creativity.
75 However, if scholarly attributions of this passage to Pesiqta Rabbati’s “Yelamdenu Source”
are correct, this teaching may originate as early as 400 CE.
68 Steinberg
Another interpretation: “My soul thirsts for Elohim”—for the time when
that same divine essence (otah ha’elohut) that you made me (she’asatani)
at Sinai will return—as it is written, “I have said, you are Elohim.”
Another interpretation: “My soul thirsts for Elohim”—that you all may
wear divinity (shetilbeshu elohim) as you wore at Sinai.76 Bring near the
time when you [God] unify your divine essence (elohutekha) in/with
your world, as it is written, “and the Lord shall become king over all the
earth”77—just as we interpret in the case of Jacob: “May he [God] give
you the divine nature (ha’elohim) from the dew of the heavens”—may he
give you divinity (yiten lecha elohut).78
The resounding clarity of theosis as the goal in these passages is striking. So too
is the resemblance of the homilist’s hope that his listeners will “wear Elohim”
to Paul’s parlance of clothing oneself in Christ (Gal 3:27). Distinctively Jewish,
on the other hand, is the assertion that God will achieve true sovereignty on
earth when Israel regains the divine aspect that the nation enjoyed for a brief
moment with the revelation of Torah at Sinai.
These teachings from Pesiqta Rabbati seem to draw upon an older midrashic
theme, evidenced, for example, in the Mekhilta of Rabbi Ishmael, in which
heavenly angels place crowns upon the Israelites and adorn them with cloaks
bearing the divine name as the Torah is revealed.79 Similarly, Leviticus Rabbah
11:3, in the name of Bar Kapara, echoes that same compilation’s nearby teach-
ing on the first human beings (Lev Rab. 11:1, quoted above) in saying that God
called the Israelites at Sinai divinities (elohot) and enabled them to fly over
the earth. As in the similar deifying teaching on Adam and Eve, quoted above,
the exegetical proof in Leviticus Rabbah 11:3 is from Proverbs 9:3–4, and so the
76 Here presumably we must imagine the homilist addressing a congregation of listeners.
77 The reference here is as much to the traditional rejoinder, “In that day God shall be One
and God’s name One,” as to the quoted scripture that follows. So the midrash alludes
again to divine unification in its teaching of human divinization.
78 Compare another relatively late midrash, Num Rab. 1:9, in which the scriptural phrase
“lift up the head,” used in the census of Israel (Num 4:22), is interpreted to mean, “I [God]
have conferred elevation on you and have likened you to me, for as I am exalted over all
mankind, as it is said, ‘To you, o Lord, is the grandeur,’ (1 Chr 29:11) so I have done for you
that you might be elevated.”
79 Mekhilta of Rabbi Ishmael, Bachodesh 3; and we may note, on the related theme of
immortality, that this adornment also shields Israel from the angel of death and from all
harm, according to that midrash. In Deut Rab. 7:9 the nations perceive Israel as divini-
ties (elohot) on account of the fire that goes before them in the desert, emanating from
between the carrying-poles of the ark that bears the Law.
midrash identifies the deified Israelites at Sinai, like the first human beings,
with the primordial figure of Wisdom in the Proverbs.80
In his study on deification in the Greek patristic tradition, Russell notes: “by
the time of the composition of the Book of Wisdom in the first century BCE . . .
wisdom is no longer a personification of the religion of Israel but a fig-
ure much closer to God himself. She is ‘a breath of the power of God,’ ‘a
pure emanation of the glory of the Almighty,’ ‘an image of his goodness.’
(Wis 7:25–26). People are said to be saved by her, for she is no longer dis-
tinct from God.”81 Russell observes that, for the just man, according to the
Book of Wisdom, “union with Wisdom makes him a throne partner with
her,” and Russell notes: “throne-partner is also used to express Wisdom’s rela-
tionship with God (9:4), implying that the just man who has united himself
with Wisdom can take his place in the divine council.” Compare Genesis
Rabbah 78:6, quoted above, and its claim of Jacob’s figuring with God on the
throne of glory, via the reading of Genesis 32:29 as “you rule with Elohim.” Jules
Gross, too, traces the theme of divinization through the Logos back to biblical
and intertestamental Wisdom-traditions.82
If nascent Christian thought drew on the idea of union with Wisdom in gen-
erating the concept of participatory union with God through the Logos, the
fathers of the Church also carried forward to an extreme the tendency that
Russell identifies in the Book of Wisdom, to dissociate the mediating figure
from the law of Israel. In Christianity, union with the Word came to mean a
merging of oneself with the person of the Christ, very much in opposition to
absorption with ‘works of the law.’ By contrast, early rabbis energetically resus-
citated the equation of the mediating figure with the religion of Israel—that
80 All this divine glory comes to an end, in each of these midrashim, with Israel’s misbehav-
ior in the sin of the golden calf. We may compare also Num Rab. 11:13, which echoes the
idea of angels trembling in the presence of righteous human beings—in this instance,
Michael and Gabriel in Moses’s presence prior to Israel’s transgression. The same segment
of Num Rab. pictures Israel undaunted within “seven partitions of fire” in the moment
of revelation, whereas, subsequent to their sin “they were unable to gaze even on the
intermediary [viz. Moses].” Num Rab. 2:25 also attributes to Rabbi Yochanan a teaching
saying that the seventy elders who ascended on Sinai imbibed the radiance of the divine
presence. Deut Rab. 10:2 says that “Moses came and made the earthy realm celestial,” and
there are many midrashim that bestow angelic nature on Moses (e.g., Gen Rab. 48:14;
Lev Rab. 13:4; Tanḥ. 16; b. Yoma 4b; Num Rab. 12:3, 15:4, 21:16, and Exod Rab. 1:20, 3:1
and 45:2).
81 Russell, The Doctrine of Deification, 56.
82 The Divinization of the Christian, especially 66–68.
70 Steinberg
is, they ubiquitously equated Wisdom and Torah. At the same time they main-
tained the belief that one might achieve companionship with God and divine
nature through self-identification with her.83
Participation in the covenant, as we have seen above in the prototypical case
of Abraham, dubbed “creator of heaven and earth” (Gen Rab. 39:11) is nothing
less than taking up the divine project of world-making. “The one who shapes
the world is Jacob; the one who creates the world is Israel,” as we have seen in
Leviticus Rabbah 36:4. If that is a vertiginously godlike mandate for a mere
earth-creature, it may be out of just such an admixture of dauntedness and
daring that Genesis Rabbah 69:2 interprets Gen 28:13 as saying, “And behold
the Lord stood upon him (alav)” and suggests not only companionship with
God but something like consubstantiality as well:
Rabbi Chama son of Chanina opened with “Iron sharpens iron.”

(Prov 27:17)
Said Rabbi Chama son of Chanina: A knife cannot be sharpened except
on the edge of its fellow. So too, a scholar is improved only by his fellow,
as it is said, “Iron sharpens (yichad) iron, and so a man with the face of his
fellow.”84
“A man”—that is Jacob. As soon as our father Jacob arose, there was
“a man with the face of his fellow (ish yahad p’nei re’ehu)”—in that the
Divine Presence joined with him (shenityaḫda ‘alav shekhinah), as it is
written, “And behold the Lord stood upon him (nitzav ‘alav).”
As iron improves iron, so too partners in the rabbinic discourse of Torah, and
so too God and Jacob, says this midrash. More than a statement of affinity, the
midrash suggests that God and Israel are like in substance, “iron with iron,”
at least as the latter becomes the vehicle for the former’s manifesting. Israel,
in the terms of this teaching, is a human being with the face of God—ish yaḫad
p’nei re’ehu.
Though later in redaction, a similar passage in the Babylonian Talmud’s
tractate Bava Batra 75b85, attributed to a rabbi of Mishnaic times, is worth
83 Relatedly, Lev Rab. 11:8 pictures God setting aside the angelic senate on high to join with
the council of sages below as they intercalate the calendar—thus this midrash apparently
advances into the present a fulfillment of the promise that the Sifre on Numbers detects
in Isa 24:23, to wit: that God will show respect to the learned rabbinic elders in the time to
come to an extent that will confound the sun and the moon.
84 Such is the reading of the verse in this midrash, as becomes clear in the continuation.
85 Paralleled in Yalkut Shimoni 229.
comparing with the above midrash, to observe how Talmudic tradition carried
the idea forward:
Rabbi Elazar said: There will come a time when “Holy!” will be said before
the righteous just as it is said before the Blessed Holy One—for it is said,
“It will come to pass that he who is left in Zion and he that remains in
Jerusalem will be called holy.” (Isa 4:3)
This Talmudic statement echoes Genesis Rabbah’s account of the angels’

impulse to direct their praise toward Adam in the beginning, and it vindicates
that initial divinizing view of humankind. The proof-text of the Talmudic exe-
gesis indicates the earthly realm, Zion and Jerusalem, as the locus of the glori-
fication. The glory is divine, the setting is earthly, the manifestation is human,
and righteousness brings all this about. Similarly, with regard to human and
divine sameness, the much later Midrash on Psalms asserts in its commentary
on Ps 22:8 that the Blessed Holy One calls righteous Israelites “my brothers and
friends.” Another late-redacted teaching, Deuteronomy Rabbah on Deut 1:10,
also strikingly asserts a tendency toward God’s own nature in heroes of the
rabbinic way of life. In fact the teaching seems to equate divinizing with rab-
binizing, so to speak:
“The Lord your God has increased you (hirbah etkhem) [one might read
“has made you rabbis”] and lo you are today like the stars of heaven, tend-
ing toward the Master (larov, read here as “larav”).”86
God says to Israel, Today you are “similar to the stars of heaven,” but in
the time to come, “to the Master” (larav)—you are destined to be similar
to your divine Master.
How so? It is written: “The Lord your God is a consuming fire,”
(Deut 4:24), and it is written, “The light of Israel shall be for a fire and his
holy one for a flame” (Isa 10:17).
Rabbi Levi said: Just as one who serves idols becomes like them, as it is
said, “Like them shall be their makers,” (Ps 115:8) he who serves the Holy
Blessed One will, all the more so, be like him.87
86 Such is this midrash’s interpretive reading of Deut 1:10, “aggrandized” rather than “mul-
tiplied,” and “toward the master” rather than “in number,” as becomes evident in the
continuation.
87 Compare the Midrash on Psalms 4:3 which asserts, on the basis of Ps 22:8, that the Blessed
Holy One refers to Israel as “my brothers and friends.”
72 Steinberg
8 Conclusion—Reclaiming Theosis for Judaism and Christianity
If there is reticence and resistance today in the Christian world regarding

the ancient concept of theosis,88 the irony is that Jews tend to resist the idea
of divinization because it sounds too Christian. The notion that God might
assume a human face, might become manifest to a redemptive end in a human
life, simply smacks too much of “that man,” as rabbinic parlance warily calls
Jesus. It is relatively easy to get Christian theologians to admit, however grudg-
ingly, that outright theosis exists in their heritage. The doctrine is spelled out
essay-wise in patristic teachings and in present-day catechism. Midrashic
aggadot being largely narrative dramatizations of value-concepts and elabo-
rations of laconic scriptural passages in the first place, it is possible for Jews
to choose a path of greater theological and interpretive comfort and insist on
seeing nothing like theosis in classical rabbinic thought.
Oddly, we are perhaps more comfortable with merkavah-ascents—with
esoteric otherworldly visions and adventures of scaling the heavens attributed
to venerable rabbinic heroes—than with the notion that we ourselves might
manifest divinity here and now. In this study I have chosen to leave aside the
Jewish mystical merkavah-literature and its early roots, not only because that
tradition comes to the fore in Jewish texts later than the period considered
here but also because I have endeavored to sketch a distinct, early rabbinic
concept of earthly divinization through righteous action. That concept, glo-
rious as its images are, has little to do with escaping the present world for
the heavens.
One might explain away the midrashim that I have presented here by say-
ing that early rabbis simply needed clever answers to the alluring teachings
of glorification that were being offered across the ancient marketplace of
88 The Orthodox Study Bible (Christian Eastern Orthodox, that is), in a note on “Deification”
printed between the two epistles of Peter, evidences a compulsion among some Christians
to negate vehemently the very concept that I have illustrated in this study: “What deifica-
tion is not: When the Church calls us to pursue godliness, to be more like God, this does
not mean that human beings then become divine. We do not become like God in His
nature. That would not only be heresy, it would be impossible. For we are human, always
have been human, and always will be human. We cannot take on the nature of God.”
I am grateful to Paul Kolbet for helping me to understand the admonition of that edito-
rial note as resting upon Eastern Christianity’s rejection of human participation in divine
substance, following Gregory Palamas’s distinction between God’s essence and energies,
rather than upon a complete rejection of deification. Still, the harsh and generalizing
language of the note, seeming as it does to quash any human hope for ‘becoming divine,’
would likely cause sorrow to the fathers of Christianity quoted in this study.
theological ideas and spiritual aspirations, in the early church. The authors
of these midrashim then would be something like the eighteenth- and
nineteenth-century rabbis of the Musar movement, who responded to the
ecstasies and perceived excesses of Hasidism, so alluring to their students,
by teaching that ultimate mystical exaltation could be achieved by hard work
at the study-table. That would be a carrot-and-stick account of the rabbinic
theme that we have seen here, and a cynical explanation.
Why did theosis assert itself as a devout aspiration in rabbinic midrash?
Because of Christianity? By way of competition? To keep a rebellious audience
enthralled in a rabbinic yoke? Probably. But probably also because yearning
for divine essence is, at least for many, a core element of spiritual experience,
deeper and earlier than any doctrine. Rather than regarding theosis primar-
ily as a concept that differentiates Christianity from Judaism, we should see
divinization as a common quest articulated in the formative stages of both
traditions.
Tannaitic legalists may have swept the Jewish yearning for divine nature
under the thick legislative carpet of the Mishnah, proscribing speculation
on “that which is above, that which is below, that which was before, and that
which will be after,”89 defining “the four cubits of halakha,” so to speak, as the
proper sphere of human life. Yet the aggadic tradition that goes hand in hand
with rabbinic law, from the earliest sources onward, indicates that, at least in
the view of some rabbis, the work to be done in the four cubits of earthly action
is the work of manifesting divinity, the work of becoming divine.90
89 m. Ḥag. 2:1.

90 It is bittersweet to offer this article to a volume in memory of our teacher, Alan F. Segal,
of blessed memory. So rooted in my years of study with Alan are the central ideas of this
essay and its comparative approach that, when I first contemplated this project, I wrote
by email to Alan asking whether I would be poaching on his turf by undertaking this
exploration. Alan replied that he had once, long ago, thought of writing an essay along
similar lines, but had set the idea aside, and he urged me, “Go ahead.” There is nobody
with whom I would rather share this work than Alan; it is in large measure the fruit of his
generosity and it would doubtless be better had I been able to share it with him and hear
his comments.
CHAPTER 3
From the Covenant of the Rainbow to the Covenant

at Sinai, from the Pilgrimage to the Temple to the
Vision of the Chariot, from the Blessing of the First
Fruits to the Priestly Blessing, and from the Tiqqun
leil Shavuʿot to the Revelation of the Shekhinah
Rachel Elior*
The festival of Shavuot (lit., “weeks”)—the fourth of the seven “appointed

times of the Lord” detailed in the Pentateuch and one of the three pilgrimage
festivals—is known in the Pentateuch by four names. In the book of Exodus,
it is expressly mentioned as one of the pilgrimage festivals and termed the
“Feast of the Harvest” (Exod 23:14–16); it is later called the “Feast of Weeks, of
the first fruits of the wheat harvest” (Exod 34:22). In Leviticus (23:15–22), it is
mentioned in detail as the day on which “you shall bring an offering of new
grain to the LORD,” associated with the counting of seven full weeks from “the
day after the Sabbath,” following the time for harvesting the first sheaf (“omer”;
Lev 23:10–11). In Deuteronomy, the holiday is called the “Feast of Weeks” in the
context of the instruction that “You shall count off seven weeks; start to count
the seven weeks when the sickle is first put to the standing grain. Then you shall
observe the Feast of Weeks [ẖag shavuʿot] for the LORD your God, offering your
freewill contribution according as the LORD your God has blessed you. You
* A version of this essay appears as ‘The Unknown Mystical History of the Festival of Shavu’ot’
in Studies In Spirituality (2016): 26. Reprinted with permission of Peeters Publishers.
Translated from the Hebrew by Joel Linsider. Except as noted below and elsewhere in the
article, translations from primary sources and Hebrew secondary materials are by the pres-
ent translator, as are all footnotes. Except as otherwise noted, the following translations of
ancient texts have been used:
Hebrew Bible: New Jewish Publication Society Tanakh (NJPS).
Apocrypha and New Testament: New Revised Standard Version Bible.
Jubilees: translation by O. S. Wintermute, in OTP 2:35–142.
1 Enoch: 1 Enoch, translated by Ephraim Isaac, in OTP 1:5–90.
Qumran literature (Dead Sea Scrolls): Geza Vermes, The Complete Dead Sea Scrolls in
English (New York: Penguin Books, 1997) (referred to as Vermes) or Florentino García
Martínez and Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar, The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition (Leiden: Brill;
Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000) (referred to as DSSSE).

From the Covenant of the Rainbow to the Covenant at Sinai 75
shall rejoice before the LORD your God . . . at the place where the LORD your
God will choose to establish His name” (Deut 16:9–11). The joy of the festival is
associated with the pilgrimage to the sacred place, as stated in Deuteronomy,
and the occasion is termed “the day of the first fruits” in Numbers 28:26 on
account of the first fruits of the wheat harvest brought to the sanctuary
on that day by those who had been blessed with the harvest and were com-
ing to appear before God. The festival sacrifices, offered by the priests at the
sanctuary and including the “offering of new grain to the Lord on your Feast
of Weeks [on which] you shall observe a sacred occasion” (Num 28:26) are
described there in detail.
Rather astonishingly, therefore, this central festival—known variously
as the Feast of the Harvest and the Feast of the First Fruits of the Wheat
Harvest, the day of the first fruits, the Feast of Weeks, the festival observed
on the fiftieth day, after counting seven weeks, one of the three pilgrimage
festivals, the feast of the harvest blessing and the feast of the offering of new
grain—is not mentioned by any of its biblical names in the early rabbinic tradi-
tion recorded in the Mishnah. The rabbis identify no commandment uniquely
dependent on the Feast of Weeks, which is based on the precise counting of
seven Sabbaths or seven weeks, known as the “counting of the omer,” that pre-
cedes the pilgrimage to the sanctuary, and the Mishnah likewise contains no
tractate devoted to the holiday and named for it, analogous to the tractates
devoted to other holidays (such as Sukkah, Pesaḥim, or Yoma). Compounding
one’s surprise at the omission of the festival from mishnaic tradition and the
single fleeting reference to it as an aside in the Tosefta is the perplexing sup-
pression of the ancient tradition’s explicitly stated time for observing it. That,
in turn, becomes even more perplexing given that holiday is known in the
ancient, pre-Christian-era priestly tradition recorded in the book of Jubilees as
the day of testimony, the festival of the giving of the Torah, the festival of the
covenants, the festival observed by the angels, and the festival associated with
Ezekiel’s vision and the tradition of the chariot. In the Temple Scroll found
at Qumran, the festival of Shavuot is described in a manner that blends vari-
ous biblical traditions and emphasizes the holiday’s place in the sanctuary and
in the service of priests who wave the sheaf; it appears in the context of the
cycle of seven weeks between the first fruits of the barley harvest and the first
fruits of the wheat harvest:
You shall count seven complete Sabbaths from the day of your bring-
ing the sheaf of [the wave-offering. You shall c]ount until the morrow
of the seventh Sabbath. You shall count [fifty] days. You shall bring a
new grain-offering to YHWH from your homes, [a loaf of fine fl]ou[r],
freshly baked with leaven. They are firstfruits to YHWH, wheat bread,
76 Elior
twe[lve cakes, two] tenths of fine flour in each cake . . . the tribes of Israel.
They shall offer . . . their [grain-offerin]g and dr[ink-offering] according
to the statute. The [priests] shall wave . . . [wave-offering with the bread
of] the firstfruits. They shall b[elong to] the priests and they shall eat
them in the [inner] court[yard], [as a ne]w [grain-offering], the bread
of the firstfruits. Then . . . new bread from freshly ripened ears. [On
this] da[y] there shall be [a holy gathering, an eter]nal [rule] for their
generations. [They] shall [do] no work. It is the feast of Weeks and the
feast of Firstfruits, an eternal[l] memorial. (Temple Scroll, XVIII–XIX,
Vermes, 195)
The festival of Shavuot was known in antiquity as the festival of Pentecost, as

in the book of Tobit, which describes the pilgrimage and refers to “our festival
of Pentecost, which is the sacred festival of weeks” (Tob 1:6–8; 2:1), and in 2
Macc 12:31 and Josephus (Ant. 13:252; J.W. 1:253). In Christian circles, Pentecost
was the festival on which the Holy Spirit alit on the Apostles in Jerusalem in
connection with the renewal of the covenant (Acts 2:1–4). Early midrashim
from the Land of Israel associate the festival of Shavuot with the angels and
with the Chariot tradition tied to the revelation at Sinai: “The Holy One Blessed
Be He descended on Sinai with 22,000 bands of ministering angels. Another
comment: ‘God’s chariots are myriads upon myriads, thousands upon thou-
sands’ (Ps 68:18); this teaches that 22,000 chariots descended with the Holy
One Blessed Be He, and each and every chariot was as the vision seen by
Ezekiel” (Pesiq. Rab Kah., Ba-ẖodesh ha-shelishi, 107b). The holiday was linked
in the early Jewish-Christian tradition with the receiving of the Torah from the
angels, as suggested by the comments of Stephen, the first Christian martyr,
who was stoned to death in Jerusalem. Stephen rebuked the High Priest who
served during the fourth decade of the first century CE: “You are the ones that
received the law as ordained by angels” (Acts 7:53). Even earlier, in the mystical
tradition of the Dead Sea Scrolls, the festival of Shavuot was the festival of the
vision of the Chariot, linked to the world of the cherubim and angels, and early
in the first millennium BCE, it was the festival associated with the renewal of
the Sinai covenant during the third month of the year (2 Chr 15:10–15). In kab-
balistic lore based on ancient traditions, the festival that renewed the giving of
the Torah and the Sinaitic covenant was regarded as the time of the nuptials
between the Holy One Blessed Be He and the Shekhinah,1 and the tiqqun leil
1 The Shekhinah refers variously to God’s presence, often personified in feminine form, or to
the feminine qualities within God, again often personified as a separate entity. The word is
first attested in rabbinic Hebrew (Yoma 10, 21b; Brechot 6) and in the Shemone-Esre prayer.
shavuʿot—a ritual of staying awake all Shavuot night, engaged in study and
prayer—was the occasion for readying the bride for her nuptials. That descrip-
tion is based on the portrayal of the Sinaitic covenant as a marriage bond
between God and the congregation of Israel; and that, in turn, is connected
to the wedding descriptions in the Song of Songs, which tannaitic tradition
says was recited at the revelation at Sinai (Song Rab. 81:2). In the debate over
whether Song of Songs should be deemed canonical, R. Akiva called the book
the “holy of holies,” saying that “The entire world is not as worthy as the day
on which the Song of Songs was given to Israel; for all the scriptures are holy,
but Song of Songs is holy of holies” (m. Yad. 3:5). The song that was given at
the Sinai revelation is taken to refer to the day of the giving of the Torah as
a wedding day, to the groom who gives the Torah and to the congregation of
Israel, His bride: “O maidens of Zion, go forth and gaze upon King Solomon wear-
ing the crown that his mother gave him on his wedding day—this is the time of
the giving of the Torah; on his day of bliss—this is the building of the Temple”
(m. Taʿan. 4:8). “On his wedding day—this is Sinai, which was his wedding, as it
is said, ‘stay pure today and tomorrow’2 [Exod 19:10]. On the day of his bliss—
this is the giving of the Torah, as it is said, ‘He gave it [the Torah] to Moses
when he finished [ke-khaloto] speaking with him’ [Exod 31:18]. But the ketiv is
‘his bride’ [ke-khalato]” (Num Rab. 12:8).3
1 The Absence of the Festival of Weeks from Rabbinic Memory
Nevertheless, for reasons that will be explained presently, the authors of the
Mishnah preferred to suppress these ancient traditions and to avoid drawing
explicit connections between the festival of Shavuot and the day of the giv-
ing of the Torah, between the giving of the Torah and the revelation of the
Chariot, and between the revelation at Sinai and the day of testimony, the day
when the covenant was renewed at the time of the wheat harvest. Instead, they
passed in silence over the priestly, mystical traditions associated with the oath,
the covenant and its renewal, the giving of the Torah, the divine revelation at
Sinai, the encounter the angels, and the Chariot. They repressed this rich col-
lection of memories when they struck the name “Shavuot” and instead referred
to the sacred occasion by the rootless name “Aẕeret” (lit., assembly), disre-
garded the renewal of the covenant, and forbade expounding the passage
2 The Hebrew translated “stay pure” is ve-qidashtem. Literally, it means “sanctify yourselves,”
but qiddushin also refers to marriage (more specifically, betrothal).
3 Ketiv refers to the Masoretic written consonantal text; it is distinguished from the qeri, the
text as vocalized and read.
78 Elior
in Ezekiel that describes the Chariot or reading it as the prophetic portion

(haftarah) in the synagogue. During the first generations following the destruc-
tion of the Temple, the sages relegated the tradition of the oaths and the cov-
enants to the domain of the forgotten. They did so when they argued with the
Sadducees over when the holiday was properly to be celebrated; when they
ordained the counting of seven weeks from the day following the first day of
Passover instead of counting seven weeks from the day after the Sabbath fol-
lowing the full week of Passover; and when they forbade the reading Ezekiel’s
vision of the Chariot, which had been associated with the festival of Shavuot,
determining instead that “one does not read the Chariot [as the prophetic pas-
sage] for Shavuot (m. Meg. 4:10). The commandments related to the first-fruits
festival are very briefly treated in the Mishnah; the sages devote to it only a few
lines in tractate Bikkurim, which deals primarily with the agricultural aspects
of the first-fruit offering and therefore appears in the order Zeraʿim, pertaining
to agricultural matters, rather than in the order Moʿed, where the other festi-
vals are considered. No attention is devoted specifically to the wheat harvest,
which is conflated with the first fruits that are harvested in the seventh month;
the festival is referred to not as Shavuot (Weeks) but as Aẕeret (Assembly); no
gemara was written about this mishnaic passage; and no unique customs are
associated with the holiday. Moreover, the mishnaic passage omits all mention
of cherubim and angels; and it transforms the holiday’s association with the
vision of the Chariot and the angels into a covert tradition. To do so, it rules
that “the [passage concerning the] Chariot is not expounded” and “the [pas-
sage concerning the] Chariot is not read as the prophetic reading.” Moreover,
the sages deemed the written traditions that discuss the Chariot, linked to the
Holy of Holies, and that expand upon the celestial chariots, associated with
the calendar for Temple service, to be “external books” (i.e., the non-canonical
works of the Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha) not to be read. The absence of
the festival of Weeks from rabbinic memory is striking, as is the sages’ reluc-
tance to deal with it as the festival of the giving of the Torah and the entry into
the covenant, the festival of the written Torah and of the Chariot, the festival
observed by the angels, the festival of the offering of new grain and the wav-
ing of the first-fruit offering, associated with the counting of seven weeks, or
as “[a holy gathering, an eter]nal [rule] for their generations. . . . It is the feast
of Weeks and the feast of Firstfruits, an eternal[l] memorial” (Temple Scroll
XIX, Vermes, 195). It appears that these phenomena are all associated with
the fact that the pre-Common-Era priestly traditions that appear in the Dead
Sea Scrolls and in parallels in the Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha assign the
festival of Shavuot a central place as the festival of renewal of the covenant
observed by the angels in heaven (Jubilees 6:18) and the priests on earth.
And so, for example, the second-century-BCE book of Jubilees tells of the
covenant entered into with Noah during the third month, at the conclusion
of the flood: “He set his bow in the clouds for a sign of the covenant which
is forever. . . . Therefore it is ordained and written in the heavenly tablets
that they should observe the feast of Shebuot [Weeks/oaths] in this month,
once per year, in order to renew the covenant in all (respects), year by year.
And all of this feast was celebrated in heaven from the day of creation until the
days of Noah. . . .” (Jubilees 6:16–18). The parallel version in Gen 9:16–17 says
nothing of the date or of the renewal of the covenant: “ ‘When the bow is in the
clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and
all living creatures, all flesh that is on the earth. That,’ God said to Noah, ‘shall
be the sign of the covenant that I have established between Me and all flesh
that is on earth.’ ” The rainbow is elsewhere mentioned in the Hebrew Bible
only in Ezekiel’s vision, which also forms part of the tradition regarding cov-
enants in the third month, as will be explained below. In Jubilees, the holiday
is termed “the festival of the renewal of the covenant,” a name derived from
the command just quoted: “they should observe the feast of Shebuot in this
month, once per year, in order to renew the covenant in all (respects), year by
year.” It is referred to as well as a day of testimony and a holy day (Jubilees 6:12,
36–37) and as a twofold feast (Jubilees 6:21); and numerous traditions linking
the Patriarchs to the covenants and the angels who enter into a covenant in the
third month are associated with it (Jubilees 14:18–20; 15:1–15; 16:13–14).
The name Shavuot is associated not only with weeks (shavuʿot) but also with
oaths (shevuʿot) and covenant. It is tied to the covenant entered into between
God, the liberator from servitude, and those who left Egypt and attained free-
dom from servitude. That covenant was entered into at Mount Sinai, after the
passing of seven weeks from the start of the Israelites’ journey through the wil-
derness, which had begun on the twenty-sixth day of the month declared to be
the first [Nisan]: “This month shall mark for you the beginning of the months;
it shall be the first of the months of the year for you” (Exod 12:2).
The festival of Shavuot is known in the book of Jubilees as the time for
renewal of the ancient covenants entered into on that occasion: the covenant
of the rainbow, entered into with Noah during the third month, as described
earlier, and the covenant between the pieces entered into with Abraham
at the mid-point of the third month (Jub 14:10). The angels are those who
execute the covenant, as the angel of the presence says: “And on that day
[the mid-point of the third month], we made a covenant with Abram, just as
we had made a covenant in that month with Noah. And Abram renewed the
feast and the ordinance for himself forever” (Jub 14:20). Like every one of
the seven appointed times of the Lord, the festival of Shavuot forms a crossroads
80 Elior
of remembrance and forgetting, canonization and censorship, hegemonic

memory and alternative memory, transmission and loss. It is a holiday linked
to the struggle over memory and the weaving of historical alternatives from
antiquity to our own time, and it is linked as well to polemics and disputes
that have been little considered and that most have preferred to pass over
in silence.
The history of the hidden festival of Shavuot is linked to three disputes that
raged in late antiquity: one between the Zadokite priests and the Hasmonean
priests during the second century BCE; one between the Sadducees and the
Pharisees during the first century BCE and first century CE; and one between
the sages and the Jewish-Christians during the first and second centuries CE.
For the priests of the House of Zadok, Shavuot occupied a central and sacred
place as the festival of the covenants and oaths executed during the third
month and of the renewal of the covenant at that time. This is evident from
passages in Jubilees and the Temple Scroll, from the account of the giving
of the Torah that appears in the Dead Sea Scrolls, from the calendar appearing
at the beginning of the letter in the Dead Sea Scrolls known as Miqẕat maʿaseh
ha-torah (“Some Observances of the Law,” abbreviated as MMT), and from
the beginning of the Dead Sea “Community Rule,” all of which were written
during the last centuries BCE. The sages, however, who were active following
the destruction of the Second Temple, sought to suppress the traditions asso-
ciated with this priestly festival—the festival of the covenant and the testi-
mony, of the angels and the Chariot; the festival of the Zadokite priests and of
the pilgrimage to the Temple. They did so during the first centuries follow-
ing the destruction of the Temple, an event that necessarily entailed the aboli-
tion of the sacred Temple service and the rejection of the cultic and mystical
priestly tradition set forth in the written Torah and its Dead Sea Scroll expan-
sions. All of those texts without exception were considered sacred scriptures,
and many were linked to the Zadokite priests and their covenantal associates,
the angels.
2 Zadokite Priests and the Priestly Calendar
The priests of the House of Zadok were a dynasty that served as High Priests
for nearly a millennium, from the time of Aaron the priest until 175 BCE. In the
tradition of the rabbinic sages, they are known as Sadducees and Boethians; in
Hellenistic literature they are known as the House of H̱ onyo, named for H̱ onyo
ben Simeon III, the last Zadokite priest to serve in the Temple in Jerusalem;
and in the Dead Sea Scrolls they are known as the Zadokite priests and the
men of their covenant, named for Zadok ben Aẖituv, the priest who served as
the “first among the sons of Phineas” in Jerusalem at the time of King David,
as mentioned in the Joshua Apocryphon. The Bible tells that Zadok was the
priest who served in the time of King David (2 Sam 8:17; 15:24–29) and anointed
Solomon as David’s successor (1 Kgs 1:34, 39–45). Toward the end of the First
Temple period, they are referred to as the sons of Zadok, in view of the words
of the priest and prophet Ezekiel: “the priests who perform the duties of the
altar—they are the sons of Zadok, who alone of the descendants of Levi may
approach the LORD to minister to Him” (Ezek 40:46; 43:19; 44:15; 48:11). Zadok
ben Aẖituv’s lineage goes back to Aaron, the priest, progenitor of the High
Priesthood (Ezra 7:2–5; Neh 11:11; 1 Chr 16:39), and his descendants served in
Solomon’s Temple until the time of Seraiah, the chief priest, who was exiled
with King Jehoiachin (1 Kgs 4:2; 2 Kgs 25:18; 1 Chr 5:29–34, 38; 9:11; 2 Chr 31:10).
Thereafter, the descendants of Seraiah’s grandson, Joshua ben Jehozadak,
served in the Second Temple from the return from the Babylonian Exile until
the time of Antiochus Epiphanes, who conquered Jerusalem in 175 BCE. The
dispute between the Zadokite priests and the sages regarding the time for
harvesting the omer and the consequent time for the festival of Shavuot is
known as a dispute between Sadducees and Pharisees, but it was preceded
by the intense conflict between the displaced Zadokite priests, who main-
tained the use of a solar calendar, and the Hasmonean priests who supplanted
them and maintained the use of a lunar calendar. For 120 years, from the mid-
dle of the second century BCE until the time of Herod, during the final third
of the first century BCE, the Hasmonean priests took the place of the Zadokite
priests. In general, little attention is devoted to the nature of these disputes,
which related to the festival of Shavuot, the festival of the renewal of the cov-
enant and the time of the priestly blessing, and were tied to the dispute over
the fixed weekly calendar vs. the variable monthly calendar and to the dispute
over the times of the harvest. That lack of attention may be attributable to the
complexity of the disputes’ historical context, to the widespread anachronistic
tendency to read ancient history exclusively through the rabbinic tradition,
or to the struggles over remembrance and forgetting that have been waged
through the ages, from antiquity until our own time.
The disputes over the festival of Shavuot—its names and timing, the
commandments that depend on it, and the memories associated with it—
are connected to the polemic over the calendar and the struggle over who had
the authority to fix it and determine the premises that would guide its calcula-
tion. The Torah, in the formulation adopted by the sages following the destruc-
tion of the Temple, does not specify a fixed number of days in a year or in a
month, does not specify a day of the week to be associated in advance with
82 Elior
the date for any of the seven fixed festivals of the Lord, and lacks a set time
for the festival of Shavuot. In contrast, the parallel and earlier versions of the
Torah found among the Dead Sea Scrolls, written by the “priests of the House
of Zadok and the men of their covenant,” contain a fixed time for Shavuot,
known and calculated in advance—Sunday, the fifteenth day of the third
month, seven weeks after the day of waving the sheaf; the latter observance
likewise is always on a Sunday, the twenty-sixth day of the first month. The
difference between the two perspectives flowed from the view of the Zadokite
priests and the men of their covenant that the Temple was to follow a fixed,
364-day solar calendar, known and calculated in advance. The calendar was
made known by the angels to Enoch son of Jared, of the seventh Adamite gen-
eration (Gen 5:21–24; Jubilees 4:16–25) and is associated with various events
in the tradition of the books of Genesis and Jubilees. The calendar began each
year with the first day of the first month (Exod 12:2), which always fell on a
Wednesday, the day on which the sun, moon, and stars were created; it was
the first day of the month of Nisan, the day of the vernal equinox. The year
thus began with the day on which the heavenly luminaries were created, in the
first month, also known as the month of Abib, from which cyclical and eternal
Jewish time was counted—a time system encompassing cycles of respite from
servitude. The times of respite were termed in the Bible “the appointed times
of the Lord” and were tied to the counting of seven-based cycles that establish
the covenant. In the book of Exodus, the first month is the month of transi-
tion from enslavement to liberty, and it is the point from which one begins to
count the Sabbaths and the seven appointed times of the Lord. Time is marked
by Sabbaths, by the seven appointed times, and by sabbatical years and jubi-
lees, all of which point to the covenant through sacred seven-based cycles.
This seven-based cycle is introduced by “These are the set times of the Lord,
the sacred occasions, which you shall celebrate each at its appointed time”
(Lev 23:4) and is detailed in Leviticus 23; it is referred to in the Scrolls as
“appointed times of freedom.” These seven appointed times, in the first seven
month of the year, and the cycles of sabbatical years and jubilees associated
with them in the seven-based cycles of respite, are tied to the commandments
made known in the covenant entered into in the third month on the festival of
Shavuot, in the encounter at Sinai.
The Dead Sea Scrolls version of “The Book of Heavenly Luminaries,” a por-
tion of 1 Enoch (chapters 72–82), tells of the receipt of the calendar from the
angels, and Jubilees (chapter 6) recounts the flood story as the story of the cal-
culation of the calendar. According to both of these texts, the year is divided
into four equal quarters of ninety-one days each. The first day of each quar-
ter is called the “day of remembrance.” As already noted, the first day of the
year is invariably a Wednesday, the day on which the heavenly luminaries were
created; it is the day of remembrance on the first day of the first month. Each
of the quarters, corresponding to the four seasons of the year, likewise begins
on a Wednesday: the first of Nisan, corresponding to the vernal equinox; the
first of Tammuz, the summer solstice; the first of Tishri, the autumnal equi-
nox; and the first of Tevet, the winter solstice. Each quarter began with the
day of remembrance on a Wednesday, encompassed thirteen Sabbaths with
designated dates, and continued for thirteen identical weeks. The first Sabbath
would fall invariably on the fourth day of the first month of the quarter, and
the final Sabbath, the thirteenth in the quarter, would fall on the twenty-eighth
of the third month.
The festival of Shavuot, on this calendar, always falls on the day follow-
ing the eleventh Sabbath of the first quarter, that is, Sunday, the fifteenth day
of the third month. All of the quarters are marked by a similar, regular divi-
sion into thirteen Sabbaths having fixed dates, known in advance: the first
Sabbath in the quarter falls on the fourth day of the first, fourth, seventh,
and tenth months, respectively, and the final Sabbath in the quarter falls on
the twenty-eighth day of the third, sixth, ninth and twelfth months, respec-
tively. Each month numbered thirty days, and at the end of the third month
in each quarter—which always ended on a Tuesday—an additional day was
added, making for a month of thirty-one days. This additional day, the ninety-
first in the quarter, was called “yom paguʿa,” (“the meeting day”). Once every
seven years, during the sabbatical year, an extra week appears to have been
added in order to make up the difference between the 364 days of their cal-
endar and the solar year of 365¼ days, a period well known in antiquity and
referred to in 2 Enoch. They may have added two weeks once every twenty-
eight years in order to make up the missing quarter day. They selected a year
of 364 days rather than of 365¼ days, as astronomical calculation of the solar
year would require, because the priestly calendar was one of fixed Sabbaths,
calculated in advance and based on a symmetric division of the days of the
year and its seasons into equal seven-day periods. The symmetrical yearly cal-
endar of identical weekly and quarterly periods comprised fifty-two weeks, as
detailed in the Psalms Scroll found in Qumran Cave 11, and was divided into
four equal, 91-day periods, as detailed in Enoch and Jubilees. On this fixed,
mathematically calculated calendar, which provided the underpinnings for
the priestly sacred service and was anchored in oath and covenant, each
Sabbath and each of the seven appointed times of the Lord, in the first seven
month of the year, had a fixed day, a fixed date, and a fixed interval between
it and the appointed time that preceded it. The three pilgrimage festivals fell
on the fifteenth of the first, third, and seventh months. Thus, the festival of
Shavuot—the appointed time of the first fruits of the wheat harvest, set by
Scripture at seven weeks following the time of the barley harvest—invariably
84 Elior
fell on Sunday, the fifteenth of the third month, seven weeks after the time of
the waving of the sheaf. The latter, according to the priestly calendar, invari-
ably fell on the Sunday following the conclusion of the Passover festival, the
twenty-sixth of the first month. This 364-day, 52-week calendar is referred to
at various points in the Dead Sea Scrolls. It begins with the month of Abib
(that is, Nisan) and, as noted, comprises four 91-day seasons (Jubilees 6:23–29);
they are known as the season of harvest, the summer time, the season of sowing,
and the season of grass (Community Rule, 1QS X:7). The calendar is discussed
in various traditions, beginning with the books of Jubilees and Enoch, continu-
ing through the Qumran Psalms Scroll and the calendar at the beginning of
MMT, and culminating in the Temple Scroll, the Priestly Courses Scroll and the
Qumran version of the flood story, which is an account of the determination of
the yearly calendar.4 All of the Zadokite priestly traditions are identical in this
regard, emphasizing the fixed 364-day year divided into fifty-two weeks that
were allocated to the twenty-four priestly courses (1 Chr. 24) who served in the
Temple for one week at a time on a fixed rotation and after whom the weeks of
the festivals were named. The Qumran Priestly Courses Scroll enumerates the
cycles of service (kept by songs sung by the priests as indicated in the Psalms
Scroll from Qumran cave 11) over a period of hundreds of years. During the
six-year period between sabbatical years, each of the twenty-four courses of
priests was on duty thirteen times for a week at a time and followed the service
cycles listed in the Priestly Courses Scroll. The priestly courses—the groups
who maintained the rotation in the sanctuary—were endowed with respon-
sibility for the eternal priestly covenant; they observed the continuous annual
cycle of fifty-two Sabbaths and seven appointed times of the Lord along with
the seven-year cycle of sabbatical years and jubilees. These cycles were the
essence of the eternal testimony to the sacred cycles of respite (“the appointed
times of the Lord, holy convocations”) that maintain the covenant; accord-
ingly, the festival of Shavuot, which attests to them, is called “the day of tes-
timony.” The cycles embodied the essence of the oath taken at Sinai, the oath
that the festival of Shavuot was meant to maintain and renew annually. Once
each of the priestly courses had served thirteen times over six years, the sev-
enth year was declared to be a sabbatical year in which work ceased, just as the
seven days of the week concluded with the seventh day, the Sabbath, on which
all labor was forbidden. After seven seven-year cycles—forty-nine years—a
jubilee year was declared. The twenty-four priestly courses were a living litur-
gical calendar, for their rotation into and out of service every Sunday marked
the start of the new week and their rotation after fifty-two weeks marked the
4 The priestly courses are detailed in: Qumran Cave 4: Calendrical Texts, DJD XXI (eds.)
Sh. Talmon, J. Ben Dov and U. Glessmer, Oxford 2001.
start of a new year. The completion of thirteen cycles of service by each of the
twenty-four courses marked the time for the sabbatical year, and the comple-
tion of ninety-one cycles of service marked the time for the jubilee. The rigor-
ous observance of these eternal and sacred seven-based cycles of respite from
labor—fixed and calculated in advance as cycles of rest, sabbatical year, equal-
ity, freedom, and liberty, and made known from the heavens through the oath
and covenant at Sinai—were regarded by the Zadokite priests as the essence
of the oath and covenant maintained by the festival of Shavuot and written in
the tablets of the covenant.
*The Seleucid-Greek Lunar Calendar and the Priestly Solar Calendar—Sons

of Light against Sons of Darkness
According to the priestly historiography, this solar calendar of Sabbaths, math-

ematically calculated in advance and always beginning in the month of Abib
(Nisan) was followed in the sanctuary from the time of the High Priest Zadok
son of Ahituv, who served in the First Temple and whose descendants are
referred to by the prophet Ezekiel—himself a priest—as “the levitical priests
who are of the stock of Zadok, and so eligible to minister to Me” (Ezek 43:19).
It remained in force until 175 BCE, the year in which the Seleucid king
Antiochus Epiphanes, the son of Antiochus III (a descendant of Alexander
the Great’s successors) came to power. He conquered Jerusalem and imposed,
in the Temple as throughout his dominions, the Seleucid-Greek calendar
(Dan 7:25; 11:31). That calendar, instituted for administrative reasons, was a
lunar calendar whose year began in the fall; it was based on human obser-
vation of the moon and required intercalation to keep the lunar and solar
years synchronized—something not contemplated by the Bible. The High
Priest serving in Jerusalem at the time—H̱ onyo ben Simeon, the last of the
Zadokite priests—rejected Antiochus’s demand to institute the lunar calendar
with its variable number of days. He insisted that there could be no change
in the sacred, 364-day solar calendar with its spring-time New Year, a calen-
dar that was based on divinely revealed fixed calculations and that provided
the basis for the entire sacred service of the priestly courses. For his defiance,
H̱ onyo II was ousted by Antiochus from his position as High Priest. He escaped
to Egypt where he had established a sanctuary known as Honyo’s Temple in
Leontopolis in the region of Heliopolis in the early sixtees of the second cen-
tury BCE. According to a different tradition, recorded in 2 Maccabees,5 in
5 That had been contested recently by Meron M. Piotrkowski in his dissertation ‘Priests
in exile: The history of the Temple of Onias and its community in the Hellenistic period
(Hebrew University Jerusalem, 2014).
86 Elior
171 BCE, Onias was murdered by Andronicus, an agent of the Hellenizing

High Priest Menelaus, whom Antiochus had appointed (2 Mc 4:23–29). From
175 to 164 BCE, Antiochus appointed a series of Hellenizing high priests who
purchased the position and obeyed Antiochus’s directive to change the cal-
endar. Three Hellenizing priests—Jason, Menelaus, and Alcimus—served in
place of the ousted Zadokite priests between 175 and 159 BCE. In the wake of
the Hasmonean war against Antiochus (167–164 BCE) and the corrupt and
defiling calendar and ritual that he imposed on the Temple (Dan 11: 31–32;
2 Macc 6:1–7), the Hasmonean dynasty came to power, serving as High Priests
from 152 to 37 BCE. During that long period, the ousted Zadokites and their allies
called themselves “the sons of light,” for they struggled on behalf of the sacred,
seven-based solar calendar, in which the festival of Shavuot would always fall
on Sunday, the fifteenth of the third month, following the eleventh Sabbath
of the quarterly season, as written in the MMT scroll found at Qumran. In the
account of the calendar with which that letter begins, its authors determined
that: “[. . . On the seventh of the third month: Sabbath. On the fourteenth of
it: Sabbath. On the fifteenth of it: Feast of Weeks. On the twenty-f]irs[t]
of it: Sabbath. [On] the twenty-eighth of it: Sabbath. The first of the Sabbath
(=Sunday) and the second[d da]y (=Monday) [and the third are to be added.
And the season is complete: ninety-one days . . .]” (MMT A:I–II, Vermes,
221–22). The Zadokites referred to their rivals, the Hasmonean priests, as
the “sons of darkness.” The latter were not included in the biblical account of the
high priestly dynasty and assumed the priesthood by force of arms (1 Macc 10).
They adopted the Seleucid calendar—a variable, lunar calendar, dependent
on human observation of the new moon and precluding advance determi-
nation of the times for the festivals. The Hasmonean priests came to power
as the appointees of Antiochus’s successors, King Alexander Balas and King
Demetrius II, during the 150s and 140s BCE (1 Macc 10:18–21; 11:27–37, 57–58;
13:36–42; 14:38), and these Seleucid kings imposed their lunar calendar on the
Hasmoneans, their protégés. The Hasmoneans were termed not only “the sons
of darkness” but also “the priests of wickedness” (opposite of “the priests of
righteousness”), the “sons of evil” (opposite of “the sons of righteousness”),
and the “dominion of malice and Mastema”; they were so called because they
stole the priesthood from the Zadokites, desecrated and defiled the sanctuary,
and accepted—evidently having no choice in the matter—the lunar calendar
of their Seleucid patrons. In contrast to the Hasmonean priests, who affirmed
the variable lunar calendar and were therefore termed “sons of darkness” and
“sons of evil, nullifiers of the covenant,” the Zadokite priests, who adhered to
the fixed and sacred solar calendar, termed themselves “sons of light” and “sons
of righteousness, preservers of the covenant.” They saw themselves as loyal to
the covenant, divinely chosen to maintain the ways of righteousness and of the
sacred and covenantal appointed times, grounded on preservation of the fixed,
pre-calculated, seven-based cycles. They saw themselves as well as preservers
of the sacred priestly courses, the stock of Aaron, who was the holiest of the
holy, able to trace their lineage all the way back to the Israelites’ wandering
in the wilderness, and “the stock of Zadok, and so eligible to minister to me”
(Ezek 43:19), going back to the kingdom of David and Solomon. The Qumran
Habakkuk Commentary, written in the circles of the “men of truth who keep
the Law” and who are led by the Teacher of Righteousness (Vermes, 482), tells
of a struggle between two priestly houses regarding the time for observing the
fast of the Day of Atonement. On one side are those loyal to “the Covenant of
God” who follow the path of light; they are the House of Zadok. Arrayed against
them are “the breakers of the Covenant” who walk in the paths of darkness;
they are the Hasmoneans. The scroll describes how the wicked Hasmonean
priest persecutes the righteous Zadokite priest on the day considered to be the
Day of Atonement on the sacred Zadokite calendar (Friday, the tenth day of
the seventh month):
Its interpretation concerns the Wicked Priest who pursued the Teacher
of Righteousness to consume him with the heat of his anger in the place of
his banishment. In festival time, during the rest of the Day of Atonement,
he appeared to them to consume them and make them fall on the day of
fasting, the Sabbath of their rest. (DSSSE, 21)
The Day of Atonement and the festival of Shavuot were the two central priestly
festivals on which the service of the High Priest was assigned the highest level
of importance. Shavuot stood at the focus of the Zadokite world, for they inter-
preted its name as referring not only to weeks (from shavuʿa, a week) but also
to an oath or covenant (shevuʿah), as declared by Jeremiah, the priest-prophet:
“Who keeps for our benefit the weeks [shevuʿot, also translatable as ‘oaths’]
appointed for harvest” (Jer 5:24) (Ezek 16:8) and consistent with the mean-
ing of the word sheva in Scripture, also associated with an oath or covenant
(Gen 26:31–33). As noted, the oath concerns the maintenance of the seven-
based cycles of respite referred to as “the fixed times of the LORD . . . sacred
occasions” and as the “times of liberty” established in the fixed, eternal, and
pre-determined order of cycles made known in the covenant of Sinai that
was entered into on the festival of Shavuot. These cycles of respite preserve
the cycles of days of freedom and liberty that lie at the basis of the covenant
between God and his people. Their meaning is that man is bound by oath to
forgo his dominion, possession, and ownership on one day in every seven; on
88 Elior
the seven appointed times that fall during the first seven months of each year;
during one year in every seven; and once in every seven seven-year cycles. Man
is commanded to rest, in accord with these seven-based cycles of appointed
times, from all labor and from any enslavement of himself or another; to
cease from earning any profit and from changing creation for his benefit. This
respite from all labor entails following the paths of righteousness, which inter-
rupt secular enslavement and treat all members of the resting community
equally, sanctifying them through the sacred occasions. These ways of righ-
teousness are conditioned on observing “the fixed times of the LORD . . . the
sacred occasions” and are tied to “the spirits of true and righteous knowledge
in the Holy of Holies,” as referred to in the Song for the Sacrifice of the Eleventh
Sabbath found at Qumran.6 That Sabbath (the eleventh) falls on the fourteenth
day of the third month, the day preceding the festival of Shavuot, which always
falls on Sunday, the fifteenth day of the third month. The ways of true and
righteous knowledge were conditioned on the cycles of respite and release,
of renouncing mastery and ownership, wealth and enslavement, all in accord
with the rhythm of fixed, seven-based cycles. These continuous cycles of “fixed
times, the fixed times of the LORD, which you shall proclaim as sacred occa-
sions” (Lev 23:2) constitute cycles of social justice; sacred, seven-based cycles
preserved in oath and covenant. They comprise a periodic waiver of mastery
and renunciation of ownership, emancipation of lands and emancipation
of slaves. These cycles, all based on seven (sheva) and oath (shevuʿah), consist of
five segments: fifty-two Sabbaths and seven fixed times of the Lord, all falling
during the first seven months of the year (Lev 23), on which no work at all is
permitted; together they come to seventy days every year. In addition, they
include the sabbatical years once in every seven years and the jubilee once in
every seven seven-year cycles (Lev 23:1–14). These cycles are the precondition
to the blessing of the seven species with which the Land of Israel is blessed
during the first seven months of the year, during which the seven “fixed times
of the LORD” fall.
The oath and the covenant—referred to, as noted, in the words of the priest-
prophet Jeremiah as “the weeks [oaths] appointed for harvest”—are based, on
the one hand, on the divine promise given to those who observe the covenant
grounded on seven-based cycles of human rest, and, on the other, on divine
blessing through seven-based cycles of agricultural productivity. The covenant
was entered into with those adjured to maintain the seven-based cycles of
respite, known as the “fixed times of the Lord, the sacred occasions.” Those
who observe these cycles will be blessed with, and enjoy to satiation, the seven
forms of produce yielded by the Land of Israel during the first seven months of
6 Songs of The Sabbath Sacrifice: A critical Edition, ed. Carol Newsom, Atlanta 1985, p. 295.
the year—that is, between Nisan and Tishri—in accord with God’s words that
sum up the Torah portion of Be-har and introduce the portion of Be-ẖuqqotai:
[If] you . . . keep my Sabbaths and venerate My sanctuary [or: My sacred

occasions—R. E.]. . . . If you follow My laws and faithfully observe My
commandments, I will grant your rains in their season, so that the earth
shall yield its produce and the trees of the field their fruit. Your thresh-
ing shall overtake the vintage, and your vintage shall overtake the sow-
ing; you shall eat your fill of bread and dwell securely in your land. . . .
I will . . . make you fertile and multiply you; and I will maintain My cov-
enant with you. (Lev 26:2–9)
“Threshing” refers to the barley harvest and the wheat harvest, which are seven
Sabbaths, or seven weeks apart: the barley harvest—that is the “sheaf” (omer),
as noted—is on Sunday, the twenty-sixth day of Nisan, and the wheat harvest
is seven Sabbaths later, on Sunday, the fifteenth of Sivan. The “vintage” is the
time for gathering wine grapes, which begins seven Sabbaths, or seven weeks,
following the conclusion of the wheat harvest, on Sunday, the third day of
the month of Av. Seven weeks after that, on Sunday, the twenty-second of the
month of Elul, is the beginning of the olive-pressing season. After these four
species have been gathered—at seven-week intervals during the period run-
ning from the first month through the sixth; that is, barley on Sunday, 26 Nisan
(termed “the festival of the barley time” in the Priestly Courses Scroll), wheat
on Sunday, 15 Sivan, wine on Sunday, 3 Av, and oil on Sunday, 22 Elul—the year
concludes with the seven-day festival of Sukkot, beginning at the mid-point
of the seventh month, Tishri. It is then that dates, figs, and pomegranates are
harvested in their respective ways. The dates for harvesting all seven of these
species are specified in the Qumran Temple Scroll and alluded to in Scripture
in the expression “grain, wine, and oil.”
An example of this seven-based enumeration, providing for seven-week
cycles between the onsets of the times for harvesting the first four of the seven
species (barley, wheat, grapes and olives), can be found in the Temple Scroll’s
comments about the time of the grape harvest, which begins seven weeks after
the time for the offering of new bread first-fruits—that is, the wheat time, the
festival of Shavuot:
You [shall count] seven weeks from the day when you bring the new
grain-offering to YHW[H], the bread of firstfruits. Seven full Sabbaths
[shall elapse un]til you have counted fifty days to the morrow of the sev-
enth Sabbath. [You] shall [bring] new wine for a drink-offering. (Temple
Scroll XIX:11–14; Vermes, p. 195)
90 Elior
Maintenance of the sacred seven-based cycle of rest on the Sabbaths, the seven
fixed times of the LORD, the sabbatical years, and the jubilees—detailed in
God’s word in Torah portions of Emor and Be-har (Lev 23 and 25) and in God’s
word transmitted in the first person in the Temple Scroll—ensures the con-
tinuation of the seven-based cycles of harvest or the annual cycle of the seven
species that promises blessing, fertility, and life, as detailed in the portion of
Be-ẖuqqotai (Lev 26). The encounter at Sinai at the middle of the third month
(Exod 19:1; Jubilees 1:1) takes place at the time of the first-fruit festival—the
fixed time of the wheat harvest; the festival of Shavuot; the time of the “weeks
[oaths] appointed for harvest” (Jer 5:24); the time at which the covenant was
entered into and the oath was taken regarding the seven-based cycles of respite
commanded from the heavens, whose pinnacle is the festival of Shavuot; the
day of testimony; the festival observed by the angels on high, known as
the festival of the giving of the Torah. There is a divine command regarding
cyclical times of rest on Sabbaths and on the seven sacred fixed times, during
the sabbatical year and the jubilee, all of which were made known by divine
revelation at the time the covenant was entered into at Sinai; and the promises
made to those who maintain the covenant, also made known at that time, are
renewed and attested to again annually, in concrete form, beginning with the
entry into the Land of Israel at the fiftieth jubilee (Jubilees 50). That process
takes place through the cyclical renewal of the “weeks [oaths] appointed for
harvest” and the harvest cycles of the seven species, all dependent on divine
blessing. That blessing, in turn, is conditioned on maintaining the way of righ-
teousness through oath, respite, and renunciation of mastery on one day in
every seven; on each of the seven fixed times of the LORD; during one year
in every seven; and during the jubilee year once in every seven seven-year
cycles. These sanctified, seven-based cycles of sacred time were observed in
the Temple by the priests of the House of Zadok and the priests of the House of
Aaron, the guardians of the sacred courses, who served in the Temple by divine
selection (Exod 27:21; 28:1; 29:44; Lev 3:38; 1 Chr 23:13) and were maintained by
oath and covenant as summed up in the calendar of Sabbaths, fixed times of
the LORD, sabbatical years, and jubilees referred to earlier. For the people, all
of whom (except for the tribe of Levi) were engaged in agriculture, the harvest
times were days of rest, joy and gladness (“you shall rejoice in your festival”).
The planters and reapers who realized blessing in their toil would joyfully and
gratefully bring to the Temple the first fruits of their barley harvest, along with
the first fruits of their wheat, grape, and olive harvests at seven-week intervals
during the first seven months of the year (Deut 28:51; 2 Chr 31:5; 32:28; Hos 2;10;
Neh 10:40).
Second Chronicles, chapter 15, recounts the joy felt by the pilgrims going up
to Jerusalem during the third month for the festival of Shavuot, the first-fruits
festival of the wheat harvest, in the time of King Asa, Solomon’s great-grandson,
who reigned in Jerusalem from 908 to 867 BCE. The pilgrims, grateful for the
blessing of the harvest, came to reenter and renew the covenant, to seek God,
and to swear an oath to God in loud voice, accompanied by trumpets and rams’
horns recalling the encounter at Sinai (2 Chr 15:10–15). In its translation of that
passage, the Aramaic Targum of Chronicles refers specifically to the festival of
Shavuot.
The Qumran Community Rule text describes a ceremony by which those
who maintain the oath related to the priestly, seven-based cycle of rest and the
solar calendar of Sabbaths enter into the covenant on the festival of Shavuot:
In order to seek God with [all (one’s) heart and] with a[ll (one’s) soul;] in
order to do what is good and just in his presence, as he commanded by
the hand of Moses and by the hand of all his servants the Prophets. . . .
In order to welcome all those who freely volunteer to carry out God’s
decrees into the covenant of kindness; in order to be united in the
counsel of God and walk in perfection in his sight, comply with
all revealed things concerning the regulated times of their stipula-
tions. . . . And all those who enter in the Rule of the Community shall
establish a covenant before God in order to carry out all that he com-
manded. . . . When they enter the covenant, the priests and the levites
shall bless the God of victories and all the works of his faithfulness and
all those who enter the covenant shall repeat after them: “Amen, Amen.”
(Rule of the Community, I:1–20; DSSSE, p. 71)
The account, only part of which is quoted above, concludes with the blessing
recited by the priests for each individual entering the covenant:
And the priests will bless all the men of God’s lot who walk unblemished
in all his paths and they shall say: “May He blesses you with everything
good, and May He protect you from everything bad. May He illuminate
your heart with the discernment of life and grace you with eternal knowl-
edge. May He lift upon you the countenance of His favor for eternal
peace”. (Rule of the Community II:1–4; DSSSE, pp. 71–73)
This blessing is an interesting priestly version of the priests’ blessing prescribed

in Numbers 6:24–27; the version here is addressed to an individual and does
92 Elior
not mention God’s name, while that in Numbers mentions God’s name three
times. The Dead Sea Scrolls also include a version of the blessing addressed to
the congregation as a whole, to be recited by the priest for the pilgrims com-
ing to renew the covenant before God and the angels. That version likewise
mentions God’s name several times; it is the source of the blessing of the cycli-
cal four seasons of the year—referred to in Enoch as the “chariots of heaven”
(1 Enoch 75:3)—and of the treasure house of blessed rain, the preconditions to
the cycles of productivity and fertility:
[Answering, he shall say] to the sons of [I]srael: May you be blessed in the
name of the Most High [God] . . . and May His Holy name be blessed for
ever and ever. [May all His holy angels be blessed. May] the M[ost High]
God [bless] you. [May He shine His face towards you and open for you His]
good [treasure] which is in heaven [to bring down on your land] showers
of blessing, dew, rain, [early rain] and late rain in His/its time, and to give
[you the fruit of the produce of corn, wine, and o]il plentiful. And may
the land [prod]uce for [you fruits of delight. And you shall eat and grow
f]at. And there shall be no miscarriage [in yo]ur [la]n[d] and no [sick-
ness, blight or mildew] shall be seen in [its] produ[ce. And there shall
be no loss of children n]or stumbling in [your] congrega[tion, and wild
beasts shall withdraw] from your land and there shall be no pestil[ence
in your land.] For God is wi[th you and His holy angels stand in
your congregation, and His] holy [name] shall be invoked upon you . . .
in your midst. . . . (4Q285, fr. 1, Vermes, 187–88)
The High Priest’s blessing for the festival pilgrims, recited in the Temple before
God and the angels and before the Ark of the Covenant and the cherubim
(cf. b. Yoma 54a), was in the nature of a renewal of the covenant and oath
entered into at Sinai on the festival of Shavuot, the festival of the giving of the
Torah. But it was also a blessing of thanksgiving for the satiety and abundance
granted to those who maintained the covenant, who had just now gathered
their wheat harvest into the granary. Entry into the covenant was the pivotal
event in the world of the Zadokite priests, for it constituted undeniable evi-
dence of the link between resting on the seven-based cycle of sacred fixed
times and the blessing of the harvest. It also served as a promise that this bless-
ing would be renewed in the ensuing year for those who maintain the covenant
and rest on Sabbaths and festivals, sabbatical years and jubilees. The Zadokite
priests declared, on the Sabbath preceding the festival of Shavuot, their faith
in “the spirits of true and righteous knowledge in the Holy of Holies,” as set
forth in the Song for the Sabbath Sacrifice. They believed with all their hearts
in “justice, justice shall you pursue” and spoke of the “covenant of kindness”
and the commandment to support the stranger, the orphan, the widow and
the Levi and to walk in the ways of righteousness. In their writings, they waged
war against those who walked in the ways of corruption and evil, headed by
the wicked Hasmonean priest, whom they spoke of in their commentary on
Hab 2:14:
“Because of the blood of men and the violence done to the land, the city, and
all its inhabitants”. . . . Interpreted, the city is Jerusalem where the wicked
priest committed abominable deeds and defiled the Temple of God.
The violence done to the land: these are the cities of Judah where he
robbed the Poor of their possessions (Commentary on Habakkuk XII;
Vermes, 484).
In the writings of the Zadokite priests and the men of their covenant, the
festival of Shavuot—referred to as well as the “festival of weeks,” the “day of
testimony,” and the “second festival” and described as the festival celebrated
by the angels on high from Creation until the encounter at Sinai—is the
festival of the giving of the Torah. That is the view taken in Jubilees 1:1, in the
Dead Sea Scrolls, in the Samaritan tradition, the Ethiopic tradition, and
the tradition of the Babylonian Talmud (b. Pesaḥ. 68b). The Amidah prayer
for Shavuot so states explicitly: “this festival day of Shavuot, the time of the giv-
ing of our Torah” (cf. Shulẖan arukh, Oraẖ ẖayyim 494:1). But this identification
of the festival of Shavuot with the time of the encounter at Sinai, the time at
which the Written Torah was given, is nowhere stated in the masoretic version
of the Torah, as edited by the sages of the Oral Torah following the destruc-
tion of the Temple, and it is not expressly mentioned in the Mishnah or the
Tosefta. A fragmentary tradition found among the Qumran Scrolls describes
the festival of Shavuot and the entry into the covenant at Sinai, linked to the
giving of the Torah (referred to here as “the precepts of Moses”) in wording
that preserves the exalted essence of the revelatory encounter; the fear and
trembling associated with the divine loftiness and wondrous sounds; and the
angelic speech linking heaven and earth, heard from the mouth of Moses as he
sanctifies himself before the glory of God. Aaron, Moses brother, who is called
here Eli bahar [My God chose] is recounting the holy moment:
[. . .] and your signs and miracles . . . [. . .] they understand the precepts
of Moses. [. . .] And Elyb[aha)] began to speak, saying: He[ar,] congrega-
tion of YHWH, and pay attention, all the assembly, the great ones and
the . . . [small ones] to a[ll residents]. Cursed is the man who does not
94 Elior
persevere and keep and carry [out] all the la[ws of Y]HWH by the mouth
of Moses his anointed one, to follow YHWH, the God of our fathers, who
command[ed] us from the mountain of Sina[i.] He has spoken wi[th] the
assembly of Israel face to face, like a man speaks to his neighbor. And
the likeness of his splendor has appeared to us in a burning fire, from
above, from heaven, and on earth he stood on the mountain to teach us
that there is no God apart from Him and no Rock like Him. [And all]
the assembly [moved][and feared] . . . and divine trembling seized them
before the glory of God and the wondrous voices, and they moved and
stayed at a distance. But Moses, the man of God, was with God in the
cloud, and the cloud covered him because [he is an angel] when He
sanctified him and he spoke as an angel through his mouth, for who
was a flash] like him, a man of the pious actions and creator of actions
which were never created before or afterward . . . [. . .] . . . . (4Q377; DSSSE,
p. 745 with correction and new readings according to Elisha Qimron,
The Dead Sea Scrolls The Hebrew Writings, Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi
press 2014, vol. III, P. 143)
Religious precepts, as we know, cannot be given without an epiphany, and

the entry into the covenant, or the giving of the divine law made known
in the encounter at Sinai, was bound up with a glorious divine revelation: “Now
the Presence of the LORD appeared in the sight of the Israelites as a consum-
ing fire on the top of the mountain” (Exod 24:17). In response, “All the peo-
ple witnessed the thunder and lightning and the blare of the horn and the
mountain smoking; and when the people saw it, they fell back and stood at a
distance (Exod 20:14). According to the version in the Scrolls, God’s command-
ments from Sinai were bound up with burning fire from the shaking heavens
or with fear and trembling that seized those who were present on account of
the “wondrous voices” and the glory of God speaking “with the assembly
of Israel face to face.” The transmission of the laws of Moses to the congrega-
tion of the LORD, and the glorification of the image of Moses, a man of the
tribe of Levi, are likewise bound up with the covenant at Sinai according to this
version, which constitutes an account of an exalted divine revelation that took
place at the middle of the third month. The revelation served as a numinous
structure, filled with splendor and exaltation, for the ceremony of entering
into the covenant at the middle of the third month, a ceremony performed by
the Zadokite priests at the Temple in Jerusalem. The account at the beginning
of the Community Rule, quoted in part earlier, and the account in chapter 15 of
2 Chronicles, attest to the importance of the oath-renewal and covenantal
ceremony on the festival of Shavuot at the middle of the third month and to its
link to the giving of the tablets of the covenant at the Sinai encounter.
*Shavuot and the Tradition of the Divine Chariot of the Cherubim
The cycles of sacred time are preserved in oath and covenant and ensure the
precise recurrence of the barley harvest each year on Sunday, the twenty-sixth
day of the first month, and the wheat harvest seven Sabbaths later, on Sunday,
the fifteenth day of the third month. Maintaining those cycles is tied as well
to the structure of the sacred space that houses the sacred law, written on
the tablets of the Covenant and kept in the Ark of the Covenant over which
the cherubim spread their wings. As noted, the giving of the tablets of the
Covenant on Sunday, the fifteenth of the third month, is linked to the divine
revelation on the festival of Covenant and testimony, and that revelation of the
One Who dwells upon the Cherubim (1 Sam 4:4; 2 Sam 6:2; Ps 99:1) is tied to the
sacred place, the Holy of Holies, in which the cherubim were situated (Exod
25:18–22; 1 Kgs 6:23–28; 2 Chr 3:10–13). At the time the tabernacle was built by
the Israelites in the wilderness, the cherubim were constructed in accord with
a celestial pattern shown to Moses at Mount Sinai (Exod 25:40); later, when the
Temple was built in Jerusalem, they were constructed in accord with a heav-
enly pattern shown to David: “. . . the gold for the pattern of the chariot—the
cherubs—those with outspread wings screening the Ark of the Covenant of
the LORD. All this that the LORD made me understand by His hand on me,
I give you in writing—the pattern of all the works” (1 Chr. 28:18–19). During
the time of the Zadokite priests’ service, the Temple was the place where the
seven-based cycles of oath and covenant were maintained, at least ideally, in
both law and practice; the mechanisms for doing so included sacrifices, prayers,
blessings, and sacred assemblies performed by the priests who maintained the
sacred courses. According to the biblical historiography, the Zadokite priests
served continuously for nearly one thousand years, from the time of Aaron the
priest, Moses’ brother, until time of H̱ onyo ben Simeon, who was murdered
by those who ousted him and seized his place in 171 BCE according to one
recension, or fled to Egypt and established a new Temple there, according to
different sources.
In the ideal order of these priestly writers, the traditions regarding the
sacred place of the cherubim’s Chariot in the Holy of Holies and the heav-
enly chariots described in the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice—“his glorious
chariots [. . .] holy cherubs, shining ophanim, in the in[ner shrine . . . spirits
of gods . . . purity . . .]” (4Q405, frag. 20; DSSSE, 833)—were integrated with
96 Elior
the tradition of sacred time, that is, the tradition of the “heavenly chariots”
in the book of Enoch, which expressed the eternity of the cycles of time visible
to the eye, as learned from the angels (1 Enoch 75:4). The “heavenly chariots”
are the continuous, natural cycles of time associated with the celestial lumi-
naries and the seasons of the year; they are independent of human reckoning
and depend only on the kindness of God and the angels, extended equally to
all creatures (see “The Book of Heavenly Luminaries,” 1 Enoch, chaps. 72–82).
They are supplemented by “fixed times of liberty,” that is, the seven-based
cycles made known aurally at the Sinai encounter; the latter are dependent on
the reckoning of the human beings who rest and are maintained in covenant
and oath by those who enter the covenant. Naturally enough, the vagaries of
history subjected this ideal system, which prophets and priests sought to hand
down, to varied and recurring challenges.
*The Eve of Shavuot and the Vision of the Chariot
Early in the sixth century BCE, around the time of the destruction of the First
Temple, the tradition of the cherubim and the structure of the chariot in
the Holy of Holies were tied to the vision of the Chariot, in which the priest-
prophet Ezekiel ben Buzi saw the appearance of cherubim. In his vision of the
future Temple (chapters 40–48 of the book that bears his name), Ezekiel spoke
at length in praise of the Zadokite priests, and many of his prophecies were
tied to the fixed times and the sanctuary. The mystical tradition sets Shavuot
as the time of Ezekiel’s vision and explains the opening verse of his book:
“R. Eliezer began and said: In the thirtieth year, on the fifth day of the fourth
month, when I was in the community of exiles by the Chebar Canal—on the fifth
day we have already explained, but this day was the day of Shavuot, that being
the day on which Israel received the Torah on Mount Sinai” (Zohar ẖadash,
parashat yitro 37c). Judah Liebes, a Zohar scholar, has determined that the idra
rabba (an assembly of sages) described in the Zohar and often equated in the
text itself to the encounter at Sinai and the giving of the Torah, was, in fact,
a tiqqun leil shavuʿot (an all-night mystical and study session on Shavuot night),
for the Zohar states that the idra rabba took place on Shavuot. The conclusion
unconditionally reached by scientific study coincides with that reached in the
mystical tradition, for according to calculations based on the metonic cycle
(which synchronizes dates on the lunar and solar calendars), Ezekiel’s vision
indeed took place on Shavuot, the festival of the terrestrial Temple which held
the cherubim in its Holy of Holies and which became, in the vision of the
exiled priest prophesying in the time of the destruction, a heavenly chariot or
the place of the cherubim in the heavenly chariot. If that is so, the surprising
date that opens the book of Ezekiel—“In the thirtieth year, on the fifth day of
the fourth month. . . . On the fifth day of the month—it was the fifth year of the
exile of King Jehoiachin” (Ezek 1:1–2)—makes no sense on its face. In his book
The War of the Calendars and the Redaction of the Psalm,7 Michael Chyutin
examines that date along with others mentioned in Ezekiel and suggests they
be explained by relating them to the solar calendar through the metonic cycle:
“The beginning of Ezekiel’s prophecy (1:1), if synchronized with the solar calen-
dar, was on Shavuot Eve (the fourteenth of the third month) or on the festival
of Shavuot (the fifteenth of the month), as the members of the Qumran sect
believed. But “the members of the Qumran sect,” a common but erroneous
term invented by scholars, are none other than “the Zadokite priests and the
men of their covenant,” whose writings were found in 930 scroll fragments in
eleven caves at Qumran and Masada and in the Cairo Genizah. As noted, all of
the scrolls are sacred scriptures and their writers referred to themselves as the
“Zadokite priests and the men of their covenant.”
It is entirely possible that what gave rise in Ezekiel’s consciousness to the
vision of the chariot in the heavenly sanctuary was the cognitive dissonance
between his recollection of Shavuot, the central priestly festival, in its entire
splendor, and the reality of the Temple’s destruction and its aftermath that he
saw all around him. On the one hand, the holiday was etched in his memory—
the festival of the covenant, the day on which that covenant was entered into,
and the day of testimony regarding the revelation of the written Torah. It had
been celebrated with great pomp at the Temple in Jerusalem, in the presence
of the pilgrims who had come to Jerusalem with the first fruits of their wheat
harvest and with festive blessings by the priests. On the other hand, there was
the bitter reality of the destruction of the Temple and of Jerusalem (described
in all their horror by Ezekiel’s contemporary, the prophet Jeremiah, in the
book of Lamentations) and the overwhelming experience of exile and the pro-
found sadness felt by the exiled priest-prophet on the once-joyous day in the
midst of the third month—a day on which mourning was forbidden but that
nonetheless had been transformed into a day of mourning among the exiles
in Babylonia.
Some two thousand years later, a similar conjoining of terrible destruc-
tion with a festival on which mourning was forbidden led to the revelatory
episode experienced by R. Joseph Karo’s circle of kabbalists in Adrianopolis
on Shavuot night of 1533. On that occasion, as they were engaged in a tiqqun
leil shavuʿot in the Zoharic tradition, they received the bitter news that their
7 Michael Chyutin, The War of the Calendars and the Redaction of the Psalms (Hebrew) (Modan:
Tel Aviv, 1993), 75.
98 Elior
colleague, the messianic kabbalist Solomon Malkho (1500–1532), had been

burned at the stake in Italy. Malkho was born a converso in 1500 and lived as a
Christian until his twenties, attaining a prominent position in the Portuguese
court. He then publicly returned to his Judaism, choosing the name Malkho
(“his king”) on the basis of 2 Sam 22:51—“[God is a] tower of victory to His king
[malko] [and] deals graciously with His anointed [meshiẖo; His messiah]”—
and sought to advance a political messianic movement. He was condemned
by the Inquisition and burned at the stake in Mantua in November 1532.
Malkho’s attempt to work for redemption through political means engendered
hope and inspired confidence in the generation that had been expelled from
Spain and Portugal—he had been, after all, an officer in the Portuguese
court—and the news of his death, which did not reach Adrianopolis until
Shavuot night, 1533, embodied the loss of that hope. The news produced an
extreme disparity between the intense joy of the festival of renewing the cove-
nant and receiving the Torah—a joy felt by those participating in the tiqqun leil
shavuʿot—and the no less intense mourning over the terrible death of the last
messianic kabbalist, a man who embodied a realistic hope for redemption dur-
ing the first third of the sixteenth century. Public expression of that mourning
was forbidden on the sacred festival, and the clash between the two emotions
aroused within R. Joseph Karo’s consciousness the voice of the exiled daughter
of Zion crying out in the book of Lamentations. She appeared to him on the
festival night in the image of the Torah/Shekhinah/diadem/Mishnah and, in
a voice emanating from his throat and speaking in the first person feminine,
spoke dramatically to him and his colleagues of the destruction recounted in
the book of Lamentations and the redemption associated with the encounter
at Sinai:
Fortunate are you and fortunate are they who bore you. . . . For you set
your mind to adorn me on this night, after many years since my diadem
fell from my head and during which there has been none to comfort me;
I was cast in the dust, grasping refuse heaps. But now you have restored
the diadem to its former [glory]. . . . And you have gained the merit to be
of the king’s palace; and the sound of your Torah-learning and the breath
of your mouth have risen before the Holy One Blessed Be He, splitting
several firmaments and several atmospheres in order to rise [there].
And angels were hushed, seraphs fell silent, and [heavenly] beasts stood
still, as the entire heavenly host and the Holy One Blessed Be He heard
your voice. . . . Now I, the Mishnah, have come to speak to you. . . . And
by your hands I have been exalted this night . . . and you have been bonded
to the LORD and He is happy with you. And so, my children, be strong
and of good courage and rejoice in my love, my Torah, and my awe. . . . Be
strong and of good courage and rejoice, my children and friends; do not
allow the study to cease. . . . Therefore stand on your feet and exalt me
and say aloud, as on the Day of Atonement, “Blessed be the name of His
glorious kingdom forever and ever,” and we said “Blessed be the name
of His glorious kingdom forever and ever,” as we were commanded. He
again said “Fortunate are you my sons, return to your studies and do not
stop for [even] a minute, and go up to the Land of Israel. . . . And know
that you are among those who go up . . . and you are bonded with me, and
a line of kindness is extended to you. And were the eye authorized to see
it, you would see the fire surrounding this house.8
A few centuries later, a similarly stark contrast gave rise to a mystical experi-
ence powerfully expressed by S. Y. Agnon in his story “Ha-siman” (“The Sign”)
first published in 1944 in the periodical Moznayim.9 It was on Shavuot eve 1943
that Agnon had learned of the terrible destruction of his hometown, Buczacz,
Galicia. On the one hand, the time was one of joy at the onset of the festival
of the giving of the Torah, the time of the covenant between God and his
people, memorialized in the image of Mount Sinai aflame and flames flash-
ing around it. On the other hand, it was a time of mourning for the terrible
devastation of the world of Torah and the annihilation, in the fires of the final
destruction, of those faithful to the covenant. Dan Laor, in a study of Agnon’s
works, writes as follows:
In mid-June 1943, the last residents of the Buczacz ghetto were liquidated,
taken out to be killed in the city’s Jewish cemetery. Around the same
time, the labor camp adjacent to the city was likewise liquidated. . . . Jews
who had hid and were found in the ghetto or in the surrounding woods
8 Joseph Karo, Maggid meisharim, Jerusalem 1960, introduction. Cf. R. Elior, “Joseph Karo and
Israel Ba‘al Shem Tov: mystical metamorphosis—Kabbalistic inspiration, and spiritual inter-
nalization”, Studies in Spirituality 17 (2007), pp. 267–319.
9 S. Y. Agnon, “Ha-siman,” Moznayim, Spring 1944. An English translation by Arthur Green was
first published in Response 19 (1973), pp. 5–31 and was reprinted in David Roskies, ed., The
Literature of Destruction: Jewish Responses to Catastrophe (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication
Society of America, 1988), pp. 585–604 and in S. Y. Agnon, A Book That Was Lost and Other
Stories, ed. Alan Mintz and Anne Golomb Hoffman (New York: Schocken Books, 1995),
pp. 378–409. The extracts that follow are variously from the original edition in Moznayim
(translated by the present translator) and from the Green translation of the expanded story
(with page references to the Mintz-Hoffman edition). The Hebrew original appears in Ha-esh
ve-ha-eẕim, vol. 8 of Kol sippurav shel shmu’el yosef agnon. The story “Forevermore,” quoted
from at the end of this article, is the final story in that volume; it is followed by the afterword
from which the second epigraph to this article is taken.
100 Elior
were brought to the cemetery in groups and murdered there . . . When the

Soviets returned to the city in July 1944, fewer than one hundred survivors
were to be found.
“Ha-siman,” Agnon’s account of his vision on Shavuot night, was first published
during the Second World War, in the Spring 1944 issue of Moznayim, as a one-
page story. It was republished as a longer story in 1962, and went through sev-
eral editions. Agnon writes:
I made no lament for my city and did not call for tears or for mourning
over the congregation of God whom the enemy had wiped out. The day
when we heard the news of the city and its dead was the afternoon before
Shavuot, so I put aside my mourning for the dead because of the joy of
the season when our Torah was given. (Mintz-Hoffman ed., 379)
Agnon, deep in mourning over the destruction of his hometown but required
by the sanctity of the festival to set aside his mourning and to rejoice even with
a broken heart, experienced cognitive dissonance. In his story, he traverses
boundaries of time and space and has a vision of the greatest Spanish-Jewish
poet, Solomon Ibn Gabirol (1021–1058), author of the azharot liturgical poem10
for Shavuot, reviewing in verse the commandments that made up the covenant:
Once, on Shavuot night, I was sitting alone in the house of study, reciting
the azharot. I heard a voice and raised my eyes. I saw a holy man of God
standing near me. . . . I returned to my book and read the commandments
of God, as was my practice every year on Shavuot night, when I would
read the commandments of God as poetically rendered by R. Solomon,
may his soul rest (from the original version in Moznayim).
The doors of the Holy Ark opened, and I saw a likeness of the form of
a man standing there, his head resting between the scrolls of the Torah,
and I heard a voice come forth from the ark, from between the trees of
life.11 I bowed my head and closed my eyes, for I feared to look at the Holy
Ark. I looked into my prayer book and saw that the letters that the voice
from among the scrolls was reciting were at the same time being written
into my book. The letters were the letters of the commandments of the
Lord, in the order set for them by Rabbi Solomon Ibn Gabirol, may his
soul rest. Now the man whom I had first seen between the scrolls of the
10 Azharot (lit., admonitions) are a genre of liturgical poems written for Shavuot, in which
the 613 commandments are reviewed in verse.
11 ‘Trees of life’ is the term used for the staffs on which a Torah scroll is wound.
Torah stood before me, and his appearance was like the appearance of a
king. (Mintz-Hoffman ed., 405)
The man who appeared before the author’s eyes is the tormented poet
Solomon Ibn Gabirol, author of the azharot for Shavuot. The author speaks to
him of the festival of Shavuot, of the destruction of his hometown, of memory
and forgetting; and he asks that Ibn Gabirol remember all that the enemy has
destroyed and set a sign for it in the heavens. All that can be done in the face
of the terrible destruction wrought by human beings, and of the annihilation
and oblivion associated with it is to leave a sign in the heavens, in eternity, in
poetry, story and memory. Memory is the metamorphosis of annihilation into
eternity, of oblivion into written testimony; and the story or the poem effects
the transformation in which loss and annihilation on earth (lethe in Greek is
forgetfulness) become eternal heavenly existence αλήθεια (alethea in Greek, is
the word for truth, meaning not to forget) and death becomes immortality and
eternal covenant:
Rabbi Solomon said, “I’ll make a sign, so I won’t forget the name of your
town.” . . . Once more a voice was heard, the sound of rhyme. . . . And he
said, “Blessed among cities is the city Buczacz,” and he went on compos-
ing a poem based on the seven letters of my town’s name, a rhymed poem
in faithful verse. My soul went out of me, and I forgot six lines of the
town’s song (from the original version in Moznayim).
He did not speak to me by word of mouth, but his thought was engraved
into mine, his holy thought into mine. Every word he said was carved into
the forms of letters, and the letters joined together into words, and the
words formed what he had to say. These are the things as I remember
them, word for word. (Mintz-Hoffman ed., 405)
Once more he moved his lips. I turned my ear and heard him recite a
poem, each line of which began with one of the letters of the name of
my town. And so I knew that the sign the poet made for my town was in
beautiful and rhymed verse, in the holy tongue.
The hairs of my flesh stood on end and my heart melted as I left my
own being, and it was as though I was not. Were it not for remembering
the poem, I would have been like all my townsfolk, who were lost, who
had died. . . . But it was because of the power of the poem that my soul
went out of me. . . . And if I don’t remember the words of the poem, for
my soul left me because of its greatness, the poem sings itself in the heav-
ens above, among the poems of the holy poets, the beloved of God.
(Mintz-Hoffman ed., 409)
102 Elior
*Shavuot and the Sinai Revelation
The experience of seeing divine visions on Shavuot, visions involving flashing

fire among the cherubim and angels, and of hearing the heavenly voices of
angels or the Holy Spirit, is an ancient tradition, mentioned in many sources:
“All the people witnessed the thunder and the lightening” (Exod 20:15); “. . . the
heavens opened and I saw visions of God” (Ezek. 1:1); “You are the ones that
received the law as ordained by angels” (Acts 7:53). Exodus Rabbah 29:5 notes,
“They saw His glory and heard His voice, as it is said (Deut 5:21), The Lord our
God has just shown us His majestic Presence.” The festival of Shavuot, one of
the three pilgrimage festivals observed in the Temple, is linked to the tradi-
tion of the winged cherubim in the Holy of Holies, which were shown to the
pilgrims at a distance: “When Israel would go up for the pilgrimage festival,
they would roll back the curtain for them and show them the cherubim, which
embraced each other” (b. Yoma 54a). Many years earlier, the heavenly model
of the cherubim had been made known to Moses on Mount Sinai (Exod 25:40)
in the middle of the third month. It was made known to David on Mount Zion
(2 Chr 1:28, 18–19), at an unknown time, and it was made known through the
vision revealed to the prophet Ezekiel on Shavuot.
As we know, the Torah reading for Shavuot tells of the encounter at
Sinai. It begins with the verse that sets the encounter in the third month
(Exod 19:1); continues with the transformation of the mountain into a sacred
place that may be neither touched nor approached because of the expected
divine presence (Exod 19:12–13, 23); and it reaches its climax with the read-
ing of the Decalogue, concluding with the verse “All the people witnessed
the thunder and the lightning, the blare of the horn and the mountain
smoking; and when the people saw it, they fell back and stood at a distance”
(Exod 20:15). The haftarah (reading from the prophets) for the holiday is the
vision of Ezekiel ben Buzi the priest (chapters. 1 and 10), describing the divine
visions revealed to him at the Chebar Canal, including winged creatures
described as cherubim and the image of the One seated upon the cherubim,
linked to the description of the encounter at Sinai: “As for the likeness of the liv-
ing creatures, their appearance was like coals of fire, burning like the appearance
of torches; it flashed up and down among the living creatures; and there was
brightness to the fire, and out of the fire went forth lightning. And the living crea-
tures ran and returned as the appearance of a flash of lightning” (Ezek 1:13–14).12
12 The translation of these verses, and the one next quoted (Ezek 1:16) are from the Old
Jewish Publication Society translation (OJPS), The Holy Scriptures (Philadelphia: Jewish
Publication Society of America, 1917).
The account of the divine visions continues: “And above the firmament that
was over their heads was the likeness of a throne, as the appearance of a sap-
phire stone; and upon the likeness of the throne was a likeness as the appear-
ance of a man upon it above” (Ezek 1:26), imagery tied to the description at
the conclusion of the entry into the covenant: “And they saw the God of Israel:
under His feet there was the likeness of a pavement of sapphire, like the very
sky for purity” (Exod 24:10). Chapter 10 of Ezekiel, which describes a vision
at the Temple in Jerusalem (Exod 8:3), tells anew of the vision at the Chebar
Canal, referring explicitly to the vision of the sacred creatures in Chapter 1:
“I looked, and on the expanse over the heads of the cherubs, there was some-
thing like a sapphire stone; an appearance resembling a sapphire stone could
be seen over them” (Ezek 10:1). They are referred to twice again: “the cher-
ubs ascended; those were the creatures that I had seen by the Chebar Canal”
(Ezek 10:15); “they were the same creatures that I had seen below the God of
Israel at the Chebar Canal; so I now knew that they were cherubs” (Ezek 10:20).
The divine visions shown to Ezekiel on Shavuot night, encompassing cheru-
bim and ofanim, wings and flares, beasts and sapphire are recounted in several
versions and are referred to in the Qumran texts as “The vision that Ezekiel
saw . . . the light of a chariot and four creatures.” At the beginning of the second
century BCE, the priest Joshua Ben-Sira refers to it as the vision of the chariot:
“It was Ezekiel who saw the vision of glory, which God showed him above the
chariot of the cherubim” (Sir 49:8).
The account of Ezekiel’s vision of the chariot, revealed to him at the mid-
point of the third month, the time of the covenant at Sinai, contains references
to previous covenants and uses wording that calls to mind previous divine rev-
elations during the third month, as recounted in Jubilees. These references
include, among others, the rainbow associated with the covenant with Noah,
the flares that were part of the covenant “between the pieces” with Abraham
and of the encounter at Sinai, and the block of sapphire seen in the encoun-
ter at Sinai. The verse linking the Torah reading for Shavuot (the encounter at
Sinai) with the haftarah (Ezekiel’s vision of the chariot) is one that preserves
an ancient tradition tying the encounter at Sinai to the divine chariot and the
angels: “God’s chariots are myriads upon myriads, thousands upon thousands;
the LORD is among them as in Sinai in holiness” (Ps 68:18). The verse echoes a
line in Deuteronomy: “The LORD came from Sinai; He shone upon them from
Seir; He appeared from Mount Paran; and approached from Ribeboth-kodesh
[mei-rivevot-qodesh; perhaps to be emended to be-merkavot-qodesh, “in holy
chariots”], lightning flashing at them from His right” (Deut 33:2).
The treatment of Shavuot in the rabbinic tradition differs substantially from
that in the various priestly traditions. In the latter, the chariot of the cherubim,
104 Elior
Ezekiel’s vision of the chariot, and various visions of God are all associated with
the encounter at Sinai, where the cherubim were revealed to Moses and he was
instructed to make models of them and place them in the Holy of Holies. Those
various traditions regarding the cherubim and the chariot are tied, in turn,
to the festival of Shavuot—the festival on which the covenant is renewed and
the Sinai experience recreated, the festival of the angels who presented the
Torah to Israel at the Sinai encounter. The rabbinic tradition, in contrast, sim-
ply declares that “One does not read the [account of the] chariot as a haftarah”
(m. Meg. 4:10). The matter seems to have been in dispute, for a baraita in the
Babylonian Talmud, in which the schedule of haftarot is first mentioned, notes
that Ezekiel’s vision of the chariot is, in fact, read as the haftarah on Shavuot
(b. Meg. 31a–b). Pertinent to this dispute is the inclusion of the word ‘chariot’ in
the versions of chapter 1 of Ezekiel that appear in the pre-Common-Era texts of
Scripture found at Qumran and in the Septuagint. The word appears as well in
the Septuagint to Ezekiel 43:3, which reads “and the vision of the chariot which
I saw was like the vision which I saw at the river Chobar”13; the Masoretic Text,
in contrast, reads “the very same vision that I had seen by the Chebar Canal.”
The version of the Scripture edited by the sages following the destruction
of the Temple omits the word ‘chariot.’ There is a tradition that the sages wanted
to exclude the entire book of Ezekiel from the canon (b. Šabb 13a), and that
tradition, too, may be related to the book’s references to the chariot and to the
priest-prophet’s clear association with the Zadokite priests. The description
in Ezekiel 45 of the fixed times of the Lord skips over the festival of Shavuot,
going directly from Passover to Sukkot; but when it describes Passover as “a
festival of seven days,” the Masoretic Text reads ẖag shevu’ot yamim. This, too,
suggests that there may have been an earlier version of the text that included
the festival of Shavuot. And despite the rabbis’ prohibition on reading Ezekiel’s
vision of the chariot as the haftarah for Shavuot, synagogues have continued to
do so from antiquity to this day.
*Pharisees and the Sadducees—Variable Lunar Calendar Versus Fixed Solar

Calendar
The dispute between the sages and the priests, alluded to in the bans on read-
ing the account of the chariot as a haftarah (“the [account of the] chariot is not
read as a haftarah”) and on expounding it (“the [account of the] chariot is
13 Brenton, Sir C. L., trans., English Translation of the Greek Septuagint Bible: The Translation
of the Greek Old Testament Scriptures, Including the Apocrypha (1851): http://www
.ecmarsh.com/lxx/Jezekiel/index.htm.
not expounded”) is tied to the dispute between the Pharisees and the
Sadducees/Boethians over the timing of the holiday. The Sadducees and
Boethians mentioned in the rabbinic tradition, known in Scripture and the
Scrolls as the Zadokite priests, set a fixed day and date for the festival of the first
fruits of the wheat harvest; it was Sunday, the fifteenth day of the third month.
As explained earlier, this was keyed to the fixed time for the beginning of the
barley harvest and the waving of the omer-sheaf; that occurred on Sunday,
the twenty-sixth day of the first month, all pursuant to the fixed solar calendar
calculated in advance. The Pharisees and the sages, on the other hand, followed
a lunar calendar, either continuing to use the Hasmonean lunar calendar or
else electing, after the destruction, to adopt a variable lunar calendar—a cal-
endar differing from both the Zadokite solar calendar described earlier and
from the 365¼-day Julian calendar of the Roman Empire in whose shadow
they lived. They argued that the biblical phrase “the day after the Sabbath,”
mentioned three times in the account of the waving of the sheaf of barley
(Lev 23:11, 15, 16), refers not to a Sunday but to the day after the first day of
Passover (m. Menaḥ 10:3; Sifra, Emor 10:5, 100c). That day would always be the
sixteenth of Nisan, but the day of the week on which it fell would vary from year
to year, depending on when the onset of the month of Nisan—based on the
sighting of the new moon—was proclaimed. The Pharisees and sages main-
tained that the term ‘Sabbath’ was applied to the first day of Passover because
it was a festival day on which no work was to be done; they thus disagreed with
the Priests, Sadducees, Boethians, Karaites, Ethiopian Jews, and Samaritans, all
of whom took the term at face value, as referring to the first Sabbath follow-
ing the conclusion of the week of Passover—that is, the fourth Sabbath of the
quarter, falling invariably on the twenty-fifth of Nisan. On the Sunday that fol-
lowed it, the twenty-sixth of Nisan, the barley harvest began. The Pharisees and
sages rejected that date, which was based on the understanding that “the day
after the Sabbath” referred to the Sunday following the conclusion of Passover,
and declined to accept the ancient date for Shavuot (15 Sivan) that followed
from it in the priestly tradition. They briefly quoted the views of their rivals,
the Boethians, regarding the festival of Shavuot, which they declined even to
mention by name, referring to it, instead, as Atseret: “the sheaf is not harvested
at the conclusion of the festival day” (t. Menaḥ. 10b; 23 p. 528); “Atseret
follows the Sabbath.” They mounted a polemic against that view, but
they avoided any mention of the fixed day for the barley harvest, the twenty-
sixth of the first month, on which the time for the first fruits of the wheat
harvest—the fifteenth of the third month—was dependent. Mishnah Bikkurim
is silent with respect to the time for the first fruits of the wheat harvest,
dealing only with the times for the first fruits that are not associated with a
106 Elior
particular day. The book of Jubilees, which attests to the antiquity of the first-
fruits festival, states expressly that “. . . in the third month, in the middle of the
month, Abram made a feast of the firstfruits of the harvest of grain. And he
offered up a new sacrifice upon the altar, the firstfruits of the [produce] . . .”
(Jubilees 15:1–2). MMT, cited above, likewise states explicitly: “of the third
month. . . . On the fifteenth of it: Feast of Weeks” (Vermes, 221–22).
*Sages, Zadokite Priests and the Jewish-Christian Community: Atzeret,

Shevuot and Pentecost
The sages thus did all they could to suppress the holiday’s name, to expunge
its ancient date, and to ban the various pre-Common-Era priestly traditions
pertinent to the holiday, most notably the giving of the Torah and revelation
of the chariot, the entry into and renewal of the covenant, and the blessing by
the priests and Ezekiel’s vision at the time of the covenant at Sinai. That they
did so is certainly tied to the fact that some of these traditions were adopted
by the Jewish-Christian community that was active in Jerusalem during the
first century CE and that set Shavuot—the day after the conclusion of the
seven weeks that began with the waving of the sheaf of barley, that is, the fifti-
eth day (Pentecost in Greek)—as the time when the Holy Spirit was revealed
in stormy sounds and fiery flares:
When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place.
And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a vio-
lent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided
tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of
them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in
other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability. (Acts 2:1–4)
The festival of Shavuot became transformed into a foundational holiday

of the Jewish-Christian community, the day on which the Holy Spirit, revealed
in tongues of fire, came to rest on its members, who began to speak in tongues.
The festival always fell on a Sunday at the mid-point of the third month, fifty
days after Jesus’s resurrection on Easter, likewise a Sunday; and the new Jewish-
Christian community saw in it a sort of renewal of the covenant with them,
tied to the prophecy of Joel (3:1). They also saw the descent of the Holy Spirit
as evidence of the fulfillment of Jesus’s promise that his spirit would dwell on
his church. Shavuot thus became the festival of the Holy Spirit’s descent on the
Sunday at the mid-point of the third month, observed by the Jewish-Christian
community during the thirties of the first century CE, and it remained
the holiday of the founding of the church, celebrated with great pomp, as
Pentecost, from then until today. Accounts of its celebration, including the
singing of Halleluiah and of “Veni Creator” (“Come, Creator Spirit”) in honor
of the Holy Spirit can be found in the writings of late-fourth-century pilgrims.
Needless to say, this glorification of Shavuot among the Jewish Christians as
the festival of the church did not enhance the standing of the mystical-priestly
festival among the sages, and it is nearly certain that it contributed substan-
tially to the holiday’s rejection within the Jewish community that came to be
led by the tanna⁠ʾim in the years following the destruction of the Temple in
70 CE. It may well be that these developments likewise influenced the liturgical
treatment by the tanna’im of the chariot tradition as related to Shavuot.
*Shavuot in the Mystical Tradition
According to tannaitic tradition, the Song of Songs was spoken at the Sinai
encounter, which was interpreted, in midrash and by mystics, as involving
the marriage covenant and mystical union between the Holy One Blessed Be
He and the community of Israel; Shavuot thus comes to be seen as the wed-
ding day. The link between Shavuot and a covenant of marriage appears in
various contexts within the rabbinic tradition; one is that of the encounter at
Sinai: “The LORD came from Sinai—to greet Israel, in the manner of a bride-
groom who goes forth to greet the bride” (Mekhilta de-rabbi yishma’el, Parashat
ba-ẖodesh ha-shelishi, sec. 3).
A second context in which the connection is drawn is that of the nuptials
described in the Song of Songs, taken to refer to the bridegroom-Torah giver
and his bride, the community of Israel, later to be identified with the ongoing
creative process of the Torah she-be-al-Pe, the oral Tora, and the Shekinah. The
talmudist Saul Lieberman noted a mystical interpretation of the Song of Songs
in the tannaitic tradition that tied it to the tradition of the cherubim and the
chariot, and he cited a later version of that interpretation based on the com-
ments of the medieval kabbalist R. Joshua Ibn Shuib: “For the words of this
song are extremely obscure and impenetrable and it therefore was considered
to be holy of holies, for all its words are mysteries of the chariot. . . . For the
bridegroom is the Holy One Blessed Be He and the bride is the community
of Israel. . . . And by received tradition these are hidden matters that one may
not even think about; they are the supernal chariot higher than Ezekiel’s char-
iot and they are the sefirot [the kabbalistic divine emanations].”14 According
14 Saul Lieberman, “Mishnat Shir ha-Shirim”, in: G. Scholem, Jewish Gnosticism, Merkabah
Mysticism and Talmudic Tradition, (New York, 1960), pp. 118–126. citation p. 125.
108 Elior
to the tradition in the Babylonian Talmud, the pilgrims would be shown the
cherubim “which embraced each other” on the ark-cover in the Holy of Holies,
and it was said that “their mutual affection was like that of male and female”
(b. Yoma 54a).
The Zohar, written as “New-Old things”, in late-thirteenth-century Spain
in the wake of the terrible destruction wrought by the Crusades on the
Ashkenazi communities between 1096 and 1296, likewise associates Shavuot,
the covenant festival, with the covenant of marriage—in this instance, the
celestial nuptials between God as bridegroom and the Shekhinah as bride.
It associates the custom of staying awake all night on Shavuot, referred to in
various midrashic sources, with the need to prepare the bride for entry into the
marriage canopy: “The early pious ones would not sleep that night and would
engage in Torah study, saying: Let us come and acquire a holy inheritance for
ourselves and our children in both worlds. When the initiates gathered and
joined him that night, R. Simeon said: Let us go and prepare the bridal jewels
so she may be found tomorrow bejeweled and prepared as befits the King”
(Zohar, part 3, 98a). As noted earlier, the Zohar associates Shavuot with the
idra rabba, the occasion on which R. Simeon bar Yoẖai and his students con-
vened, understood as the occasion for receiving the Torah anew and as a nup-
tial festival. In the Zohar, Shavuot night is called “the night of the bride uniting
with her husband,” “the tiqqun leil shavuʿot” (the decoration and preparation
of the bride on Shavuot night,[later understood as the “repair” of the fabric of
the world]) (Zohar, part 1, 8a–9a; part 2, 98a). Implicit in that conception
of the night is the hope for renewal of the covenant—a new revelation of the
heavenly Written Torah along with the beginning of redemption, linked to the
Oral Torah, the Shekhinah, and the bride—with the nation that had violated
the covenant and was exiled from its land for hundreds and thousands of years.
The late thirteenth century, the end of the Crusades, was a time when
destruction and annihilation had been visited upon many Jewish communi-
ties in Ashkenaz and weighty questions were being raised about the nature
of the oath and covenant between God and his people, who were suffering
such devastating persecution. It was in that context that the Zohar was written,
seeking to forge a new unity between the memory of the Written Torah (God,
the bridegroom) and the creative memory of the Oral Torah (the bride, the
community of Israel). The author of the Zohar, R. Moses de Leon, wrote
the following account of a tiqqun leil shavuʿot, in which the ten martyrs were
transformed from sages who had died for the sanctification of God’s name in
the time of the tanna‌‌ʾim into beings enjoying eternal life one thousand years
later, thanks to the traversal of boundaries of time and space within the mysti-
cal tradition of the Zohar:
The mystery of the festival of Shavuot. . . . The ancient ones, of blessed

memory, the pillars of the world who knew how to draw down from
on high the grace that would enable them to go without sleep on
these two nights of Shavuot, spend the entire night reading from
the Torah, the Prophets and the Writings and then skip through the
Talmud and aggadot [non-halakhic rabbinic texts] and read from the
mysteries of the Torah until morning light, continuing their fathers’
traditions. . . . And at those times [that is, the days of counting the omer—
R. E.] the bride would adorn herself and enter the region on high, and
on that fiftieth night, this night devoted to God, uniting the Written
Torah with the Oral Torah, her devoted children on earth would escort
her into the wedding canopy. And it is listed and written in the book
of memories that they would sing joyfully on the night of the bride’s
rejoicing. . . . And they should not, therefore give ransom for their souls
through the singing of Torah, for they are listed before God . . . and God
will listen and heed and inscribe their memory before him with joy.”
(MS Schocken 14, 87a–b)15
The mystical tradition shaped Shavuot night into a time of preparation for the
holy union to take place on the festival—the nuptial day for heaven and earth,
God and His people, bridegroom and bride, Written Torah and Oral Torah, the
sefirah of tif’eret (glory) and the sefirah of malkhut (sovereignty), the Holy One
Blessed Be He and the Shekhinah (that is, the masculine and feminine aspects
of divinity), all symbolized by the embracing cherubim that the pilgrims com-
ing to observe the festival were allowed to observe from afar (b. Yoma 54a–b).
This tradition generated a wealth of mystical symbols for the idea of king’s cou-
pling with his consort (matronita) or the union between the Holy One Blessed
Be He and His Shekhinah—that is, the covenant between the bridegroom as
giver of the Torah and the bride (the congregation of Israel) as receiver of the
eternal Torah who perpetuates and continues to form it. The mystical tradi-
tion treats these images of union and coupling between “the Holy One Blessed
Be He and His Shekhinah” in thousands of pages of kabbalistic literature and
liturgical poems and sees the souls of Jewish men and women as the fruit of
this mystical union. That tradition even formulated wording for a ketubbah
(marriage contract) between “the bridegroom, the Holy One Blessed Be He”
15 Quoted from Y. D. Wilhelm, “Sidrei tiqqunim,” in Alei ayin—Festschrift for S. Z. Schocken
on his Seventieth Birthday (Hebrew) (Jerusalem, 1948–1952), 126.
110 Elior
and the “bride, the virgin Israel” and described ceremonies in which that
ketubbah was read as part of the tiqqun leil shavuʿot.16
The mystical tradition recounts various occasions on which revelations
of the Holy Spirit took place on Shavuot, as the passages telling of the encoun-
ter at Sinai or Ezekiel’s vision of the Chariot were read. They include, in chron-
ological order:
The idra rabba described in the Zohar at the end of the thirteenth century.
• The revelation of the Shekhinah/Mishnah in R. Joseph Karo’s circle during
the first third of the sixteenth century, which culminated in their immigra-
tion to the Land of Israel in 1535 and the establishment of the kabbalistic
settlement in Safed. These events are described in the introduction to Karo’s
Maggid meisharim and in Shenei luẖot ha-berit by R. Isaiah Leib Horowitz,
known as the holy Shelah, in the chapter titled “Masekhet shevuʾot”.
• The Holy Spirit’s alighting on Nathan of Gaza on Shavuot night 1665. When
he lost consciousness, Nathan began to prophesy in bizarre voices that his
listeners interpreted to foretell the renewal of the covenant and the ascent
to sovereignty of the king messiah Shabbetai Zevi, who would lead his
nation to redemption, just as had Moses.
That last episode decisively influenced the growth of the Sabbatean move-
ment during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, as detailed in Gershom
Scholem’s Shabbetai ẕevi ve-ha-tenuʿah ha-shabta’it bi-yemei ẖayyav and
Meẖqarei shabta’ut.17 While there is disagreement over who wrote the account
of the vision and some see it as pseudepigraphal, there is no dispute about its
link to Nathan’s vision on Shavuot, which begins with a sentence that echoes
other ceremonies from the book of Ezekiel:
Now, it was Shavuot night and I was studying with the initiates in my
home in Gaza. After midnight, I heard a voice from behind the ark cur-
tain speaking to me [and saying]: Arise, and go to the outer courtyard,
and I will speak with you there. My heart was stirred, and I went out to
the courtyard, where I saw a man wearing a linen tunic; his appearance
was that of a very awesome angel of God and he said to me . . . (id., p. 310).
16 Gershom Scholem, Pirqei yesod be-havanat ha-qabbalah u-semalehah (Jerusalem, 1976), 132.
17 Gershom Scholem, Shabbetai ẕevi ve-ha-tenuʿah ha-shabta’it bi-yemei ẖayyav, vol. 1
(Tel Aviv, 1967), 177–78, and Meẖqarei shabta’ut, ed. Yehuda Liebes (Tel Aviv, 1992), 310–20.
Another appearance of the Holy Spirit during the month of Sivan (the third
month) took place in Italy, at the end of the first third of the eighteenth cen-
tury, among the followers of R. Moses H̱ ayyim Luzzatto. On that occasion,
which was influenced by R. Joseph Karo’s Shavuot-night vision, an angel-
maggid appeared to Luzzatto as a divine voice, and dictated heavenly Torah
to him in a book titled Zohar teniyya (“Second Zohar”) or Adir ba-marom.
Luzzatto describes the beginning of the revelation as follows:
On the new moon of Sivan 5487 (1727), while I was performing a certain
unification ritual, I nodded off and when I awoke, I heard a voice saying:
“I have come down to reveal hidden secrets of the Holy King.” I arose shak-
ing a bit, but then gained my strength, but the voice did not cease, and
told the mystery that it told. . . . Thereafter, on a certain day, it revealed to
me that it was a maggid sent from heaven . . . and that while I did not see
it, I would hear its voice speaking from my mouth.18
Luzzatto here describes not only his own angel-maggid but also R. Joseph
Karo’s angel-maggid, which appeared on Shavuot night as well, and his account
seems to echo in that of the wondrous man in Agnon’s Shavuot-night vision
quoted earlier.
The mystical innovation in the kabbalistic tradition is that the unification
takes place between, on the one hand, God, the One Who establishes the eter-
nal covenant, the Holy One Blessed Be He, the sefirah of tif’eret (glory) and the
Written Torah, and, on the other hand, the Shekhinah, the community of Israel,
the party entering into the covenant, the sefirah of malkhut (sovereignty),
and the Oral Torah. The kabbalists who participated in covenant-renewal ritu-
als called “tiqqun leil shavuʿot” or “yiẖud qudsha berikh hu u-shekhinteih” (uni-
fication of the Holy One Blessed Be He and His Shekhinah) experienced, from
time to time, a renewal of the covenant in the form of a divine voice speaking
in the spirit of such persons as the author of the Zohar, R. Joseph Karo, Nathan
of Gaza, Moses H̱ ayyim Luzzatto, or S. Y. Agnon. Some of them identified with
Moses and internalized his image (the author of the Zohar, Karo, Luzzatto,
the Seer of Lublin), while others identified with other written traditions
(Malkho, Nathan, Agnon); but in all cases, the divine revelation is preceded by
a written tradition, which undergoes transformation and reincarnation in the
spirit of the person who experiences the new vision in his mind’s ear, “seeing
the voices.”
18 Simon Ginsburg, ed. Iggerot moshe ẖayyim luẕato u-venei doro (Tel Aviv, 1937), 39.
112 Elior
As a practical matter, it was the reading of the biblical text that triggered
these episodes. The text describes the entry into the covenant at Sinai, before
the building of the Tabernacle, and its renewal in Ezekiel’s vision, in the course
of the destruction of the First Temple, and it was read loudly in kabbalistic
circles during the tiqqun leil shavuʿot. That reading prompted a mystical awak-
ening in which the voice of the Shekhinah was heard as a voice speaking from
above the cover atop the tablets of the covenant, the place of the cherubim, or
a voice calling for a return to the Land of Israel as it spoke from the mouth of
the person reading from Scripture in the Zoharic tradition about the mysti-
cal nuptials. The Shekhinah is described as an angel oscillating between male
and female, in a manner resembling the accounts of the cherubim and holy
beasts as bisexual entities in the visions of Ezekiel and of R. Joseph Karo. The
voice of the angel-maggid therefore is sometimes heard as a qol midabber
(addressing voice), as in the verse (Num 7:89), “When Moses went into the Tent
of Meeting to speak with Him, he would hear the Voice addressing him from
above the cover that was on top of the Ark of the Covenant between the two
cherubim; thus He spoke to him”; at other times, it is heard as the voice of the
exiled daughter of Zion; and at still other times as a voice described in terms
of “Hark! My beloved knocks” (Song 5:2), or “Who announce[s] what is true
[maggid meisharim]” (Isa 45:19). As noted, an event involving renewal of the
covenant was experienced by R. Joseph Karo, the author of Maggid meisharim,
in Adrianopolis on Shavuot night 1533 and led him and his colleagues to immi-
grate to the Land of Israel in 1535 and establish the community of kabbalists in
Safed. The Safed community, which devoted its time to hastening the redemp-
tion and uniting the Shekhinah with the Holy One Blessed Be He so as to renew
the covenant at Sinai, spread kabbalistic-messianic awareness throughout the
Jewish world and contributed decisively to fostering the yearning for Zion and
the return to the Land of Israel.
R. Simeon bar Yoẖai’s final words in the Zohar, uttered as he dies, are “There
the Lord ordained blessing, everlasting life” (Ps 133:3), a sentence linked to the
eternal promise warranted to those who walk in the paths of righteousness, as
declared by Jeremiah, the priest-prophet and advocate of justice: “Then only
will I let you dwell in this place, in the land that I gave to your fathers for all
time” (Jer 7:7). Bound up with these words are the array of ideas related to
Shavuot discussed above: the eternal covenant or oath related to the eternity
of the divine promise and dependent on maintaining the eternal cycles of jus-
tice associated with the sacred fixed times and with the seven-based cycles
of rest that have gone on from Sinai to this very day of Shavuot. These are
sacred biblical cycles of memory, knowledge, justice and truth, cycles of the
covenant and the blessing in their varied manifestations over the course of
history and in the pages of books. The verse in Jeremiah just quoted ends with
the words “for all time” (ad olam), and “Ad olam” (“Forevermore”) is the title
of the story with which S. Y. Agnon ends the volume of his works entitled
Ha-esh ve-ha-eẕim. In the final pages of the volume, Agnon summons up the
memory of the witnesses to the covenant who call up from the depths of obliv-
ion that which was engraved on the tablets and recall, against all odds, what
had been forgotten:
How great is the true writer . . . who does not abandon his work even
when the sword of death hangs over his neck, who writes with his very
blood, in his soul’s own script, what his eyes have seen! . . . So he would sit
and discover new things which had been unknown to all the learned men
of the ages until he came and revealed them. And since there were many
things and learning is endless and there is much to discover and investi-
gate and understand, he did not put his work aside and did not leave his
place and he remained there forevermore.19
19 S. Y. Agnon, “Forevermore,” trans. Joel Blocker, rev. Robert Alter, in Modern Hebrew
Literature, ed. Robert Alter (New York: Behrman House, 1975), 248–49. The Hebrew origi-
nal is the concluding story in Ha-esh ve-ha-eẕim.
Part 2
Rebecca’s Children
( Jewish Christian Origins)
⸪
CHAPTER 4
Some Particulars about Universalism

Ellen Birnbaum
In his impressive study Judaism and the Gentiles: Jewish Patterns of Universalism
(to 135 CE), Terence L. Donaldson observes that the term ‘universalism’ has
frequently been used to describe Christianity in a positive light, especially
in contrast to Judaism, often characterized negatively as ‘particularistic.’1
Recognizing that universalism is a problematic but “already well established”
term (4), Donaldson redefines it in several ways. He concludes that, contrary to
earlier perceptions and portrayals, during the Second Temple period, “Judaism
was in its own ways just as ‘universalistic’ as was Christianity—indeed, in some
ways even more so” (1). In a review of this book, I applauded Donaldson’s efforts
to bring Judaism under “the universalistic umbrella”; I also suggested that we
reconsider our use of the words universalism and particularism.2 The present
volume—to honor the memory of our esteemed teacher and colleague Alan
F. Segal, who himself contributed significantly to the conversation on these
matters—seems a perfect venue for such a reconsideration.
Donaldson’s book was an important impetus for the following reflections
because in it he expands the definition of universalism to accommodate sev-
eral different ways in which Second Temple Judaism demonstrates “a positive
attitude toward Gentiles.” This attitude is marked by the recognition “that the
Gentiles are able, in one way or another, to relate positively to the God of Israel
and to share somehow in Israel’s destiny.”3 Sifting through a vast amount of evi-
dence from this period, Donaldson identifies four “patterns of universalism.”
These patterns include sympathization, whereby Gentiles display sympathy for
Jews through such activities as worshipping at the Jerusalem temple or asso-
ciating with the Jewish community; conversion, whereby Gentiles completely
adopt a Jewish way of life and become part of the Jewish community; ethical
monotheism, whereby particular Jewish teachings are presented as expressions
1 Terence L. Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles: Jewish Patterns of Universalism (to 135 CE)
(Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2007), 1.
2 Ellen Birnbaum, review of Terence L. Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles: Jewish Patterns of
Universalism (to 135 CE), SPhilo 20 (2008): 213–21.
3 Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles, 4.

118 Birnbaum
of “a natural law accessible to everyone through reason”4 and Greek philo-

sophical teachings are viewed by Jews or others as parallel to Jewish teachings
regarding God and virtue; and eschatological participation, whereby Gentiles
share in some way in the blessings accorded to Jews at the end of time. By
offering several understandings of universalism, Donaldson shows that Jews
were—and, by implication, can be—open to Gentiles in a variety of ways.
In order for us to move beyond Donaldson’s accomplishment, I believe, iron-
ically, that we must now avoid or greatly restrict our use of the terms universal-
ism and particularism. Scholars have become increasingly aware of the various
difficulties with these characterizations. A starting point is Donaldson’s own
observation that Christianity is generally described positively as universalis-
tic and Judaism, negatively, as particularistic. As several writers have argued,
Christianity too has its particularistic side. In fact, the same phenomenon
may be considered universalistic by some people and particularistic by others.
Regardless of how we define the terms and with what religious system we asso-
ciate them, universalism is almost always valued positively and particularism,
negatively. Indeed these words carry understandings, associations, and evalua-
tions so long-standing and deeply ingrained that they can slip into the writings
of even the most well-meaning scholars. Most important, perhaps, is that no
manifestation of Judaism or Christianity can be completely universalistic in
the sense of including all people. At some point, a defining factor must distin-
guish between outsiders and insiders.
In the following pages, I will explore how the foregoing observations are true
and suggest a more constructive approach. I hope to show that the hard-to-
define and value-laden terms universalism and particularism in fact obscure
what we really wish to learn—namely, in what specific ways are religious tradi-
tions, practices, and concepts open to others and in what specific ways are they
not open to others? These questions—not the characterizations of universal-
ism and particularism—should be the focus of our attention.
Like Donaldson, I will restrict my discussion to the early period of Judaism
and Christianity. My remarks will necessarily range more broadly than Second
Temple times, since scholarly treatments of universalism and particularism
often compare Christianity as expressed in the New Testament—especially
in the writings of Paul—with Judaism from its biblical roots through early
rabbinic literature. In addition, because different sources can reflect differ-
ent interpretations of Judaism and Christianity, particularly from this era,
I will occasionally refer to individual sources as ‘expressions’ of Judaism or
4 Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles, 11.

Some Particulars About Universalism 119
Christianity, and I will also use the phrase ‘religious system’ to refer to a specific
configuration of beliefs and practices.
Donaldson’s flexible approach to understanding universalism can be seen
as a reaction to earlier notions. A useful illustration of some of these notions
is found in an entry on universalism by J. E. Odgers in the early 20th century
Encyclopaedia of Religion and Ethics, edited by James Hastings (hereafter
referred to as the Hastings Encyclopaedia article), which offers three senses of
the term.5 According to the first sense, associated with the nineteenth-century
German theologian F. C. Baur, universalism “designates the setting aside of
the belief that a nation or a race is privileged to enjoy the special protection
and favor of God, or of a deity whom it recognizes as peculiarly its own; and
contemplates all nations and races as standing, actually or potentially, in one
and the same relation to one and the same God.” Commenting that the oppo-
site of this position is particularism, Odgers briefly reviews the evolution of
particularism in the Old Testament from belief that YHWH is a national deity
to “the larger thought” that He rules “over all peoples as God above all gods”
and then that He is “the only God, whose sway is universal, but who has cho-
sen Israel as His special care.” Occasionally the Old Testament also reflects
“a desire to extend to other nations the Messianic hope and the kingdom of
God.” In the New Testament, universalism is exemplified by the Pauline and
Lukan writings, which “in contrast with the exclusiveness of the Jew
and the Judaeo-Christian,” opposed setting conditions in spreading the gospel
to the Gentiles: “In the NT, the larger view seems to win its way from the
announcement of a salvation which, beginning from Israel, shall be unto
all peoples, to the Apocalyptic vision of the ‘great multitude . . . out of every
nation, and of all tribes and peoples and tongues’ (Rev 7:9), and of a new
Jerusalem whose gates are never shut.”
Although all of these statements are meant to illustrate one sense of uni-
versalism, the discussion suggests—whether implicitly or explicitly—at least
three different understandings: 1) the recognition and acceptance that all
people have equal standing with the same God of all the universe, in contrast
to the belief that one particular nation stands in special relationship to this
God, who is also its national deity; 2) the desire to encompass all people within
5 James Edwin Odgers, “Universalism,” in Encyclopaedia of Religion and Ethics, ed. James
Hastings (New York: Scribner’s Sons, 1961), 529–35. All quotations about the first sense of
universalism in this article are found on p. 529. This sense will be our primary focus. In accor-
dance with Odgers’s discussion, I use ‘Old Testament’ here but elsewhere refer to these books
as the Hebrew Bible or Jewish Bible. On the two other senses of universalism discussed in the
article, see below in the section on salvation and n. 58.
120 Birnbaum
a religious vision, generally through active attempts to spread this vision to

all people; and 3) the belief that salvation extends to all people. These under-
standings pertain to three highly controversial issues: chosenness, proselytism,
and salvation. To highlight some of the challenges inherent in using the terms
universalism and particularism, we shall consider each of these three issues
in turn.
Before we examine these issues, however, it may be helpful briefly to con-
sider what Baur himself writes about universalism because his ideas underlie
not only the article cited above but several other treatments as well. Baur’s
ideas about universalism stem from his interest in the history of Christianity.6
Claiming to study historical evidence as objectively as possible,7 he sets out to
determine “why the miracle with which the history of Christianity begins was
brought to bear on the world’s history” at the particular time of the Roman
empire.8 He finds the answer in the universalistic spirit of the age: “It is a
consideration of real significance for the history of the world, that the epoch
which saw the Roman empire complete the union of all the nations of the
world as it then was in a universal monarchy, also witnessed the beginning
of the religion in which all religious particularism disappeared and gave way
to universalism.”9 Central to the universalistic thrust of Christianity was the
apostle Paul, who personally “broke through the barriers of Judaism” and rec-
ognized “the destination of Christianity to be the general principle of salvation
for all people.” Indeed because Paul believed that he could accomplish his mis-
sion only among the Gentiles, Baur sees him as “the first to lay down expressly
and distinctly the principle of Christian universalism as a thing essentially
opposed to Jewish particularism.”10 Based on Paul’s critique of Judaism, then,
Baur understands universalism as the repudiation of Jewish particularism, the
inclusion of Gentiles, and the extension of salvation to all. These three ele-
ments correspond with the abovementioned topics of chosenness, prosely-
tism, and salvation, to which we now turn.
6 See, e.g., Ferdinand Christian Baur, The Church History of the First Three Centuries, trans.
Allan Menzies, 2 vols. (London: Williams & Norgate, 1878). Subsequent citations all from
vol. 1.
7 Baur, Church History, x.
8 Baur, Church History, 2.
1 Chosenness
In the Hastings Encyclopaedia essay cited above, universalism is first explained

as the rejection of a concept, which we shall address as chosenness; this con-
cept begins with the belief that the universal God of all creation has chosen a
particular people as the object of His special love and favor. Before consider-
ing the relationship between chosenness and universalism, let us first examine
more closely what chosenness means.
In his book entitled Yet I Loved Jacob: Reclaiming the Biblical Concept
of Election, Joel S. Kaminsky carefully and thoughtfully investigates this
theme in the Hebrew Bible.11 He underscores that chosenness, or election,
is not a single, fixed doctrine but a complex set of motifs and emphases that
appear in different biblical writings. Thus, starting with the rivalry stories in
Genesis in which a younger sibling is favored and prevails over an elder, Kaminsky
traces the motif of chosenness through the patriarchal accounts of divine
promises regarding the future of the patriarchs’ descendants and of the whole
world; the covenant at Sinai between God and Israel, with its attendant obliga-
tions; the priestly emphasis on covenant and holiness; Deuteronomic themes
such as God’s mysterious love for Israel and Israel’s responsibilities as God’s
elect; and prophetic visions of the role of the chosen in relation to other
nations and of the status of other nations at the eschaton. Kaminsky also con-
siders how chosenness is dealt with in the Book of Psalms and wisdom lit-
erature, including some Second Temple works, and how early Christianity and
rabbinic Judaism interpret aspects of this doctrine.
Among Kaminsky’s numerous insightful observations is his explanation
that because chosenness is expressed in so many different biblical threads,
one can easily highlight some aspects and ignore others. Christian writers on
the topic, for example, have focused primarily on the connection between
chosenness and a call to missionize, which they discern in some prophetic
writings. Kaminsky, however, questions the construal that Israel’s election
has an instrumental purpose and instead highlights other aspects. Thus he
emphasizes the intrinsic value of election and God’s inexplicable love for
Israel. He also argues that those who are not chosen play a role in God’s larger,
11 Joel S. Kaminsky, Yet I Loved Jacob: Reclaiming the Biblical Concept of Election (Nashville:
Abingdon, 2007). Many ideas in this book further develop notions presented by Jon
D. Levenson in his earlier essay, discussed below, “The Universal Horizon of Biblical
Particularism,” in Ethnicity and the Bible, ed. Mark G. Brett (Boston: Brill, 2002), 143–69.
See also Kaminsky, Yet I Loved Jacob, 198 n. 24.
122 Birnbaum
nknowable plan both for the elect and the world.12 In addition, being chosen
u
can be seen as both a privilege and a burden. If one thinks of God’s special
people as destined to benefit from His protection and love, as portrayed, for
example, in Exodus and Deuteronomy, belonging to this people can appear
extremely desirable and preferable to being an outsider. According to the same
biblical books, however, chosenness involves heavy obligations to fulfill the
divine commandments. Chosenness can also entail great danger and suffer-
ing. In Deuteronomy and prophetic literature, Israel is warned that it will be
severely punished (though not de-selected) if and when the nation fails to live
up to its obligations; accounts of the fall of Israel and Judah show that these
threats indeed materialize.13 Both the responsibilities and the suffering of the
chosen, however, are part of God’s overarching, inscrutable plan.
Although the chosenness concept is often labeled particularistic, Kaminsky
shows that such an evaluation merits more careful scrutiny. One can easily see
why this concept might appear objectionable. The claim of a people that God
had chosen them certainly sets this people apart from others and might imply
a sense of superiority. Such a belief also raises the vital issue of how the chosen
group should treat those outside the group and what relationship these outsid-
ers have or can have with God. Outsiders might understandably resent their
unchosen status and question what their own role should be.
To address concerns like these, Kaminsky makes a crucial distinction regard-
ing those who are not chosen. He contends that misunderstandings arise
because it is often assumed that those standing outside the elect are destined
for damnation. This assumption is based on two mistaken beliefs: one is that
chosenness gives rise to two categories, those who are chosen and those who
are not; and the second is that chosenness pertains to salvation. Kaminsky,
however, argues that in both legal and narrative sections of the Hebrew Bible
one can identify three—not two—categories with regard to chosenness:
the elect, the anti-elect, and the non-elect. The anti-elect—who include the
Amalekites, the Canaanites, and, less clearly, the Midianites—are viewed as “so
evil or dangerous that warfare against them may include a call for their annihi-
lation, as well as either the destruction of their livestock and other p ossessions
12 Kaminsky, Yet I Loved Jacob, esp. 84–85, 153–57. The nature of Israel’s role with regard
to the nations has been widely debated; see also Joel N. Lohr, Chosen and Unchosen:
Conceptions of Election in the Pentateuch and Jewish-Christian Interpretation (Winona
Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2009), esp. 1–91.
13 Other chosen figures who suffer or experience danger include Abel, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph,
and the subject of the so-called “Servant Songs” of Second Isaiah; their suffering plays a
role in the larger divine plan. See Kaminsky, Yet I Loved Jacob, 27, 41, 52, 62, 155.
or the dedication of these items to the Deity.”14 The rhetoric against the anti-
elect is indeed disturbing and raises questions about the potential conse-
quences of the biblical concept of chosennesss. While acknowledging these
morally troubling aspects, however, Kaminsky contends that even the “harsh-
est” passages about the anti-elect are in fact “more nuanced and ambiguous
than some would concede.”15 Moreover, the Bible itself as well as archaeo-
logical evidence both suggest that the demand for total annihilation was
never actualized. Kaminsky also observes that this rhetoric is but one thread
and certainly not the most prominent one in the complex tapestry of the
chosenness idea.
Indeed, alongside this stance is a range of other positions toward outsid-
ers, whom Kaminsky calls the non-elect. This group comprises such figures
as Isaac’s brother Ishmael; Melchizedek, king of Salem and priest of the Most
High God; Pharaoh’s daughter who saves Moses; Cyrus, the Persian king who
conquers Babylon; a class of people loosely understood as resident aliens; and
specific nations like Egypt and Edom.16 Although the Hebrew Bible does not
regard these individuals and groups as part of God’s elect, neither does it view
them as “utterly beyond the pale of divine and human mercy.”17 In fact, many
texts speak admiringly about these figures, call for benevolent treatment of
them, envision them as recognizing God and prospering from His blessings,
and see a role for them in helping to fulfill God’s plans for both Israel and the
world. For our purposes, it is important that chosenness entails a complex set
of attitudes and behavioral prescriptions toward the other. Rather than being
‘damned,’ those not among the chosen can command respect, have a meaning-
ful relationship to God, and play a part in the unfolding of God’s universal plan.
The second belief that gives rise to misunderstanding is that chosenness
is linked to salvation. In the Hebrew Bible, however, salvation and its oppo-
site, damnation, are neither clearly defined nor necessarily central concerns.18
Some prophetic visions of the eschaton do include a role for the nations, as
14 Kaminsky, Yet I Loved Jacob, 111.

16 Kaminsky, Yet I Loved Jacob, 34, 121–36. For the range of terms to describe the resident
alien and other foreigners, see Kaminsky, Yet I Loved Jacob, 123–24. For further consider-
ation of those not chosen, see Lohr, Chosen and Unchosen, 92–200.
18 Kaminsky, Yet I Loved Jacob, 135. See also Levenson (“Universal Horizon,” 159), who writes,
“The difference between the chosen and the unchosen is not (as it often becomes in
Christianity) the difference between the saved and the damned.” For the differing empha-
ses given by Jews and Christians to salvation, see below.
124 Birnbaum
Odgers himself acknowledges in the Hastings Encyclopaedia article. Again,

though, this vision is but one thread in an intricate weave.
As we shall discuss below, salvation is a primary concern of Christianity,
especially in the writings of Paul. In fact, Baur considers Paul to be universal-
istic precisely because he aims to extend salvation to all. It is therefore a great
irony that Paul himself uses the language of chosenness. In Gal 4:21–5:1, for
example, Paul not only associates believers in Jesus with children of the prom-
ise, like Isaac, and Jewish non-believers with Ishmael, but he also distorts the
portrayal of Ishmael, the non-chosen, as being utterly rejected by God, in a way
similar to the anti-elect, according to Kaminsky’s designation. Paul’s universal
vision, then, has its own exclusionary, or particularistic, dimensions.19
If Paul complicates the understanding of chosenness by conflating the
non-elect with the anti-elect and incorporating the element of salvation, Baur
confounds the matter even further by using the terms universalism and partic-
ularism. Since he associates universalism with the principle of salvation for all,
by implication, its supposed opposite—particularism—would signify salva-
tion only for some.20 As noted above, however, and as we shall discuss further
below, because Jews and Christians read the Bible differently, not everyone
agrees that the Christian understanding of salvation is part of the doctrine of
chosenness as expressed in the Hebrew Bible. Indeed, the elements opposite
to Christian universalism, as Baur understands it, do not precisely match what
is found in the Hebrew Bible or most other expressions of Judaism, whether
contemporary to Paul or later.21 In addition, by viewing Christianity as supe-
rior to Judaism, Baur introduces a value judgment: universalistic Christianity
is good, while particularistic Judaism is bad.22
19 Kaminsky, Yet I Loved Jacob, 185–91; for other passages that reflect the chosenness idea
in the New Testament, see Kaminsky, Yet I Loved Jacob, 169–72. See also John M. G.
Barclay, “Universalism and Particularism: Twin Components of Both Judaism and Early
Christianity,” in A Vision for the Church: Studies in Early Christianity in Honour of P. P. M.
Sweet, ed. Markus Bockmuehl and Michael B. Thompson (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1997),
215; and Michael McGarry, “Election, Christian View,” in A Dictionary of the Jewish-
Christian Dialogue, expanded ed., ed. Leon Klenicki and Geoffrey Wigoder (New York:
Paulist, 1995), 49–51. Kaminsky discusses other ways in which early Christianity was
exclusionary; see Yet I Loved Jacob, 133–35.
20 Actually the real opposite would seem to be salvation for none!
21 Jubilees, discussed below, is an exception to this observation.
22 Enlightenment thought is another important influence behind this evaluation of univer-
salism; see Levenson, “Universal Horizon,” 157; Kaminsky, Yet I Loved Jacob, 4–6; Joseph
Blenkinsopp, “Yahweh and Other Deities: Conflict and Accommodation in the Religion of
Israel,” Int 40 (1986): 360–62.
To be sure, Kaminsky’s discussion does not eliminate all problematic fea-

tures associated with the biblical idea of chosenness. In its claim that one
specific nation is the focus of divine love and favor, the doctrine can be seen
as ethnocentric. Whether this focus is good or bad, however, is debatable since
other nations are not excluded from the divine plan and may have a role in
its realization. While some unchosen people may accept this status, however,
others may find cold comfort in it. Beyond its stance toward outsiders, the cho-
senness doctrine is problematic in yet other ways. We have left unaddressed,
for example, the theological question of how the universal God of all creation
could love and favor one people above all others. This notion implies favorit-
ism and an emotional or non-rational attachment that does not conform to
widely-held assumptions that God is both fair and rational.
From antiquity to the present, Jews have embraced and/or wrestled with
chosenness for several different reasons. God’s choice of Israel is an important
theme in Jubilees (1:29, 16:18, 19:18), for example, which views the uncircum-
cised as “children of destruction” (15:26) and declares that among the Gentiles,
“there will be none who will be saved” (23:24).23 The Qumran sect went so far
as to understand itself as the elect and to consider fellow Jews to be outsiders.24
Josephus, by contrast, acknowledges a unique relationship between God and
Israel but ascribes this to “the special virtue of the people or its leaders.”25 Philo
retains the notion of chosenness but reinterprets those who are chosen to
encompass all wise and virtuous people.26 Later the rabbis sought to justify or
explain God’s choice of Israel as based on merit.27 Indeed, Kaminsky’s grap-
pling with this doctrine is but one of the more recent efforts in a long tradition!
I do not wish to deny, then, that chosenness has its problematic aspects.
Instead I believe that the doctrine must first be studied on its own terms to
ascertain in what specific ways it is open and not open to others. We can
then, if we wish, consider what about the doctrine we value and what we do
23 See, e.g., E. P. Sanders, Paul and Palestinian Judaism: A Comparison of Patterns of Religion
(Minneapolis: Fortress, 1977), 362–64, 374–75.
24 Sanders, Paul and Palestinian Judaism, 240–70. On the complexities in determining who
‘the Other’ is, see Lawrence M. Wills, Not God’s People: Insiders and Outsiders in the Biblical
World (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2008).
25 Harold W. Attridge, The Interpretation of History in the Antiquitates Judaicae of Flavius
Josephus (Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1976), 83.
26 Ellen Birnbaum, The Place of Judaism in Philo’s Thought: Israel, Jews, and Proselytes, BJS
290/SPhiloM 2, (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996), 128–59.
27 Kaminsky, Yet I Loved Jacob, 181–85; for later “Jewish attempts to mitigate the theology
of the anti-elect,” see Kaminsky, Yet I Loved Jacob, 116–18. For another approach, see also
Marc Hirshman, “Election and Rejection in the Midrash,” JSQ 16 (2009): 71–82.
126 Birnbaum
not. Kaminsky’s book is an excellent example of this approach. By contrast,

when we introduce the imprecise and value-laden terms universalism and
particularism, we obscure the complexities of chosenness and load the discus-
sion with implicit or explicit judgments.
2 Proselytism
A second understanding of universalism and particularism centers on pros-

elytism, that is, the active effort to induce others to adopt one’s religion, which
can encompass beliefs, practices, and community. Since proselytism might also
be understood as the acceptance of proselytes without necessarily implying
efforts to attract them, to avoid ambiguity I will speak about active proselytism.
This sense is implied in the Hastings Encyclopaedia article when it defines uni-
versalism as the position that “contemplates all nations and races as standing,
actually or potentially, in one and the same relation to one and the same God”
(my emphasis). The words “actually or potentially” are significant, because if
people actually stand in the same relationship to the same God, nothing more
is required; if they do not stand in the same relationship to the same God,
it is implicit that they can potentially do so by changing or converting. We have
seen that Baur considers Paul to be universalistic precisely because he had a
mission to the Gentiles. Moreover, the Hastings Encyclopedia article contrasts
the Pauline and Lukan writings with “the exclusiveness of the Jew and the
Judaeo-Christian,” who, even while reaching out to Gentiles, wished to impose
conditions of which Paul disapproved. This observation implies that in reach-
ing out to the Gentiles Paul himself imposed no conditions.
In the abovementioned discussions and many others, active proselytism
is considered universalistic and good, while its absence is seen as particu-
laristic and bad.28 Upon careful reflection, however, one discerns that active
proselytism has its particularistic aspects too. The complexity of the matter
is illuminated by Jon D. Levenson in a thoughtful and profound essay enti-
tled “The Universal Horizon of Biblical Particularism.” As Levenson observes,
“. . . [A]ll religious traditions are particular, since none includes every-
one. . . . To be sure, while no religion is universal, some aspire to be. In this
sense, a ‘universal religion’ may mean simply one that accepts proselytes, that
28 See, e.g., the perceptive analysis of Anders Runesson, “Particularistic Judaism and
Universalistic Christianity? Some Critical Remarks on Terminology and Theology,” ST 54
(2000): 55–75, esp. 56–58.
is, one that is willing or eager to extend its particularity indefinitely.”29 From
this perspective, active proselytism is open to all people in the sense that it
stems from the desire or aspiration “to extend its particularity indefinitely,” to
include all people under one umbrella, so to speak. In referring to the exten-
sion of particularity, however, this comment suggests that proselytism also has
a particularistic side. Indeed, paradoxically, active proselytism can be seen as
not open to outsiders. That is because, as Levenson perceptively comments,
“[t]hose who think outsiders can have a proper relationship with God as they
are will feel less of an impulse to make them into insiders” (my emphasis).30
Thus, while active proselytism aspires ultimately to be all-inclusive, it also
implies a rejection of outsiders as they are right now; in this way, such prosely-
tism is not open to outsiders.31 Depending upon one’s point of view, then, the
very same phenomenon can be viewed as either universalistic or particularistic!
Let us apply these observations more concretely to early Judaism and
Christianity. As for the latter, it is difficult to ascertain the extent to which Jesus
himself and his early followers actively sought proselytes among the Gentiles.32
Paul, however, clearly engaged in this pursuit. Because he did, because he did
not require Gentiles to adopt the Jewish laws, and because he spoke of elimi-
nating differences between Jew and Greek (among other differences) in such
passages as Gal 3:26–29 and 5:6, Paul is frequently seen as the quintessential
universalist. As Levenson observes, however,
The community that Paul envisions in Galatians is indeed one that has
abolished fundamental Jewish distinctions. But Paul’s thinking is hardly
universalistic. He does not affirm the irrelevance of Israelite identity, but
only the uniqueness of faith and baptism as the means of access to it.
He says that there is neither Jew nor Greek among those in Christ and
whether one is circumcised or not is of no account in Christ. But he does
not say, his theology does not allow him or any other Christian to say, that
whether one is “in Christ” or not is inconsequential and that whether one
29 Levenson, “Universal Horizon,” 145.

31 As Kaminsky observes (Yet I Loved Jacob, 145), “. . . [A] religious tendency toward univer-
salism and inclusion is not necessarily a tolerant attitude. It can lead to a missionary zeal
to make all outsiders insiders.”
32 Runesson, “Particularistic Judaism and Universalistic Christianity?” 61–62; E. P. Sanders,
Jesus and Judaism (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985), 218–21; Martin Goodman, Mission and
Conversion: Proselytizing in the Religious History of the Roman Empire (Oxford: Clarendon,
1994), 91–108.
128 Birnbaum
is baptized or not is of no account. Only if he said these things could he

be termed a universalist in a sense in which the rabbis were not.33
In aspiring to include all Gentiles among Abraham’s heirs in Galatians, Paul

indeed shows a great openness to outsiders. By imposing the particular con-
dition of belief in Jesus as Christ, however, he implicitly excludes those who
reject this belief.
Jews, by contrast, demonstrate a different kind of openness to outsiders
because they recognize that non-Jews can have a meaningful relationship with
God as non-Jews.34 Jews too, however, have certain standards for this relation-
ship to be possible. We have seen this dual approach to outsiders in Kaminsky’s
discussion of the non-elect and anti-elect in biblical times. Moreover, as
Donaldson has shown, Jews during the Second Temple era accepted and
embraced a large class of sympathizers. As some Second Temple sources attest,
however, some Jews also denounced non-Jews who were idol worshippers,
polytheists, and animal worshippers.35 In the rabbinic period, the concept of
Noahide laws—a list of injunctions viewed as incumbent upon all people—
also reflects the recognition by Jews that Gentiles could fulfill God’s will as
Gentiles. Rabbinic literature also, however, expresses the belief that “gentile
life is in general hopelessly depraved.”36
Beyond the question of attitudes toward outsiders as outsiders, even though
Jews (and Israelites) may not have actively sought proselytes, they were cer-
tainly open to accepting them. During the biblical period, Israelites appear to

34 On the interrelated issues of the absorption of outsiders and views on the status of outsid-
ers, see Kaminsky, Yet I Loved Jacob, 172.
35 On sympathizers, see Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles, 469–82, 539–41. On denuncia-
tion of non-Jewish beliefs and practices, see Robert Goldenberg, The Nations That Know
Thee Not: Ancient Jewish Attitudes toward Other Religions (Washington Square, N.Y.: New
York University Press, 1998), 51–56; Sarah J. K. Pearce, The Land of the Body: Studies in
Philo’s Representation of Egypt (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 241–308.
36 Goldenberg, The Nations That Know Thee Not, 83. See also Alan F. Segal, “Universalism
in Judaism and Christianity,” in Paul in His Hellenistic Context, ed. Troels Engberg-
Pedersen (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), 8–9; Ephraim E. Urbach, “Self-Isolation or Self-
Affirmation in Judaism in the First Three Centuries: Theory and Practice,” in Aspects of
Judaism in the Greco-Roman Period, ed. E. P. Sanders et al., vol. 2 of Jewish and Christian
Self-Definition (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1981), 275–84. See also David Novak, The Image of
the Non-Jew in Judaism: An Historical and Constructive Study of the Noahide Laws (New
York: Mellen, 1983).
have incorporated outsiders, although their exact status is somewhat unclear.37

Donaldson too, among others, has accumulated evidence from Second Temple
times that Jews welcomed proselytes, even if they did not actively pursue
them. Acceptance of proselytes continued in the rabbinic period, during which
evidence for active proselytizing is ambiguous.38 To become Jews and to live
as Jews, however, Gentiles also had to adopt certain conditions, such as male
circumcision and obedience to commandments.39 These conditions might
be understood as a limit to Jewish openness to outsiders, just as baptism and
belief in Jesus might be perceived as limiting conditions in Paul’s approach. The
terms universalism and particularism, then, are too ambiguous to encompass
the complexity of both Jewish and Christian proselytism, whether active or
passive. Instead we should focus on specifically how Judaism and Christianity
are and are not open to proselytes and to outsiders who remain outsiders.
Apart from the imprecision of the terms universalism and particularism, we
must also contend with the values associated with these terms. In a latter-day
response to Baur’s positive assessment of Paul’s efforts, Daniel Boyarin offers
a markedly different perspective. Boyarin focuses on the issue of salvation,
but his remarks are highly relevant to our discussion of proselytism. Agreeing
with Baur that Paul was primarily motivated by a desire to extend salvation
to all people, not only Jews, Boyarin sees Paul’s universalism as a negative
phenomenon.40 As Boyarin points out, Paul not only wants all people to be
saved, but he wants them to be saved in exactly the same way, through belief in
Jesus.41 What strikes Boyarin, then, is not Paul’s desire for inclusivity but rather
the “coercion to conform.”42 Boyarin also notes that whereas Paul wishes
to extend salvation to all through belief in Jesus, the rabbis extend salvation to
non-Jews through their concept of the Noahide commandments. In so doing,
37 Levenson, “Universal Horizon,” 161–62; Kaminsky, Yet I Loved Jacob, 126–28.
38 Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles, 483–92, 541–42; Goodman, Mission and Conversion,
129–53; Louis H. Feldman, Jew and Gentile in the Ancient World: Attitudes and Interactions
from Alexander to Justinian (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 383–415.
39 On the complex question of requirements for conversion in different periods of early
Jewish history, see Shaye J. D. Cohen, The Beginnings of Jewishness: Boundaries, Varieties,
Uncertainties (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), esp. 140–74, 198–238.
40 Daniel Boyarin, A Radical Jew: Paul and the Politics of Identity (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1994), 11.
41 Boyarin, A Radical Jew, 216; for a possible exception to this view, see the discussion below
on salvation.
42 Boyarin, A Radical Jew, 235.
130 Birnbaum
they preserve difference—both their own and that of outsiders—a right that
Boyarin values positively.43
By labeling active proselytism as universalistic because of its attempt to
be all-inclusive, we may lose sight that this very inclusiveness can entail an
enforced sameness. In addition, we may overlook a different kind of affir-
mation of others—namely, the recognition that they can have a meaning-
ful relationship with God as they are without having to change or convert. If
we eliminate our use of the terms universalism and particularism and focus
instead on precisely how religious systems are and are not open to outsiders,
we will be able to appreciate the complexity of each system and form more
meaningful distinctions and judgments.
3 Salvation
A third understanding of universalism pertains to salvation, a concept that has

different meanings in Judaism and Christianity and, more important, carries
vastly different significance within each religion as a whole. Indeed because
the meaning of the term has been so influenced by Christian theology, some
Jews have questioned the suitability of speaking about salvation in Judaism at
all.44 Perhaps indicative of an ambivalence toward this topic is that the sub-
ject has no entry of its own in the Encyclopedia Judaica.45 Moreover, although
several dictionaries of the Bible discuss salvation in the Old Testament, a Jew
reading the Jewish Bible will perceive the concept rather differently from a
Christian and would certainly be given pause by the statement that “salvation
43 Boyarin, A Radical Jew, 233, 220. Although Paul would allow for Jews to continue observ-
ing the law, such observance would be completely irrelevant for his vision of Israel, which
encompasses all peoples of the world and in which there is neither Jew nor Greek (112).
According to Boyarin, this rendering of observance as irrelevant constitutes nothing less
than a “dismissal of Pharisaic/biblical Judaism entirely” (290 n. 10); see also John M. G.
Barclay, “ ‘Neither Jew nor Greek’: Multiculturalism and the New Perspective on Paul,”
in Brett, Ethnicity in the Bible (see n. 11), 213.
44 See, e.g., R. J. Zwi Werblowsky, “Salvation in Judaism,” Concepts of Salvation in Living
Faiths, Ecumenical Institute for Advanced Theological Studies Yearbook 1976–1977
(Tantur: Ecumenical Institute for Advanced Theological Studies, 1979), 51–58.
45 This is true of the most recent edition (2007) and its predecessor (1972). Discussion of
some relevant notions can, however, be found under the entry “Redemption.” See also
Oskar Skarsaune, “Salvation in Judaism and Christianity,” Mishkan 16 (1992): 1–9.
is the theme of much of the Bible.”46 Apart from the fundamentally different
ways of understanding salvation and the different emphases placed upon it,
the concept itself—whether in Jewish or Christian tradition—is much too
complex for us to do it justice in this brief essay. After some general obser-
vations, I will confine myself to reflections about the suitability of using the
terms universalism and particularism in relation to this topic.
In the Hebrew Bible, the idea of divine salvation—often expressed through
a variety of words from such roots as ‫גאל‬, ‫ישע‬, and ‫פדה‬, among others—applies
to individuals, groups, and nations and to actions in the past, present, and
future. The nature of salvation can be physical and/or spiritual. Thus the idea
encompasses deliverance from danger—be it personal, collective, or national;
redemption from a temporarily alienated state, such as sin or exile; and the
bestowal of security, prosperity, and success. Many Psalms, for example, are
personal pleas to God for deliverance from vague affliction. The greatest act of
national salvation is God’s redemption of Israel from slavery in Egypt. God also
saves smaller groups like Noah and his family from the flood. The expectation
of future salvation is expressed especially in Psalms and prophetic literature;
a focus in part of the latter is Israel’s restoration from exile. Some prophecies
look forward even further to judgments and blessings at the end of days. This
eschatological concern becomes more pronounced in Jewish apocalyptic lit-
erature of the Second Temple period. After the Bar Kokhba Revolt, however,
the Rabbis projected into the far distant future Jewish messianic expectations
for national redemption and stressed individuals’ power to repent and thereby
hasten the coming of the Messiah.47
Although many of these examples of salvation pertain only to Israel, God’s
salvific acts are not restricted to members of the nation alone. Accompanying
Israel in its Exodus from Egypt, for example, is a “mixed multitude” (erev rav,
Exod 12:38); the precise identity of this group has been interpreted in differ-
ent ways, but it clearly includes people somehow distinguished from Israel.
Other examples of non-Israelites who benefit from God’s saving power include
46 Gary W. Light, “Salvation, Save, Savior,” in Eerdmans Dictionary of the Bible, ed. David Noel
Freeman (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 1154. See also Ralph W. Doermann, “Salvation
in the Hebrew Scriptures: A Christian Perspective,” in Concepts of Salvation in Living
Faiths, 35. My discussion of salvation in both Jewish and Christian traditions draws from
these articles, others cited in other notes (e.g., below, n. 53), and the following: Gerald G.
O’Collins, “Salvation,” in The Anchor Bible Dictionary, ed. David Noel Freedman (New York:
Doubleday, 1992), 5:9–7. All these sources provide ample primary references.
47 Werblowsky, “Salvation in Judaism,” 54–55; Ephraim E. Urbach, The Sages: Their Concepts
and Beliefs (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1987), 649–92.
132 Birnbaum
Rahab and her family (Josh 2) and the Ninevites to whom Jonah was sent to
preach repentance.
As with God’s past and ongoing salvific acts, the Hebrew Bible also occa-
sionally envisions a role for Gentile nations in the future. As Donaldson points
out, this role is at times negative, whereby Gentiles are punished and earn no
redemption, or ancillary, whereby Gentiles serve as “mute witnesses of Israel’s
vindication or docile facilitators of Israel’s return to the land.” In other visions,
however, Gentiles as Gentiles “seem to take an equal place alongside Israel.”48
In Second Temple literature, this mixed trend of inclusion and exclusion of
Gentiles continues. As we have seen, for example, Jubilees declares that none
among the Gentiles will be saved (23:24).49 The Qumran sect has an even nar-
rower scope. The War Scroll, for example, envisions the community itself, iden-
tified with the sons of light, entering into battle “of extermination against the
sons of darkness,” presumably all those outside the community.50 Nonetheless,
as Donaldson shows, some apocalyptic literature preserves a more inclusiv-
ist thread and awaits an eschaton in which Gentiles who have turned to the
God of Israel—whether as Gentiles or as converts—share in end-time bless-
ings along with Jews.51 In later times, as Alan Segal and others have demon-
strated, the Rabbis too reflect different attitudes about the ability of non-Jews
to achieve a place in the world to come. If one position negates the possibility
of this achievement, however, another affirms that the world to come is indeed
open to Gentiles who are righteous.52
Against this backdrop of various Jewish ideas about salvation, some more
and some less open to others, let us consider the same issue in the New
Testament.53 Without question, the theme is central to this literature, which
proclaims that salvation is mediated through Jesus, whose very name (from the
Hebrew ‫ )ישע‬denotes saving (Matt 1:21). Jesus, understood to be the Messiah,
48 Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles, 500–501; Odgers (“Universalism,” 529) also acknowl-
edges that some passages include a “desire to extend to other nations the messianic hope
and the kingdom of God.”
49 Sanders, Paul and Palestinian Judaism, 367–71 (apostate Israelites are also excluded).
50 Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles, 196; Sanders, Jesus and Judaism, 217; Runesson,
“Particularistic Judaism and Universalistic Christianity?” 67.
51 For references, see Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles, 499–505, 543.
52 Segal, “Universalism in Judaism and Christianity,” 5–7; see also the qualifications in
Goldenberg, The Nations That Know Thee Not, 84–85.
53 In addition to the sources listed in n. 46, for New Testament notions of salvation I have
also consulted Andrew Chester, “Salvation in Christian Thought,” in The Biblical World,
ed. John Barton (London: Routledge, 2002), 2:317–31; and Jan G. van der Watt, ed., Salvation
in the New Testament: Perspectives in Soteriology (Leiden: Brill, 2005).
or Christ, is seen as the fulfillment of God’s messianic promises to Israel (e.g.,

Acts 13:23). Besides deliverance from physical danger and various kinds of
bodily afflictions, salvation in the New Testament—expressed through meta-
phors from “forensic, economic, social, political, and apocalyptic” spheres54—
has a decidedly spiritual emphasis and is presented as entry into a new life in
the kingdom of God or of heaven. A component of salvation pertains to the
assumption that humans are inherently sinful and alienated from God (e.g.,
Rom 5:12–21). Although they are unable to restore their relationship to Him
on their own, God offers assistance through grace or love, and restoration is
effected through Christological events, especially Jesus’s death and resurrec-
tion. Faith in Jesus also spares humans from God’s wrath (Rom 5:9). The reality
of salvation exists in the past and present and also stands to be fulfilled in the
eschatological future, when God’s salvation will encompass a vast multitude
(Rev 7:9).
Let us turn to the ways that salvation as expressed in the New Testament is
and is not open to outsiders. Key to this question is the claim that Jesus alone
is the path to God and the agent of His salvation (e.g., John 14:6, Acts 4:12).
While belief in Jesus is fundamental, some New Testament passages reflect
internal disputes among Jesus’s followers about other requirements for salva-
tion, such as circumcision (Acts 15:1).55 In the Hastings Encyclopaedia article,
Odgers cites Rev 7:9 for its universalistic vision of salvation that extends to
the “ ‘great multitude . . . out of every nation, and of all tribes and peoples and
tongues.’ ” While this vision does indeed appear to embrace all kinds of groups,
elsewhere in Revelation, “the cowardly, the faithless, the polluted, . . . murder-
ers, fornicators, sorcerers, idolaters and all liars” are consigned “to the lake that
burns with fire and sulphur” (21:8).56 If we take seriously that universalism
implies the inclusion of all people, then we cannot describe this latter vision
in the Book of Revelation as universalistic.
Especially pertinent to this question of inclusivity are the writings of Paul,
whose very mission was to preach salvation as widely as possible through faith
in Jesus as Christ (Rom 1:16–17, 3:21–31). In his aspiration to include every-
one among the saved, Paul indeed might be called universalistic. As with
54 Jan G. van der Watt, “Soteriology of the New Testament: Some Tentative Remarks,” in van
der Watt, Salvation in the New Testament, 519.
55 Segal (“Universalism in Judaism and Christianity,” 5) suggests that in Acts 15:1 and 5 the
author might be blending requirements for salvation and conversion, and Segal observes
that for rabbinic Judaism these two issues are separate. See also Runesson, “Particularistic
Judaism and Universalistic Christianity?” 66–67.
56 This is the RSV translation.
134 Birnbaum
proselytism, however, his requirement of faith in Jesus can be taken to exclude

non-believers, whether Jews or non-Jews (e.g., Rom 1:16–17, 3:21–26, 4:13–16, 8:1,
10:9). Nonetheless Paul does seem to leave open a door to non-believers when
he speaks about God’s wisdom and His mysterious ways (11:25–36) to give the
impression that God can save anyone He wishes.57 Paul’s stance on who will be
saved thus eludes easy characterization. By labeling his position universalistic
or particularistic, we lose sight of this very complexity.
In their understanding of salvation, then, both Jewish and Christian writ-
ings reflect inclusion, accommodation, and exclusion of outsiders in different
ways. Neither tradition is completely open to outsiders and neither is com-
pletely closed. Beyond this range of stances, another reason to avoid speaking
about salvation in terms of universalism and particularism is that the under-
standing of these terms has been strongly influenced by later Christian debates
about who is included among the saved. Indeed, the remaining two senses of
universalism in the Hastings Encyclopaedia article refer precisely to these later
Christian debates.58 It is therefore completely understandable that scholars—
Jewish, Christian, or other—might blur distinctions among the three senses
and associate universalism in general with the question only of who is among
the saved.
While this way of framing the issue may be suitable for many expressions of
Christianity, however, it is not suitable for a preponderance of Jewish sources,
which not only understand salvation very differently but also assign the concept
a completely different significance within the religion as a whole. Jacob Neusner
has described Judaism and Christianity as “two faiths [that] stand for different
people talking about different things to different people.”59 He explains, for
example, that while both Christians and Pharisees in the first century viewed
themselves as belonging to Israel, “Christians were a group comprised of the
57 For this understanding, see, e.g., Alan F. Segal, Paul the Convert: The Apostolate and
Apostasy of Saul the Pharisee (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990), 280–81; Barclay,
“ ‘Neither Jew nor Greek,’ ” 213; Wills, Not God’s People, 172–73. See also Thomas H. Tobin,
S. J., Paul’s Rhetoric in Its Contexts: The Argument of Romans (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson,
2004), 368–77. For a different understanding, see Skarsaune, “Salvation in Judaism and
Christianity,” 8–9. Although Pauline authorship is disputed, a similar opening is offered in
1 Tim 4:10. Cf. also John M. G. Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora: from Alexander
to Trajan (323 BCE–117 CE), (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 391–92.
58 Odgers, “Universalism,” 529–30. The second sense pertains to debates about Calvinist doc-
trines, and the third, to “the doctrine held by persons and churches called ‘Universalist’ ”
(530).
59 Jacob Neusner, Jews and Christians: The Myth of a Common Tradition (Binghamton, NY:
Global Publications, Binghamton University, 2001), 1.
family of Israel, talking about salvation; Pharisees were a group shaped by

the holy way of life of Israel, talking about sanctification. The two neither con-
verse nor argue.”60
Similarly, R. J. Zwi Werblowsky acknowledges his discomfort with the
assigned topic of his lecture and subsequent essay “Salvation in Judaism.”
Recognizing that the Hebrew Bible has a range of salvation-related themes
and that the messianic idea did become important later in Jewish history,
Werblowsky emphasizes “the persistence of the non-soteriological dimen-
sion in the structure of Judaism,” that is, “the joyous and faithful living with
God in accordance with His revealed will.”61 Thus to serve God with devotion is
an end in itself. In later centuries, Jewish life under inimical conditions fueled
hopes for a messianic redemption. According to Werblowsky, this develop-
ment brought to the fore a tension in the understanding of halakhah “between
its original quality of a manner of life in its own right and with its inherent
religious values on the one hand, and some kind of messianic-salvational ref-
erence on the other.”62 Even at times when messianic expectations ran high,
however, they did not eliminate or obscure the intrinsic value of serving God
by living according to His precepts. To characterize Judaism as universalistic or
particularistic on the basis of its ideas about salvation, then, is to give salvation
a misplaced emphasis within Jewish tradition and to misconstrue the central
thrust of this tradition, at least in many of its expressions in the ancient period.
4 Conclusion
This brief essay has shown that the protean terms universalism and particular-
ism are too imprecise and value-laden to be useful in characterizing early—
and, by implication, later and contemporary—Judaism and Christianity,
especially in relation to chosenness, proselytism, and salvation. Nonetheless
we have thankfully come a long way since Baur, Odgers, and others who read-
ily associated universalism with Christianity and particularism with Judaism.
60 Neusner, Jews and Christians, 4.

61 Werblowsky, “Salvation in Judaism,” 54–55. To highlight this non-soteriological dimen-
sion, he quotes the following prayer from the daily Jewish liturgy, “which contains in a
nutshell what may be called the philosophy of halakhah”: “ ‘With exceeding love have you
loved us, O Lord our God . . . and put into our hearts the gift to understand and to hearken,
to learn and to teach, to observe, perform and practice all the words of the teaching of
your Torah in love.’ ”
62 Werblowsky, “Salvation in Judaism,” 55.
136 Birnbaum
Many of the scholars reviewed in this essay have shown that Judaism can be
universalistic in its own ways, just as Christianity can also be particularistic.
Some of these scholars have also shown that universalism has its negative
qualities and particularism, its positive ones. Having moved toward a more bal-
anced approach, we can now progress even further by avoiding the terms uni-
versalism and particularism altogether. Instead let us focus on those questions
that allow us to understand each religious tradition and its individual expres-
sions in all their complexity. Such questions should take into account what is
centrally important for each tradition or expression and should address pre-
cisely how these traditions or expressions are and are not open to outsiders.
As a further illustration of what I have in mind, let me mention a study
that I conducted years ago and that was informed by the expert instruction
of Professor Segal, my Ph.D. advisor at Columbia University.63 In that study
I suggested that Philo allows for the possibility that wise and virtuous non-
Jews might be able to “see God”—that is, reach the height of human spiritual
attainment. In theory, therefore, they might be considered part of Israel, whose
etymology, according to Philo, is “one that sees God.” Philo characterizes Jews
and proselytes, however, somewhat differently from Israel. Instead of empha-
sizing the ability to see God, he observes that Jews and proselytes have a dis-
tinct relationship with God, in which, among other things, they worship Him
through observance of His laws and enjoy His special protection. The com-
plexity of my conclusions made it awkward to characterize Philo’s stance as
either universalistic or particularistic, and I believe that an even more detailed
terminology would not have made the task any simpler.64 In addition, I did
not explore Philo’s stance toward non-Jews who are polytheists, idolaters, or
animal worshippers—all of whom he denounces—or toward other Jews, who
differ from him regarding, for example, their attitudes toward literal and alle-
gorical interpretation. For a complete evaluation of Philo’s stance toward oth-
ers, these latter perspectives would be essential.65 For several reasons, then,
63 Birnbaum, The Place of Judaism in Philo’s Thought.

64 See Birnbaum, The Place of Judaism, 224–28. Although I admire Runesson’s analysis of
the problems with using the terms universalism and particularism and I think that his
proposed terminology helps to illuminate the complexity of the sources, I believe that it is
more effective to allow the issues to arise from the sources themselves. The issues that he
suggests—ethnicity, mission, and salvation—may not pertain in all instances, and other
issues (like “seeing God,” in the case of Philo) may be equally or more important; see
Runesson, “Particularistic Judaism and Universalistic Christianity?”.
65 Similarly, as I remarked in my review, Donaldson focuses only on those sources or aspects
of sources that display patterns of universalism but not on those that lack these patterns
(Birnbaum, review of Judaism and the Gentiles (by Donaldson), 220–21).
it is advisable to avoid the labels universalistic and particularistic in describ-

ing Philo’s position regarding both non-Jews and other Jews. If these labels are
inadequate just for Philo, who is but one spokesperson for Judaism, how much
greater is their inadequacy for the entire Jewish—or Christian—tradition!
Instead of using the terms universalism and particularism to formulate our
questions or characterize our results, then, I propose that we allow the evi-
dence to speak for itself. We can do this by asking specifically how religious
concepts, expressions, and traditions are and are not open to others and by
keeping in mind what issues we are and are not addressing and the importance
of these issues within each tradition or expression. Once we determine these
factors, we can, if we wish, address how we would like to evaluate the stance(s)
of each tradition toward others. This approach will surely not solve all prob-
lems related to identifying and comparing religious positions toward others.
Hopefully, though, it will constitute another step in the right direction.66
66 I am grateful to the following people, who discussed universalism with me on various
occasions and/or read and commented on a draft of this paper: Terence Donaldson, Joel
Kaminsky, Sherry Leffert, Jon D. Levenson, Diana Lobel, Sarah Pearce, and Eileen Schuller.
CHAPTER 5
Imagining Jesus, with Food1

Michel Desjardins
I imagine Jesus as an adult, early-first-century Jewish male, living in Palestine,

of indeterminate sexual orientation, whose religious fervour attracted the
attention of his fellow Jews and others in the region, eventually leading to
his death at the hands of those who considered him a political threat, and
to his deification by those who considered him their way to the divine. Trained
as I have been as a scholar of early Christianity I know all too well that only a
handful of other phrases, if any, could be safely added to this description of
Jesus before scholars enter the realm of speculation. I also know how much
academic speculation exists concerning ‘the historical Jesus,’ all of it depen-
dent to some extent on each scholar’s worldview.2 There is no access to Jesus
without interpretation and imagination; as long as there are Christians, and
scholars of early Christianity, there will be reconstructions of Jesus—to be
sure, some more historically credible than others.
This chapter re-constructs Jesus through the lens of fieldwork I have done in
comparative religions—much of it collaboratively with my wife.3 Over the past
decade, while conducting over 300 interviews with people in Asia, the Middle
East, North Africa, Europe, the Caribbean, and Central and North America, we
have explored how religious food customs and beliefs help to explain modern
1 This chapter was first published in Scripta Instituti Donneriani Aboensis 26 (2015): 47–63,
http://ojs.abo.fi/index.php/scripta/article/view/825/1245, who generously granted permis-
sion to republish it here. It is based on the paper I read at a conference arranged by the
Donner Institute for Research in Religious and Cultural History, in Turku, Finland, on June
26, 2014. Alan Segal was the inspiration for the paper, and I am thankful to the editors of this
book for including it in this collection. I first met Alan in 1980, at the start of my doctoral
studies. Just as he left Toronto to take up a position at Barnard, I arrived at the University
of Toronto to study Gnosticism. Over the years he taught me much about how and why to
rethink early Judaism, and on a personal level his love of food always made me smile. I can
think of no better way for me to honour him than with this offering.
2 William E. Arnal and Michel Desjardins, eds., Whose Historical Jesus? (Waterloo: Wilfrid
Laurier University Press, 1997).
3 Ellen Desjardins is a community nutritionist and human geographer.

Imagining Jesus, With Food 139
religious life. Every step in the research has uncovered complexities,4 but we
have gathered enough material with which to make some historically credible
suggestions when looking back, in this case, at the earliest accounts of Jesus.
I appreciate that Jesus is presented by the gospel writers as someone who chal-
lenged common religious and ritual practices and at times re-defined them in
provocative ways, yet there is still much that one can say about him as a typical
religious individual in the context of his contemporaries and ours.
Our research, I believe, has some transhistorical relevance. Much as I know
how allergic scholars of early Christianity are to applying twenty-first-century
data to first-century life, first-century Jews, including Jesus, would not have
been radically different from other religious people in our world, or in theirs,
when it comes to the religious role of food. That is to say, I am assuming that
the information we have gathered from religious individuals has some explana-
tory power when applied to first-century documents. Here I would like to bring
these two worlds together, juxtaposing the life of Jesus portrayed in the earliest
Christian texts with the results of our research conducted in our own day.5
I have organized what follows around five themes that emerged in our cross-
cultural research: food offerings to the deities; dietary restrictions; fasting; food
4 The complexities have made us resist the temptation to publish book-length studies, but
together, separately and with others we have published some of our research: Michel
Desjardins and Ellen Desjardins, “Food that Builds Community: The Sikh Langar in Canada,”
Cuizine: The Journal of Canadian Food Cultures/Revue des cultures culinaires au Canada 1, no. 2
(2009): http://www.erudit.org/revue/cuizine/2009/v1/n2/037851ar.html; Michel Desjardins
and Ellen Desjardins, “The Role of Food in Canadian Forms of Christianity: Continuity and
Change,” in Edible Histories, Cultural Politics: Towards a Canadian Food History, ed. Franca
Iacovetta, Valerie Korinek, and Marlene Epp (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2012),
116–32; Michel Desjardins and Aldea Mulhern, “Living Sacrifice: Rethinking Abrahamic
Religious Sacrifice using Field Narratives of Eid ul-Adha,” in Not Sparing the Child: Human
Sacrifice in the Ancient World and Beyond, ed. Vita Daphna Arbel, J. R. C. Cousland, Richard
Menkis, and Dietmar Neufeld (London: Bloomsbury, 2015), 190–212; Michel Desjardins, “The
Desjardins Diet for World Religions Paradigm Loss,” in After World Religions: Reconstructing
the Introductory Course in Religious Studies, ed. Christopher R. Cotter and David G. Robertson
(Durham: Acumen, 2016), 123–37; Michel Desjardins, “Religious Studies that Really Schmecks:
Introducing Food to the Academic Study of Religion,” in Failure and Nerve in the Study of
Religion, ed. William Arnal, Willi Braun, and Russell McCutcheon (London: Equinox, 2013),
147–56.
5 Biblical scholarship itself over the last quarter century has increasingly paid attention to
food. For pointers to this literature (including studies about early Christians), and to some
of the discussions, see Nathan MacDonald, “Food and Diet in the Priestly Material of the
Pentateuch,” in Eating and Believing: Interdisciplinary Perspectives on Vegetarianism and
Theology, ed. David Grumett and Rachel Muers (London: T&T Clark, 2008), 17–30.
140 Desjardins
prepared for special religious occasions; and charity. There are other themes,
to be sure, but these five are relevant to most religious people and groups we
have encountered and in the primary literature. Each theme reflects both com-
monalities and differences between traditions (e.g., Muslim and Jain fasting are
more similar than one might imagine, but the specific differences are note
worthy), and within traditions (e.g., Passover typically brings Jews together
once a year, but when it comes to food traditions some Jews have more in
common with Buddhists than they do with other Jews). What follows is an
exploration of early Christian sources on Jesus that fit these themes, in conver-
sation with findings that have emerged from our research.
1 Food Offerings to the Deities
Jesus would likely have believed in the existence of a single all-powerful deity,
and also in a plethora of spirits that filled the particular construction of the
world he inherited and created. Exactly how he navigated that complex world
has been much studied, with varied and conflicting conclusions. Religious
individuals commonly find ways to personalize the tradition in which they
find themselves. I have met Muslims in south-central Java, for instance, who
combine belief in Allah with worship of the Sea Goddess, and vegetarian
Hindu priests in Bali who happily consume ducks. Jews in Jesus’s day would
have had their own ways of addressing their spirit world, and Jesus would have
been no exception.
One thing is clear: the central Jewish cult of his day put priority on ani-
mal and plant offerings at the Jerusalem Temple; that is to say, cultic officials
solicited God’s favour through blood, smoke, and other sacrificial substances.
There is no reason to doubt that, growing up, Jesus would have taken all this
for granted, just as a Roman Catholic today would be unlikely to question tran-
substantiation, or a Cuban santera the power of cigar smoke to draw the saints
to her.
The gospel writers do not stress that aspect of Jesus’s devotion, but there
is the occasional reminder of its presence. In the Lukan account Jesus is first
brought to the Temple by his parents shortly after his birth (“for their purifi-
cation”), at which point his parents pay for food offerings to be made on his
behalf (2:22–24). In a different narrative, when Jesus vents his anger at the
commodification of sacrifice by driving some of the moneychangers and ani-
mal merchants out of their stalls in the Temple (John 2:13–16; Matt 21:12–17;
Mark 11:15–19; Luke 19:45–48), the context assumes that these business people
were there to serve the sacrificial cult.
Another thing is equally clear: some of Jesus’s colleagues tried to make sense
of his death by conceiving of it as a grand blood sacrifice, even more pleasing
to God than the other animal sacrifices (e.g. Heb 9). God, in the case of both
the traditional offerings and Jesus’s death, was thought to be enticed by the
death of human and non-human animals offered to him.6 Underlying all these
statements and beliefs is a worldview that understands animal and vegetable
products as key conduits between the spirit and human worlds.
Later discussions about food (1 Cor 8, 10; Rom 14–15; Acts 15), which show
a division among Christians regarding the consumption of food that had first
been offered to other deities (“idols”), suggest that at least some early Christians
continued to conceive of deities as entering food. To eat “food offered to idols”
meant ingesting those deities, and that notion created problems for this new
sect living as it were between the times.7
That food offerings are religiously important is not surprising by modern,
comparative standards. Contemporary religious individuals, across traditions
and across the world, frequently and with a great deal of improvisation, reach
out to the entire spirit world through food (and drink) offerings, sometimes
with blood at the center of the cult, sometimes with agricultural items. Three
of these modern practices help us appreciate Jesus’s world differently.
First, it is striking how frequently food offerings are now made through-
out the world, not only in and around communal places of worship, but also
in and around the home. Food is prepared at home, and offerings typically
begin there. There are no references to food offerings in Jesus’s home (scarcely
6 This belief in Jesus as a replacement offering was reinforced by the use of Gen 22 as a story to
remind some Christians that the ultimate human sacrifice, anticipated by the Abraham and
Isaac narrative, had been fulfilled by Jesus. For more discussion on the move from Jewish to
Jewish-Christian interpretations of the akedah, or sacrifice, see Alan F. Segal, “The Sacrifice
of Isaac in Early Judaism and Christianity,” in The Other Judaisms of Late Antiquity, ed. Alan
F. Segal (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987), 109–30. For discussion of the modern Muslim adapta-
tions of the akedah and theories of sacrifice through which those practices and narratives
can be understood see Desjardins and Mulhern, “Rethinking Abrahamic Religious Sacrifice.”
7 For more detailed discussions see Alan F. Segal, “Romans 7 and Jewish Dietary Laws,” in The
Other Judaisms of Late Antiquity, ed. Alan F. Segal (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987), 167–94; and
Peter Gooch, Dangerous Food: 1 Corinthians 8–10 in Its Context (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier
University Press, 1993). Gooch states in his conclusion: “What was Paul’s position concerning
idol-food? He urged the Corinthian Christians to avoid it. While Paul abandoned the require-
ments of the law concerning circumcision and kashrut, Paul did not abandon the covenantal
demand for exclusive allegiance to Yahweh. . . . Since idol-food was found in many contexts,
and especially at events marking important social occasions, to avoid idol-food faithfully in
the way Paul suggests would have carried significant social liabilities for Christians” (129).
142 Desjardins
a nything is said about his home, in any case) or in the homes he enters to dine.
If there were such offerings, women would likely have been at the heart of that
process, as they so often are today. The absence of women and most domes-
tic activities from these (and many other) stories—Mark 1:31 is a conspicuous
exception, perhaps Luke 8:2 as well—does not mean they were absent from
Jesus’s daily life.
Second, food offerings are sometimes given only to the good spirits, includ-
ing the ancestors, enticing them to look more kindly on a particular person.
That is certainly the New Testament paradigm: Temple offerings were made to
God, not Satan. But across the world today offerings are often given to a wide
range of spirits, to attract some while warding off others. After all, spirits are
all potentially dangerous: if food gets the attention of spirits from whom one
hopes to benefit directly, why should it not have the same results with other
spirits? Throughout Hindu Bali, for instance, we saw food offerings for evil spir-
its laid just outside the perimeter of the major temples, including the mother
temple of Besakih, in order to keep those spirits away from the sacred spaces.
Given the significant attention paid to evil spirits in the Mediterranean world
in the time of Jesus,8 and in the New Testament gospels in particular, it is quite
possible that some Palestinian Jewish families and individuals in Jesus’s day
would have sought to ward off evil by feeding these evil spirits—that is to say,
by conducting food exorcisms—or by apotropaic rituals involving food.
Third, in some cases (e.g., Hinduism), but not all (e.g., most forms of
Buddhism), at least a portion of the food that is offered to the spirits is returned
to the donor, spirit-infused. Some food, in other words, ends up with the gods
(burnt, eaten by animals, etc.), some is given as thanks/pay to the religious
functionaries, occasionally some is given to the needy, and some comes back
to the donor. In Jesus’s day, donors consumed part of the sacrificial offerings
they made at the Jerusalem Temple. The evidence is insufficient for us to know
whether people considered that food God-infused, but the Eucharistic ritual
that gets constructed following Jesus’s death has the donors not only making
an offering, but drawing the deity into the food in order to consume it/him.
Accordingly, early Christians, in eating Jesus, would likely have been adapting a
practice with which they were familiar since childhood. The gods are ingested
everywhere in the world; it is the absence of this worldview, not its presence,
that requires explanation and wonder.
8 E.g., Hans Dieter Betz, ed., The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation, including the Demotic
Spells, vol. 1, 2nd ed (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986); and Marvin W. Meyer and
Richard Smith, eds., Ancient Christian Magic: Coptic Texts of Ritual Power (San Francisco:
HarperSanFrancisco, 1994).
2 Dietary Restrictions
So much is made of the Pauline turn away from kashrut, and Jesus’s occasional
challenge to food practices, that it is often forgotten that Jesus himself (not
to mention his close friends, including Peter) likely kept kosher.9 The Acts 10
account of Peter needing to be told three times by God that he could eat any-
thing, and then having to plead the case to other Christian leaders in Jerusalem
(Acts 11), gains force in the context where kashrut was still the norm among
Christians after the death of Jesus. Moreover, since Jesus lived in a land where
not everyone was a Jew and (one always needs to remember) where not all
Jews kept kosher, keeping kosher would have had implications for him.
Food restrictions matter. Our research has supported the well-known
points that dietary restrictions inevitably reinforce in-group identity (“we” are
not like “them” in the food we eat), lead to in-group divisions (“we” insiders
keep to the rules better than “you” insiders), and help redirect attention repeat-
edly to the spirit world. One need only think of observant North African Muslim
immigrants who now live in France—how their halal food practices divide
them from some, and join them to others, both Muslim and non-Muslim.
One thing that I have come to appreciate more these last few years, par-
ticularly in conversations with Muslims and upper-caste Hindus, is how
profoundly significant food restrictions can be for individuals. I have lis-
tened to devout Muslims, for example, tell me that if they eat food forbidden
to them God will not hear their prayers because a barrier will develop between
them and God. And I have listened to Brahmins tell me how, if they happen
to eat food prepared by someone from a lower caste, they will be polluted/
infected and will need to undergo a purification ritual to be made right again.10
9 Notwithstanding the occasional saying that redirects the importance to other matters,
e.g., “Not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person, but what comes out of the
mouth” (Mark 7:15; Matt 15:11; Gos. Thom. 14; see also Acts 11:1–8); and the Lukan Jesus
(10:8) encouraging his colleagues to eat what is set before them when they are spreading
the message from place to place. For views of Jesus that do not assume a complete over-
turning of his culture’s food laws see Markus Bockmuehl, Jewish Law in Gentile Churches:
Halakhah and the Beginning of Christian Public Ethics (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2000), and
E. P. Sanders, “Jewish Association with Gentiles and Galatians 2.11–14,” in The Conversation
Continues: Studies in Paul and John in Honor of J. Louis Martyn, ed. Robert T. Fortna and
Beverly R. Gaventa (Nashville: Abingdon, 1990), 170–88.
10 On this topic in general, see also Louis Dumont, Homo hierarchicus: Essai sur le système
des castes (Paris: Gallimard, 1967), chapter 6, and Patrick Olivelle, “Food in India,” Journal
of Indian Philosophy 23 (1995): 367–80.
144 Desjardins
Knowing what I know now—that religiously-imposed food restrictions

often mark individuals in fundamental ways—allows me to appreciate more
than I did previously, in my academic life as a scholar of early Christianity, the
profound transformation that happened when some early Christians decided
to abandon food restrictions. The debates in 1 Corinthians, Galatians, Romans
and Acts suggest a break between Paul and Jesus’s closest followers that argu-
ably is more visceral than any theological disputes would ever have been.
The signal meeting of Paul, his Jewish co-worker Barnabas and his Gentile
co-worker Titus, with the observant Christian Jews James, Cephas, and John
(Gal 2:1–10), and its sequel (2:11–14), suggest as much.11
Bracketing the two millennia of Christian activities and thought that have
been heavily influenced by Pauline thought, I now also imagine Jesus’s itiner-
ant lifestyle more marked by concerns for food purity. In Samaria, in Galilee,
and even in Judea, it is likely that Jesus would have been concerned about
the food he ingested, likely also who prepared it, and he would have assumed
that food would hinder or facilitate his access to his God. Statements attrib-
uted to Jesus such as “It’s not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person,
but what comes out of the mouth,” need not at all suggest that kashrut was
unimportant to him; they would have been meant, rather, to shock (his col-
leagues knew the importance of keeping kosher), and to signal the impor-
tance of proper behaviour (a person’s words should matter even more than the
kosher laws).
Jesus might also have eaten vegetarian fare at times—not because he came
from a vegetarian tradition, but because omnivorous individuals with meat
restrictions who find themselves living in a culture where they cannot always
be certain about the source of their food often choose vegetarian options out-
side the home. Christians, Jews and Muslims have rarely chosen an exclusive
vegetarian diet for religious reasons (Seventh-Day Adventists are one nota-
ble exception), but the occasional comment about the vegetarian Ebionites12
suggests that some early Christians at least were nudged in that direction by
kosher concerns.13 So it is not simply an argument from silence to imagine
Jesus, when travelling in parts of Galilee and Samaria at least, keeping to a
11 Paul’s exclusionary statement in Gal 2:15, “We who are Jews by birth and not Gentile sin-
ners,” might be grounded in Jewish food purity laws.
12 E.g., Epiphanius, Pan. 30.22.4.
13 Note Rom 14–15, which addresses a community controversy over some (“strong”)
Christians who ate meat and some who didn’t (the “weak”). Paul’s view (14:13–16) is that
Christians should refrain from eating meat on certain occasions so as not to alienate some
in their community; a similar argument is made in 1 Cor 8.
vegetarian diet in order to ensure that he did not break kashrut.14 Even “good”
Samaritans might not always have had “safe” treyf.15
3 Fasting
Early Christian texts have much to say about fasting. Some of it is inconsis-
tent. Yes, you should fast (Jesus fasts during his temptation; some of his closest
friends appear to have fasted). No, you shouldn’t fast (at least when you have
“the bridegroom” with you, which explains why Jesus and his friends don’t fast
like John and his group). Yes, you should fast but don’t publicize it (don’t be
hypocrites). The common denominator in the gospels, if one seeks a cross-
gospel viewpoint, is that Jesus fasted less than other religiously-minded Jews.
Again, this concern for fasting is not surprising, given the near-universal pres-
ence of fasting among religious individuals in the world. Like prayer, fasting is
a vital way for many religious individuals to reach out to the spirit world; once
learned, it is difficult to eliminate as a spiritual practice. Three modern prac-
tices shed additional light on Jesus’s world.
First, ‘fasting’ means quite different things to different peoples, across tra-
ditions and for each person. It can mean temporary food constraints or no
food at all for a certain time period of the day (no meat and meat products,
no cooked food, no food and drink all day, etc.); moreover, religious individuals
will typically alter the severity and frequency of their fasts to accord with what
is happening in their lives.
Imagining Jesus’s world to be similar to most situations today, I would
expect fasting to accord with the first-century practice in Galilee (or Palestine
more generally), whatever that was (we aren’t sure),16 while also varying quite
14 To be sure, meat, because of its cost, would not have been eaten all that frequently, but
it was available in Jesus’s day. If modern India can be used as an example, the special
religious festivals often provide opportunities for even the poor to eat some meat. For
information on diet in biblical times, see MacDonald, “Food and Diet”; for the argument
that the “unmoneyed” of the Roman world did eat meat even beyond civic festivals, see
Justin Meggitt, “Meat Consumption and Social Conflict in Corinth,” JTS 45 (1994): 137–41.
15 Tuchman and Levine popularized the expression “safe treyf,” i.e. safe ritually impure
food for Jews, in exploring the custom of New York Jews eating in Chinese restaurants at
the beginning of the twentieth century, in Gaye Tuchman and Harry Gene Levine, “New
York Jews and Chinese Food: The Social Construction of an Ethnic Pattern,” Journal of
Contemporary Ethnography 22 (1993): 382–407.
16 The Day of Atonement, or Yom Kippur, is currently the main Jewish fast day. Religious
Jews are encouraged to perform a complete fast (no food, no drink) for 25 hours. The
146 Desjardins
dramatically from person to person and time to time. I would therefore not
expect any saying by Jesus, or anyone else for that matter, to have universal
application. By analogy, when Matthew’s Jesus tells his group what to do and
what to say when they pray (Matt 6:5–15, the “Lord’s Prayer”) one should not
imagine people discarding their previous ways of praying.
Second, according to data we have gathered in our food research, women
typically fast more than men: sometimes they fast for the health of their hus-
band, or for their children, and sometimes they take on the fasting responsibil-
ities for the family because they feel more capable of enduring the suffering.17
The contrast drawn in the gospels between John the Baptist (who fasts) and
Jesus (who doesn’t . . . at least not quite as much) has possible gender implica-
tions: any advice to reduce fasting would have affected women’s religious prac-
tices more than those of men.18 Here is one instance where John the Baptist’s
practices, if we are to believe the NT accounts about John and Jesus on this
issue, would have been more supportive of women’s religiosity than Jesus’s
practices. Imagine that.
Third, we have found that the start of fasting in a person’s life is often a
significant rite of passage. Muslim boys and girls who are finally able to fast all
the way through the month of Ramadan, for example, undergo a significant
change in group status. It is only natural to think that the same would occur for
young Jewish girls and boys in Jesus’s day. While much has been said in the past
few centuries about Jesus caring for children, it is remarkable that Gospel writ-
ers are almost entirely silent concerning food rituals such as fasting that would
have significantly marked Jesus’s life as a child and the lives of other children.
4 Food Prepared for Special Religious Occasions
I imagine Jesus, like countless other religious individuals over time, to have
associated religious festivals, and rites of passage, with tastes and smells, and
with the cooking of mothers, sisters, and aunts at those events. Our research
biblical institution of the holiday, however (Lev 23:26–32), does not mention fasting; it
only encourages a complete absence of work, and “afflicting” oneself. Evidence is lacking
to determine what fasting practices were current in first-century Palestine.
17 This practice is in tension with what the rabbinic sources tell us about women not hav-
ing the same ability as men to restrain themselves. For a discussion of these gender ste-
reotypes in early Jewish sources see Michael L. Satlow, “ ‘Try to be a Man’: The Rabbinic
Construction of Masculinity,” HTR 8 (1996): 19–40.
18 For the importance of fasting for European Christian women in the Middle Ages, see
Caroline Walker Bynum, Holy Feast and Holy Fast: The Religious Significance of Food to
Medieval Women (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987).
overwhelmingly shows that the central element of a religious festival is typi-

cally the food; it also shows that women almost always play the leading role
in preparing that food. Special religious events in Jesus’s life would have been
linked to tastes, textures and women.
Currently, rapid cultural changes in every country are having an impact on
the transmission of traditional food knowledge: younger generations are losing
contact with their traditions, for a variety of reasons. But even now food tradi-
tions linked to women linger. I think of an occasion three years ago when my
wife and I were invited by one of my students for Passover at her parents’ home
in Toronto. When we arrived at the home, we could not help noticing the frail
appearance of the student’s grandmother. My question to her (“Are you OK?”)
led to a confession that she had been in the hospital until that very morning,
when her daughter had arrived to take her out on a day pass. Why? Because
only the grandmother knew the recipe for one of the Passover dishes, and the
meal had to be exactly “so” for our presence that evening. The mother, for her
part, knew how to make the other dishes, while the daughter could barely boil
water.
I have also learned to appreciate the culturally-specific nature of foods
served for special religious occasions. We have heard Sephardic Jews, for exam-
ple, complain about the lack of sensitivity shown by their Ashkenazi brethren
to their food customs (“You Sephardim serve rice for Passover?”). Indian Jews in
Israel tell the same type of stories. And more generally we have heard religious
individuals around the world distinguish themselves from others, even within
their own tradition, based on the particular combination of spices used in
foods served on special religious occasions. Growing up in a Western Canadian
francophone Catholic home, I know how important each family’s recipes were
in marking Christmas and Easter (e.g. the tourtières or meat pies, the tender
ham and spicy pickles). As children it was hard to even conceive of anglophone
Catholics having Christmas since their kitchen tables lacked meat pies.
Three key issues, once again, stand out concerning special religious occa-
sions when I apply our research in this area to the NT representations of Jesus.
The first involves rites of passage. These events are universally linked to spe-
cial food, and sometimes also to the absence of food. I think, for example, of
an Indonesian Muslim hair-cutting ceremony which we witnessed that was
carried out in honour of an infant girl, in which the hour-long reading from
the Qur’an by women ritual experts, mixed with the actual cutting of the hair,
was followed by a two-hour feast containing foods made from recipes handed
down for generations in that particular family.
One would expect the rites of passage linked to Jesus—for example his cir-
cumcision, the weddings of his siblings and the deaths of those close to him—
to have been marked by food eaten (or not eaten), or offered, before, during,
148 Desjardins
and after the events. The Gospel writers, however, provide almost no informa-
tion about these events. There is the family visit to the Temple to make an
offering shortly after his birth. There is also the wedding at Cana, to be sure
(John 2:1–11), but what we learn from that story is the unremarkable fact that
people drank a lot of wine at weddings. And there is also Jesus’s own baptism at
the hands of John, followed in the Synoptic Gospels with the temptation story
and Jesus fasting for a lengthy period of time. The juxtaposition of baptism and
temptation presents food as an obstacle to communion with the deity, not as
a nourishing, natural completion to this baptismal rite of passage. Baptism is
presented as a rite of passage for Jesus, and Christian baptisms in the immedi-
ate centuries also carried this force.19 In short, the NT gospel evidence con-
cerning rites of passage is slim, with references to food even less pronounced.
Second, it is difficult to imagine a major meal, let alone a Passover, taking
place in the absence of women. They alone, it is fair to deduce, would know
what items to prepare, and how to cook them. How could Jesus and his male
friends have had a “last supper” Passover without women as cooks—and
women as active participants, since the Passover ritual, at least as we now
know it, demands it?20 How could Jesus’s male friends have “prepared the
Passover” (hetoimasan to pascha; Matt 26:19/Mark 14:16/Luke 22:13) alone?
Here too the women seem to have been written out of the scene.21 Their
absence is all the more significant given that this Last Supper scene has been
19 We hear of Paul, for example, fasting for three days before his baptism (Acts 9:9, 19), and
occasionally of a “breaking of bread” that takes place sometime after baptism (e.g., Acts
2:42), but typically the NT gives the impression that baptism had nothing to do with
food. The earliest extensive description of a Christian baptism is Hippolytus’s Apostolic
Tradition (chapters 15–21). As Hippolytus tells it, the initiation process was long and
complicated. It began with the candidate’s decision to become a Christian, and usually
ended three years later with an elaborate baptism ceremony, immediately followed by a
Eucharist and the convert’s proclamation that he or she would go forth in the world to do
good works. The baptism itself was preceded by a two-day fast.
20 Jewish texts from the period tell us that Jews celebrated Passover (e.g., Philo, Spec. Laws
2.144–175, who describes its domestic nature), but the earliest complete account of a typi-
cal Passover meal occurs in the Mishnah (Pesaḥim). For more information on this topic,
see Gillian Feeley-Harnik, The Lord’s Table: Eucharist and Passover in Early Christianity
(Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1981), 120–127.
21 Women are not entirely absent from meals relating to Jesus; see, e.g., the story of the
woman anointing Jesus as he ate (Matt 26:6–13, with the Markan, Lukan and Johannine
parallels), and Simon’s mother-in-law serving Jesus and his friends after she is healed by
Jesus (Matt 8:14–15, with Markan and Lukan parallels). There is also the Lukan 10 story of
Martha busy with “her many tasks” (perispato peri pollen diakonian), which, one assumes,
would have included food preparation. And there is Luke 8:1–3, which notes that Mary
c ommemorated for centuries as an all-male event. The imagery certainly works

to reinforce male bonding,22 but modern comparative data suggests that it is
likely removed from reality.23
Third, since it is not only food, but special food, that is linked to most reli-
gious occasions, it is also difficult to imagine early Christians gathering for ban-
quets, weddings or Eucharistic services and not serving distinct, family-based
dishes and treats.24 It is not only the taste of food that would have mattered, but
the taste of distinct food that would have sealed the memory of these events.
Here again the gospels are silent.25 Moreover, when Paul tells the Corinthians
to avoid arriving early to eat all the Eucharistic food (1 Cor 11:17–22), he does
Magdalene, Joanna, Susanna, and “many others” supported Jesus; presumably this sup-
port would have included meal preparation.
22 Feeley-Harnik’s thesis (The Lord’s Table, 166) acknowledges the curious omission of
women and family in the Synoptic Last Supper scene, but, contrary to my position here,
argues that Jesus, and the NT writers, deliberately chose a place on their own in order to
stress other elements: “The last supper, representing Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection,
was a reinterpretation of many different kinds of covenants in scripture, but it focused
primarily on the Passover. By conforming closely to the overall pattern of the Passover, yet
inverting every critical element, it transformed the meaning of the meal and the sacrifice
on which it was based. Jesus’ Passover . . . was a rejection of familial and national separat-
ism. His new covenant included all humanity.”
23 If the Last Supper imagery were filled with women, children, and succulent meals, and if
the NT writers had paid more attention to Jesus’s daily and special food practices, perhaps
Christian images of heaven over the centuries would more often have included food, fam-
ily, and other physical delights. For example, Alan Segal, in his magisterial survey of reflec-
tions about death and afterlife in the Abrahamic traditions (Life after Death: A History
of the Afterlife in Western Religion [New York: Doubleday, 2004]), reproduces Gallup Poll
results of what American Christians actually think about heaven (11–12), and there are
almost no physical aspects at all to their thoughts. People want to be rid of problems;
what they yearn for is “no more sickness or pain . . . peace . . . happiness and joy . . . love
between people,” etc. People “will have responsibilities . . . and will minister to others,” but
food doesn’t appear at all. How could Americans, I wonder, who love their food, imagine
a heaven without it?
24 Three studies that examine early Christian banquets and other special meals, in the con-
text of the broader Greco-Roman world, are: Dennis Smith, From Symposium to Eucharist:
The Banquet in the Early Christian World (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003); Matthias
Klinghardt, Gemeinschaftsmahl und Mahlgemeinschaft: Soziologie und Liturgie frühchrist-
licher Mahlfeiern (Tübingen: Francke, 1996); and Hal Taussig, In the Beginning was the
Meal: Social Experimentation and Early Christian Identity (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2009).
25 For example, parables that touch on special meals, such as Luke 14:7–11 (also Luke 14:15–
24; Matt 22:1–14; Gos. Thom. 64), while charged with layers of meaning, pay almost no
attention to the interpretive possibilities of food.
150 Desjardins
not remark on the nature of that food. Given the House Church model of gath-
ering in those days, one would expect each family’s Eucharist to taste different.
I wonder now to what extent the specific food, and spices, served at what
became “the Last Supper” would have possibly served as models for Jesus’s
colleagues and friends afterwards.
5 Charity
All religious traditions encourage food charity, though some now do so more
(e.g. Hinduism, Islam) than others (e.g. Buddhism). Food charity has always
been important in Judaism. One striking thing we have discovered in our
research, though, is the vital connection between food charity and Christianity.
When asked to start reflecting on the links between food and religion,
Christians, far more than others, invariably start with “charity,” and food is
primary.
In this context, what is surprising about the gospels is the relative infre-
quency of their comments about charity (e.g. Matt 25:31–46; Luke 6:21, 25),
striking though they be, and also the way some of those comments are con-
cerned only in passing with charity. Yes, there is the famous Parable of the
Good Samaritan (Luke 10:30–35; see also Mark 12:28–34; Matt 22:34–40), but
this parable’s shock value is not in the way it encourages charity but in the fact
that it was a (despised) Samaritan who paid for food for a stranger. Yes, there is
the encouragement to invite the poor to banquets (Luke 14:12–14), but the mes-
sage here is to include outcasts in general, with a view to reaping even more
rewards at the Day of Judgment. Yes, there is Luke’s “Blessed are you poor”
(6:20; followed by the woes to the rich), but we know how Matthew has “poor
in spirit” in a parallel passage (5:3); in addition, Luke’s emphasis in this section
is not so much on charity as it is on critiquing the rich (note too that in 17:7–10
Luke’s Jesus cares more for enforcing servitude than he does in helping the
poor). Yes, Jesus is said to multiply food (in six parallel gospel stories) in order
to feed the masses who are listening to him, but there are no similar miracles
directed at the poor in general.
This is not to say that the message of feeding the poor is absent from the
early Christian representations of Jesus. It is indeed woven through the sto-
ries. The point, rather, is that this message is not emphasized to the degree
that one might expect, given current Christian practice, and also given the
overwhelming connection between food charity and religion in almost all reli-
gious traditions. What is remarkable, in short, is this distance between the NT
Jesus and what we have found in current religious practice, both Christian and
non-Christian.26 Perhaps the later Christian focus on charity is out of keep-
ing, at least in intensity, with Jesus’s own practices—in the same way that
the Christian avoidance of food restrictions does not accord with the kosher
practices of Jesus and his closest followers. Given the widespread connections
between food charity and religious life in the modern world, however, I sus-
pect that the opposite position has more historical credibility: food charity was
probably more significant to Jesus than the gospel narratives suggest.
6 Conclusion
What I have presented by superimposing these five themes onto the compos-
ite early Christian representation of Jesus is a figure who is less supportive of
food charity than one might think, and who shows almost no sensitivity to the
value of special food in his religious life, or to fasting, or to keeping kosher, or
to reaching out to God through food. Viewed through the modern compara-
tive-religions lens this figure, sketched as he is by the gospel writers, is two-
dimensional. One would expect Jesus to have reached out with food to God
and possibly to other spirits, at the Temple and perhaps also at home. One
would expect him to have taken care—at times great care—in determining
what food went into his body, and to have felt closer to God in those instances
when he kept kosher strictly. Jesus would almost certainly have also carried
with him the tastes and other memories connected to special religious events,
including rites of passage; his thoughts of God would have likely evoked tastes
and smells. And one would expect Jesus to have devoted more attention to
feeding the poor, not only when they came to listen to him talk but in their
everyday lives. A religious figure disconnected in this manner from food seems
not fully religious, nor fully human.
Moreover, a fully-human, fully-religious Jesus would have been surrounded
by women: preparing and serving his food, eating with him, teasing him to
remember tastes and to choose his favorite recipes, preparing his offerings,
helping him through fasts and fasting for him, ensuring that his food was
acceptable to his religious sensibilities. The question worth asking, in this con-
text, is not whether Jesus had sex with Mary Magdalene, but why the early
26 The proto-communist manifesto in Acts (4:32–5:11) begins to move us in this direction,
and much of the early Christian success in gathering new members becomes linked to
charity, concern for widows, and other social matters.
152 Desjardins
Christian writers chose to reframe Jesus’s religious life in ways that all but
obliterated the important work of women, and the profound role of food.27 The
absence of women contributing to Jesus’s religious life through food removes
Jesus from this world, and helps me to appreciate the otherworldly nature of
the gospel constructions of Jesus. Their imagined Jesus has little to do with
everyday religious life.
Fortunately, modern anthropological studies can help bring Jesus back to
life, as the human being that he was when integrating food into his religious
existence. In that regard, at least, this Jesus is both more mundane and more
universally accessible. What he loses when we consider him less disruptive of
normal religious life he gains by experiencing religious food rituals similar to
large numbers of religious individuals today. My Jesus now closely resembles
a North American Muslim who struggles to eat halal, a Catholic volunteer for
the St. Vincent de Paul Society who brings food to the poor, a Hindu woman
who fasts to attract the goodwill of particular gods to ensure that her daughter
marries well, a Parsi who draws the angels down into his community through
food offerings, and a Buddhist who prepares special food for the dead. And like
all others who have imagined Jesus to suit their time and disposition, I find my
global Jesus compelling. Imagine that.
Let me reinforce that image, in closing, by extending the brilliant picture
that Alan Segal created for us 25 years ago, when he encouraged us to rethink
the boxes into which we have placed both Judaism and Christianity: the first as
a natural extension of Ancient Israel, the second as the break-away sect going
back to Jesus and only secondarily to Israel. Why not imagine them both, he
said, metaphorically as Rebecca’s children, Jacob and Esau—competing for
divine favour, “fraternal twins emerging from the nation-state of second com-
monwealth Israel.”28
I am asking you here to consider, not only Rebecca’s children, but her ances-
tors (Gen 24:15; 25:20), and those beyond. Imagine her genealogy extending
back to Mesopotamia, then through much of the ancient world. Rebecca and
her lineage become one of many world communities that emerged from that
time; they share common roots, they share a common humanity, they share
spiritual needs. They are not two religious groups (Jews and Gentiles, or
27 The gospels contain numerous parables, aphorisms and stories that deal with farming in
one form or another. This aspect of the food chain at least was certainly well known by the
Jesus represented in early Christian texts, especially the Synoptic gospels and Thomas.
Harvard University Press, 1986), 179.
Christians and Jews), but thousands of interconnected, living communities.

Within that picture, the Muslim, the Catholic, the Hindu, the Parsi and the
Buddhist should indeed be able to provide some help in understanding that
first-century Jewish man.29
29 An earlier version of this chapter benefited from the careful reading of Harold Remus,
Aldea Mulhern and Ken Derry.
CHAPTER 6
Antiquity’s Children: History and Theology in

Three Surveys
Tzvee Zahavy
Through his publications on ancient Judaism and early Christianity Alan

Segal has contributed immensely to clarifying ambiguities, unraveling com-
plexities and recalling half-forgotten adversaries. His writing shows the way to
cross many boundaries of thought and methodology. This characteristic of his
research reflects the openness and ingenuousness of Alan himself, a direct and
honest scholar and a treasured friend.
I here analyze a few aspects of one of Segal’s early books, Rebecca’s Chil-
dren: Judaism and Christianity in the Roman World.1 The book surveys how rab-
binic Judaism and early Christianity took shape primarily during the formative
age of late antiquity. Segal treats the Hellenistic roots of these religions, the
social world of first century Israel, Jesus, who is called a Jewish revolutionary,
and Paul, who is described as a convert and apostle. Segal moves on in the
book to summarize the origins of rabbinic Judaism and discusses how the twin
offspring of ancient Israel, the rabbinic and Christian communities, went sepa-
rate ways, as the matriarch Rebecca’s twin children Jacob and Esau parted ways
in the biblical account in Genesis. In comparing the theologies of these twins,
Segal insists we “. . . must attend to the real social matrix in which the religious
thought existed.”
I compare here Segal’s Rebecca’s Children with two comparable books and I
ask a few perennial and fundamental questions about religious scholars who
write about their own religions. The two other introductory surveys of the
Second Temple and early rabbinic Judaism by Jewish scholars are Shaye J. D.
Cohen, From the Maccabees to the Mishnah,2 and Lawrence H. Schiffman, From
Text to Tradition: A History of Second Temple and Rabbinic Judaism.3
Harvard University Press, 1986).
2 Shaye J. D. Cohen, From the Maccabees to the Mishnah (Philadelphia: Westminster John
Knox, 1987).
3 Lawrence H. Schiffman, From Text to Tradition: A History of Second Temple and Rabbinic
Judaism (Hoboken, NJ: Ktav, 1991).

Antiquity ’ s Children: History and Theology in Three Surveys 155
All three of these surveys of ancient Judaism make a contribution to research

in the discipline, first of all, because they all are more than mere summaries
and do show innovative conceptualizations. Secondly, these books have value
for teachers because they serve as particularly complete, creative and accu-
rate statements of the data and scholarship that they represent. Thirdly, these
surveys of ancient evidence serve theological purposes because they provide
some justification of a contemporary form of Judaism (or Christianity) in a
prior formative age, and they support some implicit claim of greater authentic-
ity for a current world view or way of life.
I ask if we see any signs that these books reflect the respective religious
affiliations of the authors. I think they do and that they ought to. Works of
scholarship in the humanities in general and religious studies in particular to
some degree do not come out of the minds only, but also from the souls of their
authors. There is then, as by now we all agree, no such creation as a ‘neutral
academic account.’ A writer’s point of view permeates his or her book, some-
times more and sometimes less. Detachment inevitably gives way to some self-
expression in any enterprise of creative expression. Given these assumptions,
I prefer to bring the bias of the writer to the surface and confirm that it does
not distort too greatly the evidence of the past. The ‘reader’ always wants to
know if the personal background of the teacher or author deeply colors the
scholarship, for in the end a heavily slanted account may be of less value to
some readers.
Now, it would help if these three works were in any way self-conscious
about the biases that they maintain. But they are not. It would make life easier
if the authors told their readers where they ‘were coming from’ on page one of
the books. They do not. Naturally, you may argue that a scholar does not need
to reveal the location of his vantage points. The very license of academic schol-
arship allows a writer to keep mum about his or her personal beliefs or doubts.
Most of the time, asking about that is the boundary that we do not cross.
I ask. And in these three cases I conclude that the religious and theological
tendenz of each work is gentle rather than heavy-handed. The authors deftly
clarify, unravel and recall the past without tilting it too greatly. Further, I argue
that when the modern writer does bring his own reference points to bear on
the data, it creates another value for the investigation. It is a positive act to read
modern theological perspectives into a constructed historical survey. The pro-
jection in each case substantially contributes to the theological tasks of three
varieties of modern Judaism. Each author either knowingly or subconsciously
seeks the antecedents of his own system in the data of the past. Hence each
book serves as a subtle means to highlight the authority of one or another form
of Judaism.
156 Zahavy
I submit two hypotheses for investigation about these academic works

by three ethnically and religiously identified scholars of some stature. First,
the theological instincts of these three historians prompt them to empha-
size in their respective frameworks of analysis some derivative conceptions
of their own contemporary system. Second, these authors interpret some of
their ambiguous data according to their own predisposed religious beliefs.
To submit these two premises to more specific tests, I stipulate my criteria
of identification of scholarship that shows signs that the author was guided
in his writing by the influence of a variety of modern Judaism. An Orthodox
Jewish analysis will likely search the data of antiquity for ‘Torah-true’ ideals.
It will emphasize that the ancients practiced ritual (e.g., prayer). It will seek
confirmation that the early Jews focused on a textual canon and depended
on an elite rabbinic leadership. An account deriving from Orthodox values
will highlight internal sectarian debate and differentiation. It will downplay
interfaith relations. It will ignore or downplay any evidence earlier of populist
involvements in religious decision. It will deny the prominence of changes and
adaptations in Judaism in the past based on social and historical circumstance.
It will show that the ancients considered acculturation an evil. And finally, it
will emphasize particularism as a dominant theme of ancient Judaism.
A Conservative Jewish investigation will likely tend towards the discov-
ery and analysis of ancient family structures. It will seek to show Judaism
of old adhered to democratic ideals and underwent evolutionary change.
It will examine institutional development (e.g., synagogues) and commu-
nal leadership patterns. It will seek data on the interface of scholarship
and rabbinic learning. It will dwell on rites of passage as opposed to other
rituals. And finally it will treat acculturation as a struggle fraught with contra-
diction and ambivalence.
A Reform Jewish approach will likely seek to differentiate ancient Jews from
early Christians. It will highlight the opportunities for interfaith understand-
ing and cooperation. It will emphasize theology in a Protestant model. It will
find signs of ancient acculturation as a positive force. And finally it will see
evidence of universalism in early beliefs.
There are common elements in the books as there ought to be. Each does
deal with the past through the standard analytical tool set of scholarly inquiry.
Each of the three books deals with institutions and cultural issues such as
Hellenization, the Maccabees, the Temple, the synagogue, and the Sanhedrin.
Each does discuss the sects of the time, the Sadducees, Pharisees, Samaritans,
Essenes, and revolutionaries. Each book takes up major ideas of the time
such as resurrection, the messiah and apocalypticism, found, for instance,
in the writings of Philo and the Qumran texts. Each takes up in some ways
Christianity, Jesus, Paul and the question of conversion. And finally each deals
in its ways with rituals, rabbinism and questions of religious purity.
The titles of the books provide the first evidence of the frame of reference
of the author. Shaye J. D. Cohen’s choice of title, From the Maccabees to the
Mishnah, suggests first that he is out to redo the classic treatment of some of
the issues of the period summarized in Neusner’s From Politics to Piety. Cohen’s
title makes reference to two themes of the era: the Maccabees—an intra-com-
munal struggle against acculturation—and the Mishnah—new expressions
of rabbinic laws and norms. I infer from the title that authoritative scripture
emerges out of social and historical struggle. Hence we have a title statement
encapsulating a dominant motif of the modern Conservative Jewish theologi-
cal agendum.
Lawrence H. Schiffman, in his title, From Text to Tradition: A History of
Second Temple and Rabbinic Judaism, rejects the social body of Israel as a
source of authority. An Orthodox Jewish position insists that the society and
its prescribed practice are derivative of and subservient to the authoritative
law as revealed on Sinai—the text and its accompanying tradition.
Alan F. Segal, in his title, Rebecca’s Children: Judaism and Christianity in the
Roman World, invokes Israelite myth as a metaphor for historical description.
He implies that prior to the formal emergence of distinctive tribal religion
there was a universal struggle. Jews and Christians are archetypical and dis-
tinct but united in a common ancestry that draws nurture from a third, inde-
pendent, pagan cultural context. From the subtitle one is tempted to expect a
treatment that may set forth a thesis, antithesis and synthesis. Some Reform
Jewish theologians have pursued similar themes. But Segal’s more imaginative
treatment does not fall quite as neatly as the other two into a contemporary
Judaic theological mold.
I need to further test how productively these works discover the antecedents
of their respective denominations in accounting for the history of the period
in question. Although the overall agenda of issues treated in the books are
fairly consistent with the range of prevailing academic interests, I assess what
the scholars say about several specific prominent and representative issues
of the period, to draw more nuanced conclusions from those instances.
First, how does each of these three works deal with the synagogue? We
have such limited evidence about synagogues of the time that this issue is a
Rorschach test to identify what the writer brings to the evidence. For instance,
is it treated as a means of advancing or stopping acculturation? Second, who
were the Pharisees? In what ways were they models or archetypes of a particu-
lar form of Jewish leadership? Third, what was the nature of Jewish apocalypti-
cism in the era? In what ways was it a clear and present danger to normative
158 Zahavy
life? And finally, what were the causes and lessons of the destruction of the
Temple in 70 CE?
In Cohen’s treatment of the synagogue he emphasizes that there were
many kinds with varying functions. He says revealingly, “There was no United
Synagogue of Antiquity that enforced standards on all the member congre-
gations.” He also avers that “No single group or office controlled all the syna-
gogues in antiquity.”4 He brings to the table a social-issue-locus of analysis.
The synagogue in essence served a variety of functions and regional constitu-
ents. Cohen says that it was an authentic expression of the collective voice of
the community. One could say that Cohen assumes an ancient Jew went to
synagogue to commune with the community as many Conservative Jews likely
would emphasize today.
Schiffman in contrast underlines that the synagogue was a locus of ritual.
He speaks in terms of “communing with God” there. One value of the syna-
gogue was its replacement of another institution. He reminds us that some
rabbis said it served as a “Temple in miniature.” His central concern is the pro-
cess of the direct transference of sanctity to the synagogue and its role as an
authentic place of sanctioned ritual (166).5
Segal briefly dwells on the synagogue as a place to fulfill the function of
reading the Torah and studying and interpreting it. Roughly, this conforms
to the function of the contemporary sermon, an important aspect of modern
Reform synagogue services. With reference to the synagogue at Dura, he fur-
ther discusses the Hellenistic influences in “the extent to which Hellenistic art
and culture had influenced Jewish sensibilities.”6 In essence then the institu-
tion served as a place for homiletical activity and a stylistic acculturating force
in the community.
Turning to the Pharisees, let us see what rules these three analyses. Cohen
ceremoniously rejects notions of the “normative and orthodox.” He states,
“In this book I am a historian.”7 The Pharisees are described conventionally.
Following Josephus, Cohen describes them as a political group with ancestral
traditions, supported by the masses, and accepting of the ideas of fate and free
will. From the New Testament we deduce that Pharisees affirm resurrection of
the dead. Cohen cites as proof the infamous polemical passage in Matthew 23.
They wore broad phylacteries, long fringes and sought places of honor and
4 Cohen, From the Maccabees to the Mishnah, 114–15.

5 Schiffman, From Text to Tradition, 166.
7 Cohen, From the Maccabees to the Mishnah, 135.
titles in public. They possess the traditions of the elders, and express a zeal for
the law, especially the Sabbath, purity, tithing, marriage and divorce.
From the Hebrew sources we may infer that they were proto-rabbis, dealt
with legal issues and constituted an expression of the authentic power of
Judaism. Cohen informs us that the Houses, as we see from Mishnah Yebamot
1:4, did not factionalize Judaism, but they were “shadowy groups.” Cohen points
out that, “Virtually all modern scholars agree that much of rabbinic Judaism
derives from Second Temple times, but the rabbis are not interested in docu-
menting this fact.”8
The name ‘Pharisee’ means one who is separated,9 an obvious and inescap-
able social emphasis. Cohen constructs his own version of the unbroken chain
of tradition leading from Sinai to the Pharisees, an updated scheme of histori-
cal theology, similar to Mishnah’s tractate ’Abot. Moses defined the nature of
Jewish society at Sinai and gave it to the Temple and the Temple passed it to
the “sectlike groups” such as the “congregation of the exile” and the covenant-
ers of Nehemiah 10 and the prophetic school of Third Isaiah. They passed it
on to the scribes who established new social organizations and social elites to
replace the Temple and priests. They passed it to the Maccabees, who through
the Hasidim passed it to the three sects.10
But the Pharisees were not a sect. They were a “distinctive group that
abstained from normal social intercourse with other Jews.”11 And yet, not
finding this reversal at all discrepant or paradoxical, Cohen concludes that
“Sectarianism is the culmination of the democratization of Judaism.”12 Such
claims may be viewed as implied rhetoric of a Conservative Judaic theologian.
Continuing in this vein, Cohen says that the essential goal of sectarianism
was “to bridge the gap between humanity and God through constant practice
of the commandments of the Torah and the total immersion in the contem-
plation of God and his works.”13 And yet, “Most Jews were not members of any
sect.” Following Cohen we may deduce that the pronounced theological and
ritual ambivalence characteristic of American Conservative Judaism derives
from the supposed absence of definition in Pharisaic social realities.
Schiffman, following an Orthodox interpretive mindset, characteristically
casts the debate among sectarians in ideological rather than social terms.

10 Cohen, From the Maccabees to the Mishnah, 160–64.
160 Zahavy
It revolved “around two axes.” The debate was over the correct means for the
interpretation of Torah and the virtues of acculturation or separatism.
The name ‘Pharisee’ implies separation from ritually impure food and from
the tables of the common people. In his version of the chain of historical theo-
logical authority, Schiffman also constructs a kind of tractate ’Abot of his own.14
The Pharisees said three things. We are not aristocrats. We are not Hellenized.
We know the “traditions of the fathers.” They also said that they believe
in the soul, in angels, and in providence. Some were “accommodationist
toward the government.” Some rejected any form of compromise. They came
from the Hasidim, or perhaps they did not. The soferim are their predecessors.
They appear in “Hasmonean times as part of the Gerousia in coalition with the
Sadducees and other elements of society.”
The Dead Sea Scrolls (e.g., in 4QMMT) show that Pharisaic views prevailed
in the Temple. Further, Schiffman says, “The Oral law concept which grew
from the Pharisaic ‘tradition of the fathers’ provided Judaism with the abil-
ity to adapt to the new and varied circumstances it would face in Talmudic
times and later. That Pharisaism would become Rabbinic Judaism, the basis
for all subsequent Jewish life and civilization.” And so he presents a theologi-
cally constructed picture of one Torah-true normative way growing out of one
central theological idea—Torah from Sinai.
Of the three authors, Segal glosses over the Pharisees the most lightly. They
were popular and respected ancestors of the rabbinic movement, vilified by
the New Testament. They had rules of exegesis. The Sadducees were the strict
constructionists. The Pharisees were the loose constructionists of exegesis.15
They originated in ’Abot the idea of oral Torah. He cites that text directly with-
out trying to rewrite it. The Pharisees were middle class and socially mobile.
They migrated after 70. All told, it is not a surprise that they do not loom crucial
in Segal’s treatment. He does not need them as antecedents. Reform Judaism
after all is a non-rabbinic system of Judaism.
An examination of how our authors treat apocalypticism provides us with
another vantage on their projections. It also affords us an opportunity to see
whether current social scientific methods influence their thinking. Schiffman
groups apocalyptics with ascetics as “part of the texture of Palestinian
Judaism.”16 These groups “had a profound role against which Christianity
arose . . . [and] encouraged messianic visions that twice led the Jews into revolt
against Rome . . . [and] served as the locus for the development of mystical
14 Schiffman, From Text to Tradition, 103–07.

15 Segal, Rebecca’s Children, 53–54.
ideas that would eventually penetrate mystical Judaism.”17 Schiffman describes

how members of what he calls the Essene Sect practiced communism, moder-
ation, mysticism, prayer and purity. They believed in destiny and immortality
of the soul, strictly observed the Sabbath and interpreted the Bible allegori-
cally. The Essenes “disappeared from the stage of history” after 73.
Schiffman distinguishes the Dead Sea Sect of Qumran from the Essenes.18
This sect was an “apocalyptic movement” that believed in an imminent mes-
sianic era following the “final victorious battle against the forces of evil.”
Schiffman characterizes the composition of the sect, its derivation from
Zadokite priests, its initiation processes, annual covenant renewal ceremo-
nies, preparation for an eschatological battle, belief in two messiahs and its
messianic banquet. He argues that they not be identified with the Essenes
mainly because the sources, Philo and Josephus, “omit apocalypticism” in their
descriptions of the Essenes.
Schiffman concludes that after 70, “extreme apocalypticism had been
discredited.”19 He conveys the overall impression that some measure of asceti-
cism and apocalypticism are acceptable ordinary ingredients of sectarian reli-
gious life. He implies that too much of this may be dangerous. But I may be
reading into his treatment, even to see this basic disapproval for these explicit
tendencies.
Schiffman does not cite the social analysis of apocalyptic as represented by
the analytical work of Paul Hanson and Richard Horsley. He also avoids raising
issues deriving from the methodologies of scholars such as Mary Douglas or
Peter Brown regarding the social matrix of asceticism and purity.20
Cohen deals with apocalyptic as a literary-theological issue. He reviews the
classic contrast of apocalyptic with prophecy, which, he says “did not cease so
much as it was transformed.”21 As Cohen reminds us, those who hold this view
say that a prophet has direct revelation, speaks clearly and calls for repentance.
An apocalypse uses an intermediary, speaks through an image or symbol and

20 Cf. these works that were published prior to the publication of Schiffman’s book: Paul
Hanson, The Dawn of the Apocalyptic: The Historical and Sociological Roots of Jewish
Apocalyptic Eschatology (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1975); Richard A. Horsley and John
S. Hanson, Bandits, Prophets, and Messiahs: Popular Movements in the Time of Jesus
(Minneapolis: Winston, 1985); Mary Douglas, Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts
of Pollution and Taboo (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1966); Peter Brown, The Making
of Late Antiquity (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1978).
162 Zahavy
may be “fantastic or extraterrestrial.”22 Cohen declares that “the social setting

of the apocalyptic seers is unknown.” The War of the Sons of Light against the
Sons of Darkness is a non-apocalyptic work, he claims.
Finally, Cohen avers that the pseudepigraphy of the genre “shows that the
true identity of the apocalyptic seer was not important. A prophet had author-
ity as an intermediary between humanity and God, but an apocalyptic seer did
not.”23 Cohen frequently shifts into the passive voice here. Apocalyptic hap-
pens by itself. We do not know why it develops or who supported it. He stops
short of labeling apocalyptic a degenerate form of prophecy. But he leaves us
with the impression that the phenomenon was just out there, never integral,
something we might want to ignore if not hide. I find it informative to contrast
Schiffman’s tacit acceptance of the phenomenon with Cohen’s implicit denial.
Segal’s treatment differs because he takes for granted that apocalyptic is
both a literary and social concern. The Dead Sea community, he says, is an
“actual ancient apocalyptic community.”24 Segal seizes on the social scien-
tific study of millennial cults as a fulcrum for analysis of these ancient types.
Following V. Lanternari,25 Segal says that apocalyptic appeals to the alienated
classes of a society.26 Economic and political deprivations contribute to the
relevance of apocalyptic expression.
Segal neatly summarizes the visions of Daniel as apocalyptic expressions of
the political and religious realities of the second century BCE. In this presen-
tation he excels in using social theory to explain both theology and historical
circumstance.
Segal is comfortable discussing angels, astral journeys and other aspects
of apocalyptic visions. He makes no apology for the rise of apocalyptic and
gives it emphasis appropriate to its importance in the cultural development of
this era. Indeed, Segal moves smoothly from interpreting Jewish apocalyptic
to a discussion of Christianity as an “apocalyptic Judaism” and to the role of
Jesus in political revolution. So for Segal, apocalyptic serves as a valuable link
between one religion and the other. These sections of the study constitute core
elements of the book’s thesis, to wit, that common sources of ancestry bring
Judaism and Christianity closer together.

25 Vittorio Lanternari, Religions of the Oppressed: A Study of Modern Messianic Cults (New
York: Knopf, 1963); and see his notes on 188–189.
I find one of Segal’s conclusions an especially stark contrast to one of

Cohen’s views. After a lengthy analysis of apocalyptic in Christianity, he states
that “Christianity did not so much abandon apocalyptic fervor as channel it
into non-apocalyptic areas . . . Instead of quickening apocalyptic belief itself,
the Church transformed that belief into a means to form stable communities.”27
So while Cohen implies that prophecy declined or devolved into apocalyp-
tic, Segal suggests that apocalyptic progressed or evolved into a new form of
theology.
Apocalyptic turns out then to be an example of a datum that one (Orthodox)
spokesman glosses over, one (Conservative) writer dismisses and one (Reform)
thinker analyzes and extends.
All three writers presume that the singular event of the destruction of the
Temple in Jerusalem in 70 CE by the Romans is a turning point for Jewish his-
tory, for its symbolism and its theology. Schiffman emphasizes several themes.
First, he notes the “resilience of the Jewish people and the Land of Israel.”28
He refers to their pragmatism and adaptation after the catastrophe. He finds
few direct references in Tannaitic literature to the destruction. But in his char-
acteristic focus on ritual, he notes many halakhic modifications of Temple
practice for the home and synagogue and the introduction of new taboos or
rituals of mourning.29 After the event of the destruction, the Romans accept
the “Pharisee rabbis as representative of the Jewish nation.”30
Cohen observes that “The war of 66–74 is similar in many ways to the
rebellion of the Maccabees, but also very different.”31 The latter “removed
the institutional foundations of Judaism, brought tremendous destruction
upon the land of Israel and its inhabitants, and endangered the status of the
Jews throughout the empire; it threatened the very survival of Judaism.”32
Cohen discusses the impact of the destruction on the relations between
Jews and Gentiles. He speaks of the “rabbinic disparagement of paganism
and the effort to erect social barriers between Jews and Gentiles.”33 He con-
trasts this with more “ecumenical” attitudes also expressed by the “rabbis of
the second century.” He further distinguishes the severe theological reaction
of some Jews as expressed in 4 Ezra and the Apocalypse of Baruch with the

164 Zahavy
more m oderate and restrained attitude of the rabbis. The latter reflects the
impact of the process that Cohen frequently calls “the democratization of
Judaism.”34
Accordingly, in Cohen’s theologically oriented view, in the area of Jewish
leadership, the scribes had already replaced the priests in the preceding cen-
turies. In practice, prayer, Torah study and commandments stood in easily as
substitutes for the Temple cult. Cohen seems to say that Mishnah’s laws are too
complex to interpret as data of a religious response to the condition of the Jews
after the destruction.35 Then he makes one of his most revealing comments:
“Not a single tractate of the Mishnah is devoted to a theological topic . . . No
rabbinic work sets forth the dogmas or essential beliefs of Judaism.”36 Some of
us might disagree based on a massive amount of serious and systematic schol-
arship to the contrary that has been published since 1974.
Needless to say, Cohen’s conclusion must stem from his presupposition
of what, he deems, may properly be called theology and essential beliefs. He
wants to tell us that Conservative Judaism does not find rabbinic literature as
it stands to be a valid and needed analogue to systematic Protestant theology.
He tacitly implies that contemporary Conservative Jewish theologians need to
properly restate some of the ideas of the rabbis to make them into theology
and essential beliefs.
Cohen continues his account: the destruction of the “evil reality” of the
Temple “removed the focal point of sectarianism.”37 He declares, “Thus the war
prepared the way for a society without sects.” Next Cohen says, “The Pharisees
disappeared too, but transformed themselves into the rabbis.” This process of
social metamorphosis resides at the core of the dogma or basic beliefs of his-
torical-positivist theology.
Segal helps us clarify the metamorphosis in other terms. “The Pharisees did
not become the rabbis on the day after the Temple was destroyed,” he assures
us.38 Both writers here employ their own overly simplified theories of social
and religious change. It might be refreshing to consider that in such a frame
of analysis a modern day historical change may serve as an apt analogue to
that of antiquity. We know for example exactly when in 1961 the Washington
Senators baseball team became the Minnesota Twins. One could ask: are the

authors implying that in 70 CE, when they moved their team from Jerusalem
to Yavneh, at the same time, this group changed its name from the Pharisees to
the rabbis? Our scholars could provide for us on this issue a bit greater depth
of insight.
Segal lists these factors as the results of the destruction of the Temple:
1. The machinery of state had to be reconstructed by the Pharisees.39

2. The Pharisees transformed Judaism into a universal religion. So did the
Christians for their sect.40
3. “Both Christians and rabbis changed the locus of purity from the Temple
itself to the community of believers.”41
4. Following ARN6, the Temple was replaced by good deeds, rules of purity,
the mikveh and the synagogue.42
In essence, these suppositions appear to combine the historical views deriva-

tive of the Wissenschaft des Judentums style of research with the basic theology
of the Reform movement. And that is without doubt a legitimate set of lenses
by which to view the past. Yet, especially in contrast to the more sophisticated
treatment Segal applies to the phenomenon of apocalyptic elsewhere in his
study, this treatment of the historical significance of the event in question
seems to us tinged more by theology and less by established methodology.
To sum up my central point: It is legitimate and useful for the three authors
to project a contemporary framework on the evidence of Jewish antiquity in
the process of advancing an implied theological quest for the fundamental
antecedents of contemporary religious belief and practice. I find in each case
that the predisposition of the author does not overly distract him from the
task of interpreting the events of the past for consumption by contemporary
readers.
Finally, whether one considers the products of this process of analysis in
these three books ‘history’ or ‘theology’ or a complex combination of the two,
depends once and for all, in an endless and eternal regression, on the frame-
work of reference of the critic.

Part 3
Paul the Convert
(Conversion, Apostasy, Identity)
⸪
CHAPTER 7
Giving Up the Godfearers1

Ross S. Kraemer
1 Introduction
It has long been a commonplace in the scholarly literature that in the ancient
Mediterranean there was a category of interstitial Gentile persons, who engaged
in some degree of Judean (or, later, Jewish)2 practice without undergoing
1 This article was originally written for a colloquium on the occasion of Alan F. Segal’s retire-
ment from Barnard College. It is previously published in the JAJ 5 (2014): 61–87, and is
reprinted with their kind permission. Alan Segal and I met in the classroom of a man who
might easily have been called a twentieth-century Godfearer. In the spring of 1967, when
Alan was a senior at Amherst College and I was a freshman at nearby Smith College, we both
took a Hebrew class with Jochanan H. A. Wijnhoven, a Smith professor. Wijnhoven was a
former Catholic priest who had developed an intense dedication to Judaism that ultimately
precipitated his excommunication. Although he held a Ph.D. in Jewish studies from Brandeis,
and observed many Jewish practices, Wijnhoven never formally converted, and Catholicism
continued to exert a strong pull on his affections until his untimely death in the late 1980s.
Alan and I became good friends in that class, a friendship that intensified when Alan joined
the Princeton religion faculty just as I was completing my Ph.D. there. He was a fine scholar,
and a fine friend, and it is grievous to have lost him far too early.
I draw heavily here from a discussion of related issues in Ross Shepard Kraemer,
Unreliable Witnesses: Religion, Gender and History in the Greco-Roman Mediterranean (New
York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 179–232. My focus here, however, is somewhat differ-
ent from that chapter, and the material is rearranged, expanded, edited, and reconsidered.
To the extent that this article undercuts Alan’s reliance on the category of god-fearing and
righteous Gentiles in his influential work on Paul, I trust he would have forgiven me, or offered
a learned and generous counter-argument: Alan F. Segal, Paul the Convert: The Apostolate and
Apostasy of Saul the Pharisee (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990), e.g., 139 and 210.
2 In this paper, I generally use Judean in reference to persons and practices up through the
middle of the second century CE or so, and Jew, Jews, Jewish subsequently, except when
quoting or representing the work of others who use Jew, Jews, and Jewish for the earlier
material as well. In this, I follow the arguments of Steve Mason, “Jews, Judeans, Judaizing,
Judaism: Problems of Categorization in Ancient History,” JSJ 38 (2007): 457–512 (and others).
I am well aware of many of the counter-arguments (see, e.g., my discussion in Unreliable
Witnesses) but will not argue the case here further, since my arguments about the category of
Godfearing do not rest on debates about the translation of Ioudaios.

170 Kraemer
some formal process of what modern authors routinely call ‘conversion.’3 Such
persons are regularly designated ‘Godfearers,’ from the Greek and Latin terms
thought to designate them in ancient literary and epigraphical sources, espe-
cially theosebes and metuens or metuentes (deum). That there were persons
who, in the Roman period, took on Judean practices (and associated ideas),
with or without retaining their natal (or other) practices and associated ideas,
seems attested well enough. In this article, however, I hope to persuade schol-
ars to abandon this sweeping static category, ‘Godfearer.’
Doing so is justified for several reasons. First, much of the evidence for so-
called Godfearers is deeply suspect. As I will show, many occurrences of the-
osebes and related terms, especially but not only in literary sources, cannot
possibly designate Gentile adherents to Judean or later Jewish practices and
beliefs. Thus, at the very least, theosebes and related language cannot have had
a single static meaning across the ancient Mediterranean for half a millennium
or more. Rather, the language of ‘god-fearing’ might have been useful precisely
because of its imprecision and potential elasticity. But even when theosebes
conveyed some quite precise meaning, as it may have in certain instances, that
specificity remains elusive if not lost altogether to subsequent interpreters,
including ourselves.
Second, the whole category of ‘Godfearers’ is conceptually and theoretically
flawed. When scholars talk about ancient persons experimenting with Jewish
practices and beliefs, they categorize it as ‘god-fearing,’ whereas ancient exper-
imentation with, say, Christian practices and beliefs, or the cults of an exotic
foreign group, elicits no such category of identification.4 Yet participating in
the cultic practices of other groups, while continuing to maintain associations
and identifications with one’s own group, appears to have been widespread in
the Greco-Roman Mediterranean. Even when theosebeia, or being theosebes,
may (well) denote Gentile participation in Judean or Jewish practices and
associated beliefs, it needs to be seen not as something unique, but rather as an
instance of broader ancient social practices. If I am right, it becomes impera-
tive to analyze each individual instance in its particular, contingent historical
3 This literature dates back at least to the late nineteenth century: J. Bernays, “Die
Gottesfürchtigen bei Juvenal,” in Gesammelte Abhandlungen, 2 vols., ed. H. Usener (1885;
repr., Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1971), 2:71–80.
4 For a fine project that does see first-century experimentation with Judean practices as part of
a larger set of ancient experimentations, see Heidi Wendt, At the Temple Gates: The Religion of
Freelance Experts in the Roman Empire (New York: Oxford University Press, 2016) and “Iudaica
Romana: A Rereading of Judean Expulsions from Rome,” JAJ 6 (2015): 97–126.
Giving Up The Godfearers 171
and social context, recognizing also that the motivations for such practices are
likely to have been diverse and situational.
Last, the category ‘god-fearing’ seems to survive not because ancient evi-
dence justifies it but at least in part because it seems so useful for particular
modern historiographic projects about the development of Christianity. But
this utility is unacceptable justification for its continued deployment.5
2 The Ancient Evidence for ‘Godfearers’: An Overview
Much of the argument for the existence of such persons, particularly in the
early Empire, came initially from two authors, Juvenal, and the writer of
Acts. Juvenal’s satirizing of the Roman man whose father reveres the Sabbath
(metuentem sabbata patrem) and abstains from eating pork, and who himself
becomes circumcised, has often been taken to reflect an ancient distinction
between those Gentiles who observed some Judean practices (the father), and
those Gentiles who fully adopted a Judean identity and way of life (the circum-
cised son).6 Also regularly invoked in these discussions are the Roman centu-
rion, Cornelius, who makes frequent donations to the synagogue in Caesarea
(Acts 10), and other Gentiles in Acts whose reverence for the God of Israel
(formulated with the expressions sebomenos ton theon and phoboumenos ton
theon) makes them particularly interested in early Christian preaching.7 Based
largely on these instances, many scholars have gone on to argue that designa-
tions of fearing God in Latin and Greek often (if not necessarily always) signal
the presence of such persons.8
5 See below, n. 15, for numerous instances.

6 Satire 14.96–99.
7 E.g., Acts 13:50; 17:4. Cf. Acts 13:43, whose language is actually somewhat contradictory for the
thesis of a distinction between Godfearers and proselytes, for it refers to many τῶν σεβομένων
προσηλύτων (of the “fearing” proselytes). Forms of φοβέω occur several times in Acts. Two of
these seem just to designate ordinary pious regard for God: Acts 1:50, and 18:12, a judge who
does not “fear” God. Acts 13:16 is more ambiguous: here Paul addresses ἄνδρες Ἰσραηλῖται καὶ οἱ
φοβούμενοι τὸν θεόν. Feldman (see note 8, below) also noted that Bernays had already argued
in 1885 that most of the usages in Acts simply designated piety.
8 The question of Hebrew and Aramaic usages is complicated. In the Hebrew Bible, “fear-
ing” God is regularly the language for the proper human disposition. On the rabbinic side,
Feldman himself pointed to an early use of the phrase “heaven-fearers”—yirai ha-shamayim,
in the Mekilta de R. Ishmael, which he dated to the third century: Louis H. Feldman, “Jewish
‘Sympathizers’ in Classical Literature and Inscriptions,” TAPA 81 (1950): 207–8.
172 Kraemer
In his first article on this subject, written while he was still a graduate stu-
dent at Harvard, in 1950, Louis H. Feldman mounted a forceful attack on the
practice of using language of fearing God to identify such persons in liter-
ary or epigraphical sources, although he did not go so far as to deny the exis-
tence of such persons, which he seemed to concede as plausible.9 He pointed
out, for instance, that Juvenal’s other uses of metuens clearly did not refer
to Jewish sympathizers,10 and that metuens occurs in demonstrably non-
Jewish inscriptions such as one to Jupiter.11 His treatment of the several the-
osebes inscriptions in Frey’s corpus of Jewish inscriptions,12 first published in
the mid-1930s, similarly noted their ambiguity and the likelihood that many
simply designated the admirable piety of the deceased.
A serious attack on the category was made by A. Thomas Kraabel in an oft-
cited 1981 article, which argued that the sebomenoi and phoboumenoi ton theon
in Acts were the author’s own literary creation that said nothing about the
existence or interests of such persons in the first century CE. They functioned
to account for the transition of nascent Christianity from Jews to Gentiles,
through the engagement of Gentiles with a prior interest in Judaism, and they
disappeared from Luke’s literary scene once they had served their purpose.13
9 My argument in this paper re-asserts in some ways the position argued by Feldman:
“Jewish ‘Sympathizers,’ ” though Feldman presents the argument in an attentuated form,
and bases it on considerably more limited data than I do. Feldman argued that, “The
truth is that the terms metuentes, theosebeis, phoboumenoi, and sebomenoi ton theon
are not at all uncommon in the general sense of ‘religious’ or ‘pious’ ” (Feldman, “Jewish
‘Sympathizers,’ ” 204), and concludes that “metuentes, phoboumenoi, and sebomenoi ton
theon are not in themselves technical terms for ‘sympathizers.’ ” My position on these
issues does not derive, however, even indirectly from Feldman, and the evidence available
now is considerably greater than it was when Feldman wrote. Many years later, Feldman
revisited these issues at length: Louis H. Feldman, Jew and Gentile in the Ancient World:
Attitudes and Interactions from Alexander to Justinian (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1993), 342–69. Although he continues to recognize that not all usages of the term
are unambiguous, the discovery of the Aphrodisias inscription, discussed below, led him
to think that there was, in fact, a technical category of Godfearer. Feldman’s views on this
issue are very much affected by his desire to refute a lachrymose model of Jewish history
by emphasizing the success of Jewish proselytizing, and the appeal of Jewish practices to
non-Jews. See also Louis H. Feldman, “Proselytes and ‘Sympathizers’ in the Light of the
New Inscriptions from Aphrodisias,” REJ 148 (1989): 265–305.
10 Feldman, “Jewish ‘Sympathizers,’ ” 201 n. 4: in one instance, the metuens calls upon Isis.
11 C IL 6.390: Domini metuens I(ovi) O(ptimo) M(aximo) l(ibens) m(erito) sacr(um).
12 C IJ (hereafter designated CIJ 1 and CIJ 2 to reflect volume number).
13 A. T. Kraabel, “The Disappearance of the ‘God-Fearers,’ ” Numen 28 (1981): 113–26; see
also R. S. MacLennan and A. T. Kraabel, “The God-Fearers—A Literary and Theological
Kraabel also noted that no unambiguous epigraphical evidence supported the

existence of a category of Godfearers.14
Unknown to him at the time, several years earlier, in 1975, a large stele had
actually been found in Carian Aphrodisias that does, in fact, use theosebeis as
some sort of technical category, at least on one face, if not on both. After the
formal publication of the inscription in 1987, the already considerable bibli-
ography on ‘Godfearers’ proliferated, and many studies of the Roman period
now seem regularly to presume the presence of such persons throughout the
ancient Mediterranean, over a period of at least half a millennium.15
Invention,” BAR 12, no. 5 (September–October 1986): 46–53; 17–26. Interestingly, here
Kraabel would appear to diverge from the position argued by Bernays that nine of Luke’s
eleven uses are most naturally read as references to piety or worship (cited in Feldman,
“Jewish ‘Sympathizers,’ ” 205). Kraabel argued that there was no definitive epigraphical
evidence for ‘God-fearers’ as a category of partial adherence.
14 He considered the various inscriptions discussed later to be insufficiently definitive,
including a series of inscriptions from the complex at Sardis, on which he wrote his doc-
toral dissertation.
15 Beyond the references elsewhere in this article, and in Kraemer, Unreliable Witnesses,
see, e.g., recent discussions about Jews and early Christians in Antioch that rely heavily
on assumptions about Godfearers. Magnus Zetterholm, The Formation of Christianity in
Antioch: A Social-Scientific Approach to the Separation between Judaism and Christianity
(London: Routledge, 2003) hypothesized that the loss of social networks by immigrants
to Antioch would have accounted for large numbers of Godfearers, who would have con-
stituted a significant proportion of early Christians in Antioch. Thomas A. Robinson,
Ignatius of Antioch and the Parting of the Ways: Early Jewish-Christian Relations (Peabody,
MA: Hendrickson, 2009), 51–61, argues, to the contrary, that Godfearers are unlikely to
have been a significant factor, either as new converts, or behind the controversies over
Ioudaismos in Ignatius’s letters, on the assumption that having found Jewish practices,
Godfearers were not in the market for yet other new practices. Both, however, presume
the existence of significant numbers of such persons: they merely disagree on what role
such persons might have played in the growth of Christian groups in Antioch. In analyzing
the Gospel of Luke on early conversions, Jack T. Sanders refers without discomfort to the
category of “Godfearers”—which he defines as “those Gentiles who have some attraction
to Judaism and who may be found at synagogue prayer services.” Although he elsewhere
raises questions about the historicity of Luke’s conversion accounts, he does not question
this at all, and simply notes that God-fearers are converted by persuasive speech, not mir-
acles: Jack T. Sanders, “Conversion in Early Christianity,” in Handbook of Early Christianity:
Social Science Approaches, ed. Anthony J. Blasi, Jean Duhaime and Paul-André Turcotte
(Walnut Creek: Altamira Press, 2002), 619–41. Paul Veyne asserts, with absolutely no doc-
umentation, that “Jewish proselytism had proved very successful in the pagan Empire,
with converts and ‘God-fearers’ flocking to the numerous synagogues,” in the context of
a larger claim that “with the advent of Christianization, the Jews closed ranks and their
174 Kraemer
In my view, despite the Aphrodisias inscription(s), the evidence both for

individual Godfearers and for the category as a whole remains vastly over-
blown. To begin with, the distinction between ‘Godfearers’ and proselytes
or ‘full converts’ is conceptually flawed.16 It presumes a uniform normative
practice to which the partial adherence of ‘Godfearers’ may be contrasted,
rather than acknowledging the possibility that a partial practice might itself
have been normative for some ancient Jews (hinting suspiciously of contem-
porary distinctions between Orthodox and Reform Jewish practice). It relies
implicitly on the unexamined category of religion as something distinct and
separable from ancient ethnicity.17 And, of particular importance for my other
work, it obscures issues of gender, since one of the major distinctions between
such partial adherence and ‘full conversion’ appears to be circumcision (as in
religion reverted to solipsism.” See Paul Veyne, When Our World Became Christian: 312–
394 (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2010), 118. While generally discounting the Lukan account,
Burton Mack thinks the author of Luke is correct that Paul would have “found his con-
verts mainly among ‘god-fearers,’ that is, gentiles who were already associated with Jewish
synagogues,” precisely because they thought belonging to Israel was desirable, and found
attractive Paul’s position they could do so without being circumcised. Mack’s failure to
acknowledge that this would only have been true for male ‘godfearers’ and thus his implicit
construction of all ‘godfearers’ as male is irritating, not the least because the author of
Luke certainly envisions women ‘godfearers’ and because whatever evidence there is
for such persons unquestionably includes women: Burton L. Mack, Who Wrote the New
Testament? The Making of the Christian Myth (San Francisco: HarperCollins, 1995), 104.
The anthology by Molly Whittaker, Jews and Christians: Graeco-Roman Views (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1984), regularly provides translations of key passages that
obscure the interpretive issues and presume the existence of Godfearers everywhere
(e.g., Poppaea, 87). See also Peter Lampe, From Paul to Valentinus: Christians at Rome in
the First Two Centuries (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003), 11–12; Lester L. Grabbe, Judaism from
Cyrus to Hadrian, 2 vols. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1992), 2:533–37; J. M. Lieu, “The Race
of the God-Fearers,” JTS 46 (1995): 483–501; Stephen G. Wilson, Related Strangers: Jews and
Christians 70–170 CE (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), 110–42, esp. 127; John J. Collins, Between
Athens and Jerusalem: Jewish Identity in the Hellenistic Diaspora (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans,
1999), 264–70; Brian McGing, “Population and Proselytism: How Many Jews Were There
in the Ancient World?” in Jews in the Hellenistic and Roman Cities, ed. John R. Bartlett
(New York: Routledge, 2002), 88–106; James R. Davila, The Provenance of the Pseudepigrapha:
Jewish, Christian or Other? (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 23–38 (and who distinguishes between
‘sympathizers’ and ‘God-fearers’); Stephen Mitchell, “An Apostle to Ankara from the New
Jerusalem: Montanists and Jews in late Roman Asia Minor,” Scripta Classica Israelica 24
(2005): 207–23.
16 I explore this in more detail in Kraemer, Unreliable Witnesses.
17 On which see Mason, “Jews, Judeans”; Kraemer, Unreliable Witnesses.
Juvenal’s satirical quip).18 I will return to some of these conceptual difficulties

at the end of this article.
Theosebes, in particular, is attested in some ambiguous contexts that invite
explication. There is at least as much, if not more, evidence for the use of the-
osebes, especially, in ways that are demonstrably not indications of Gentile
practice of limited aspects of Judean/Jewish piety. Hard, unambiguous evi-
dence remains quite limited, and comes mostly from a few geographical
locations (primarily Asia Minor); is datable to a relatively narrow time-frame
(mostly the third-fifth centuries CE, and even this may be generous); and is
mostly found in donative and votive contexts.
3 Theosebeis as Piety without Reference to Gentile Interest in Judean

or Jewish Practice
The Greek term theosebes19 regularly designates piety—with no connotation

of distinctive Gentile devotion to the Judean God—in various authors writing
in Greek from the fifth century BCE on. Herodotus uses it to designate the piety
of the Egyptians (1.86; 2.37). Strabo reports that according to Poseidonius, the
Mysians are called θεοσεβεῖς on account of their religiously motivated vegetar-
ianism (Geography 7.3.3). Josephus relates a speech of the Maccabean hero,
Mattathias, who charges his sons to join to the Maccabees those (men) who
are righteous and God-revering (τοὺς δικαίους καὶ θεοσεβεῖς, Ant. 12.284); he also
references a letter of Mark Antony to John Hyrcanus, employing θεοσεβὴς as an
adjective for Hyrcanus himself (Ant. 14.308). In Against Apion, Josephus, like
18 This issue arises in Josephus’s account of the adoption of Judean practices by the royal
household of Adiabene as well.
19 The use of the verbs φοβέω and σέβομαι or σέβω has received somewhat less analysis.
Feldman cited two inscriptions from Tanais that used the phrase εἰσποιητοὶ ἀδελφοὶ
σεβόμενοι θεόν ὕψιστον (“initiated brothers, worshippers of the most high god”): Feldman,
“Jewish ‘Sympathizers,’ ” 204. θεός ὕψιστος is a common translation of the Hebrew el elyon
(God Most High) in the Hebrew Bible, and the question of the relationship of inscrip-
tions to θεός ὕψιστος to Jewish practice is quite complicated, especially in Asia Minor,
from which a considerable amount of the evidence comes, both for θεός ὕψιστος and
for θεοσεβεῖς. See, e.g., Paul R. Trebilco, Jewish Communities in Asia Minor (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1991), 127–66; Stephen Mitchell, Anatolia: Land, Men, and
Gods in Asia Minor, 2 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1993), 2.43–54; Stephen Mitchell, “Further
Thoughts on the Cult of theos hypsistos,” in One God: Pagan Monotheism in the Roman
Empire, ed. Stephen Mitchell and Peter Van Nuffelen (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2010), 167–208, for which reference I thank Paula Fredriksen.
176 Kraemer
Herodotus, employs θεοσεβὴς as a designation for the piety of Egyptian priests

(2.140).20 In the Gospel of John 9:31, the man whose blindness Jesus removes
counters Jesus’s opponents by saying: “we know that God does not hear sin-
ners, but whenever someone reveres God (τις θεοσεβὴς) and does his will, to
that one God listens.”21 As I have discussed at length elsewhere,22 θεοσεβὴς is
used repeatedly as an adjective for both Joseph and Aseneth, in the Greek tale
of their marriage. Applied to Joseph, it cannot possibly indicate that he is a
Gentile devotee of Israelite religion. Even applied to Aseneth, it cannot bear
this meaning, and not merely because this would require different meanings
for the word when applied to different characters. In the Greek tale, Aseneth
is clearly not what most scholars mean by a Godfearer, but rather a ‘convert.’23
Aseneth renounces her prior practices and her natal identifications, wholly
embracing the practices of Joseph and ultimately becoming, through marriage
(and motherhood) and religious devotions, a full member of Joseph’s people.
In the Pseudo-Clementine Homilies 11.16, a θεοσέβεια is one who truly performs
the law; although the ethnicity of such a person is perhaps ambiguous here, it
does not seem to mean a non-Judean who practices some limited portion of
Judean law.
θεοσεβὴς and closely related forms regularly designate Christian piety in
numerous later Christian sources. The apostle Andrew is described as θεοσεβὴς
in both the Coptic Acts of Andrew 59/6 and the Greek Acts of Andrew
60/7. In the account of Stratocles’s becoming Christian in the Greek Acts, the
term θεοσεβὴς occurs twice, signifying piety both before and after Stratocles’s
transformation.24 Thecla is called θεοσεβὴς in the Acts of (Paul and) Thecla
38; so, too, in the Acts of John, are Andronicus, “who formerly was not the
20 I owe the Herodotus and Josephus references to Trebilco, Jewish Communities, 146–47.
21 Cf. the NRSV translation of τις θεοσεβὴς as “one who worships” God.
22 Ross Shepard Kraemer, When Aseneth Met Joseph: A Late Antique Tale of the Biblical
Patriarch and His Egyptian Wife, Revisited (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998),
132–33, 272–73.
23 For my own qualms about this term applied both to Aseneth, and to antiquity generally,
see Kraemer, When Aseneth Met Joseph, and Kraemer, Unreliable Witnesses, 179–200.
24 Acts of Andrew 7, translated both by J. K. Elliott, The Apocryphal New Testament: A Collection
of Apocryphal Christian Literature in an English Translation (Oxford: Clarendon, 1993),
246–47, and by Dennis Ronald MacDonald, The Acts of Andrew and the Acts of Andrew
and Matthias in the City of the Cannibals (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1990); see also Dennis
Ronald MacDonald, The Acts of Andrew, Early Christian Apocrypha 1 (Santa Rosa, CA:
Polebridge, 2005). Stratocles has a new self, which is ashamed of τὴν πρὶν αὐτοῦ θεοσέβεια
(which Elliott translates as “its former religion”), and has no idea what ἡ ὄντως θεοσέβεια
(which Elliott translates as “true religion”) is.
god-fearing (θεοσεβὴς) man he is now . . .” (Acts of John 63) and the converted
Callimachus (Acts of John 76). The Acts of Peter 6 calls one Ariston, who seems
to be a Christian, θεοσεβὴς.
In the Martyrdom of Polycarp (perhaps 2nd–3rd CE),25 when Germanicus is
being martyred, “the whole crowd marvel[s] at the great nobility of the God-
loving (θεοφιλοῦς) and God-fearing (θεοσεβοῦς) race of the Christians,” (Mart.
Pol. 3.2).26 Melito’s book to Antoninus Verus (Marcus Aurelius), as Eusebius
quotes it, reads similarly: “It has never before happened . . . that τόν τῶν θεοσεβῶν
γένος should be persecuted . . .” (Hist.eccl. 4.26.5).27 Although Melito obviously
intends a reference to the persecution of Christians, the term itself may be
construed broadly, and in any case, is obviously not a reference to Gentile
devotion to the Judean God.28 The phrase τό γένος τῶν θεοσεβῶν also occurs in
Epiphanius, as a somewhat generic label for the sect (hairesis) of those who
adopted the practices of Abraham after God called him, and θεοσέβεια occurs
routinely in Epiphanius as a normative term for piety.29
The late fourth-century emperor Julian uses θεοσεβὴς to designate pious
pagans with no Judean associations whatsoever (Letter 37, to Atarbius); as a
designation for Alexander (Letter 111.21); and for Diogenes (Against Heraclius
the Cynic 8.26). The Martyrdom of Saint Irene, of uncertain date, but perhaps
25 Candida R. Moss, “On the Dating of Polycarp: Rethinking the Place of the Martyrdom of
Polycarp in the History of Christianity,” Early Christianity 4 (2010): 1–37; also Candida R.
Moss, The Other Christs: Imitating Jesus in Ancient Christian Ideologies of Martyrdom (New
York: Oxford University Press, 2010), 196–98.
26 Translation Lake, LCL: Ehrman’s newer LCL translation reads “the godly and reverent race
of the Christians.”
27 Lake translates this in the LCL as “the race of the religious,” a translation that itself points
to the ambiguity of θεοσεβὴς, and the implicit presence of the category of religion.
28 θεοσεβῶν also occurs in printed editions of Justin, Apology 1.1, but is an emendation.
29 Pan. 4.1.8: “Isaac had two sons, Esau and Jacob, and then τό γένος τῶν θεοσεβῶν were called
both Abramians and Isaacites.” Williams translates this as “the nation of the godly”: Frank
Williams, trans., The Panarion of Epiphanius of Salamis: Book I (Sects 1–46), 2nd rev. ed.
(Leiden: Brill, 2009), 20. In this passage, part of Epiphanius’s prefatory material, he writes
that before the birth of Isaac’s sons, these people were simply called Abramians. One of
the descendants of Shem, Eber, is explicitly called θεοσεβὴς (Pan. 2.1). On the normative
use of θεοσέβεια, see especially Pan. Anacephalaeosis 3.9. and Pan. 2.3–7. Epiphanius’s
use of θεοσέβεια as the ideal reverence for God, which always existed in the world, might,
however, suggest that the term could be deployed in various complex contexts. But here,
as elsewhere, there is no reason to think that it signifies the devotion of Gentiles to what
Epiphanius himself calls Ioudaismos.
178 Kraemer
fifth century, calls her ἡ θεοσεβὴς παρθένος.30 At the very least, these references
demonstrate that literary sources seem largely oblivious to θεοσεβὴς as a well-
known indicator of Gentile interest in devotion to the God of Israel.
On the epigraphic side, Noy notes four inscriptions from Rome generally
thought to be Christian, which use some form of θεοσεβὴς.31 A late antique
inscription identifies a woman named Theosebes and her husband, Victorinus,
as donors to a church mosaic.32 An inscription from the Golan, perhaps dated
to the fifth century, references a bishop named Gerontius θεοσεβ: the editors
expand the abbreviation to θεοσεβεστάτου.33
4 More Pertinent Literary Instances of Theosebes?
Apart from Juvenal’s satiric jab, and the sebomenoi and phoboumenoi in Acts,
the literary account that has received the most scholarly scrutiny has been
Josephus’s claim that Nero’s wife, Poppaea, intervened on behalf of an embassy
from Jerusalem because, he says, she was “theosebes.”34 This description has
occasioned substantial scholarly debate over whether Josephus is here say-
ing that Poppaea was a formal “Godfearer,” itself providing affirmation of the
existence of the category in the first century, or whether Josephus is “merely”
saying that Poppaea was motivated to help the Jerusalem envoys out of some
general sense of piety.35
30 Martyrdom of Irene, l. 969, from Albrecht Wirth, Danae in Christlichen Legende (Vienna:
F. Tempsky, 1892), 115–51, following Paris 1470.
31 David Noy, Jewish Inscriptions of Western Europe, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1993, 1995) (hereafter JIWE), 1.21, citing IGCVO 964, 965, 1010, 1014, in connection
with his discussion of JIWE 1.12, the epitaph of Roufinos, from La Bottacia, “guesstimated”
to be 2nd–4th CE. He concedes that none of these has any distinctively Christian content,
but also cites Lampe, Patristic Lexicon, that Christian authors regularly use θεοσεβὴς as a
denotation of piety, as I have shown as well.
32 A E (1975): 410.
33 Robert C. Gregg and Dan Urman, Jews, Pagans and Christians in the Golan Heights: Greek
and Other Inscriptions of the Roman and Byzantine Eras, SFSHJ 140 (Atlanta: Scholars
Press, 1996), 31, fig. 22.
34 Ant. 20.189–98.
35 E.g., Feldman, “Jewish ‘Sympathizers’ ”; see Feldman’s notes to the Loeb edition of Josephus
here; see also E. Mary Smallwood, “The Alleged Jewish Tendencies of Poppaea Sabina,”
JTS 10 (1959): 329–35; Margaret H. Williams, “ ‘θεοσεβὴς γαρ ἦν’—The Jewish Tendencies
In Unreliable Witnesses, I discuss this account at some length, as part of

a larger discussion of whether accounts about Gentile women’s interest in
either Judean religion or early Christian practices substantiate oft-repeated
claims that women were disproportionately interested in both, and whether
women were more likely to be proselytes where men were more likely to be
“Godfearers.”36 There I draw partly on the arguments of Shelley Matthews that
in Josephus the support of elite women benefactors, often the wives of the
emperors, is adduced as indirect evidence of the worthiness of Judean causes,
“part of a larger narrative pattern . . . that repeatedly characterizes Gentile
noblewomen as saviors and benefactors of the Jewish people.”37 In casting the
support of women like Poppaea in terms of piety, Josephus partially masks
the more nakedly political, or power, aspects of the dynamic.38 Matthews, like
Margaret Williams, sees Josephus as deliberately “scripting Poppaea with a
pious attachment to Judaism somewhere between the two extremes of a pros-
elyte’s devotion and a pagan’s nonspecific ‘superstition,”39 without necessarily
providing us any access to Poppaea’s own motivations. This last distinction,
between Josephus’s representation and Poppaea’s own self-understanding, has
often been blurred in scholarly discussions, on the assumption that Josephus’s
depiction is largely accurate, and that the dilemma is primarily what theosebes
meant in the first century.
In my view, this passage may be read somewhat differently. According to
Josephus, Agrippa II expanded his palace to afford himself an excellent view
of everything that transpired in the Jerusalem Temple.40 Unspecified elite
men of Jerusalem, incensed at Agrippa’s actions, countered by erecting a wall
on the Temple perimeter that blocked not only Agrippa’s view but also that
of the Roman guards charged with security during festivals. Siding with
Agrippa, the Roman procurator, Festus, ordered the wall taken down. The pro-
testers asked to send an embassy to Nero to adjudicate the dispute, to which
Festus agreed.
Josephus here thus sides with the Temple supporters, not with Agrippa or
the Romans, and thus risks a position that could easily be construed (by his
of Poppaea Sabina,” JTS 39 (1988): 97–111; and Matthews, First Converts; see also Trebilco,
Jewish Communities.
36 Kraemer, Unreliable Witnesses, 222–25.
37 Matthews, First Converts, 30.
40 Ant. 20.189–90.
180 Kraemer
Roman readers in the late first century) as anti-Roman. So, too, could Poppaea’s
advocacy on their behalf be (mis)construed. By casting her support as the con-
sequence of her piety, her theosebeia, Josephus might be saying that Poppaea
sides with the proponents of the wall because she sees this as a general issue
of piety, not out of a specific attachment to the Judean god. Josephus has made
it clear that it was not Judean custom for the goings-on in the Temple to be
spied upon, let alone the actual sacrifices.41 Josephus may here cast Poppaea
as defending a larger Roman value, namely the integrity of a temple to a deity,
even a foreign deity. Not inconceivably, it was precisely the ambiguity of the
term theosebes that Josephus found efficacious. As I noted above, elsewhere
Josephus uses theosebes quite generically. Judean audiences could understand
this as a veiled reference to Poppaea’s true affinity for their views, while his
Roman patrons could construe her actions as a general, laudable piety that
overrode the otherwise troubling lack of support for a client ruler, the Roman
procurator, and the Roman military. But whichever scenario might be right, it
seems fairly clear that this account cannot bear the weight of demonstrating
the existence of a fixed and widespread technical category of Gentile partial
practitioners of Judean religion.
Interestingly, after the first half of the second century, there is no substan-
tial literary evidence for theosebes and other terminology of pious fear as a
designation for Gentile adherents to Judean practices and beliefs.42 This may
not be particularly surprising, given that no surviving works are known to
have been authored by Jews writing in Greek or Latin and given that Christian
authors may very well not have showcased the competition by writing about
the attractions of Judean practices. One interesting exception may be a refer-
ence in the fifth century, when Cyril of Alexandria writes of men in Phoenicia
and Palestine who call themselves θεοσεβὴς yet follow neither Jewish nor Greek
customs consistently.43
4.1 Epigraphical “Godfearers”

The argument for the existence of a technical category of Godfearers, par-
ticularly after the second century, depends, then, largely on the epigraphical
41 Ant. 20.191.

42 Tertullian, Against the Nations 1.13, 3–4.
43 Cyril of Alexandria, de Adoratione et cultu in spiritu et veritate 3.92, 3. It is interesting to
note that the date of this reference corresponds both to the preponderance of the epi-
graphical evidence, and to the few legislative references to the Caelicoli, on which see
below.
evidence, mostly in Greek, and on late imperial legislation against the Caelicoli
(literally, heaven-fearers), to which I will return later. As I noted at the begin-
ning, in his 1981 article, Kraabel took the position that there was no disposi-
tive epigraphical evidence, although he was aware surely of a relatively small
corpus of inscriptions found in apparently Jewish contexts, including those
in the forecourt mosaics of the synagogue at Sardis, on whose excavation he
had worked. Of the inscriptions to which he likely had access, none provided
unambiguous evidence for Gentile practitioners of Judean/Jewish rites.
Many scholars, including Feldman, quickly came to see the Aphrodisias
inscription(s) as dispositive evidence for the widespread existence of such a
category, demolishing Kraabel’s argument. Irina Levinskaya put it bluntly: “The
importance of this inscription . . . lies in the fact that, once and for all, it has
tipped the balance and shifted the onus of proof from those who believe in the
existence of Luke’s God-fearers to those who have either denied or had doubts
about it.”44
However, in my judgment, even the Aphrodisias inscriptions, which I will
discuss shortly, do not resolve the larger problem. Regardless of the inscrip-
tions Kraabel knew by 1981, none of the inscriptions extant and published as
of now constitute unambiguous evidence. All these inscriptions do is char-
acterize either donors or deceased individuals as “theosebes”: the argument
that they thereby designate Gentile practitioners is either circular, or at best,
derived from highly ambiguous clues, such as nomenclature.
4.1.1 “God-Fearers” in Latin Inscriptions: Venerators of the Judean God?

Despite Juvenal’s reference to a “sabbath-revering” father (metuentem sabbata
patrem), only six Latin inscriptions designate individuals with some form of
the verb metuo (to fear) with an object that appears to be religious.45 Frey’s col-
lection includes five of these inscriptions, while the later publication of Jewish
44 Irina Levinskaya, The Book of Acts in its Diaspora Setting (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996),
80. So, too Fergus Millar wrote that these inscriptions proved that a theosebes was “a gen-
tile attached to a Jewish community without being a full convert,” in “The Jews of the
Graeco-Roman Diaspora between Paganism and Christianity, AD 312–438,” in The Jews
Among Pagans and Christians: In the Roman Empire, ed. Judith Lieu, John North, and Tessa
Rajak (London: Routledge, 1992), 97–123, 101–2; see also Fergus Millar, The Greek World,
the Jews, and the East, ed. Hannah M. Cotton and Guy M. Rogers, vol. 3 of Rome, the Greek
World, and the East (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2006), 432–56.
45 Or at least, six thought by some scholars to at least potentially have some association with
Jews. I do not know that anyone has actually done a comprehensive search.
182 Kraemer
Inscriptions from Western Europe includes only one,46 from Pola in Aquileia,
whose language clearly compels some Jewish association.47 It reads:
Aur. Soter et Aur. Stephanus

Aur. Soteriae Matri Pientissimae
Religioni Iudeicae Metuenti
F(ilii) P(osuerunt).
Aurelius Soter and Aurelius Stephanus

to Aurelia Soteria, mother, most pious,
of the “religion” of the Jews, [God]-revering
[or: revering the “religion” of the Jews]
Her sons placed this.
All contemporary interpreters presume that pientissima has some religious

connotation (at least judging by the frequent translation of “most devout”
or “most pious”), despite the fact that pietas regularly connoted familial
devotion.48 Scholars have differed in their view of whether pientissima simply
describes Aurelia Soteria, or whether it modifies her devotion to Jewish “reli-
gion.” Most of the debate, however, has centered on what it might have meant
to call Aurelia Soteria “religioni Iudeicae metuenti.” Does describing her as
metuenti imply that pientissima really does connote maternal devotion, while
46 J IWE 1.9. Noy prints the others as JIWE 2.626, in an appendix of non-Jewish inscriptions.
These were CIJ 5; 285; 524; and 529. He notes that recent scholarly opinion has favored his
judgment, relying particularly on the example adduced by Feldman, CIL 6.390, in “Jewish
‘Sympathizers,’ ” and writes, “There is no reason to connect with Judaism someone merely
described at Rome as metuens.” Leon also excluded them from his catalogue of Jewish
inscriptions from Rome (Harry J. Leon, The Jews of Ancient Rome [Philadelphia: Jewish
Publication Society of America, 1960]).
47 Known only from early antiquarian reports, which claim it was once in the church of
St. Vito in Pola, it is impossible to date with any certainty. The prominence of Aurelian
names supports a date after the early third century, and perhaps as late as the fifth century.
48 See, e.g., Scheiber 4, “Pulchra uxor pientissima,” (although this actually reads fuentissa) in
Alexander Scheiber, Jewish Inscriptions in Hungary: From the 3rd Century to 1686 (Leiden:
Brill, 1983). Zabin argues that in the Roman world, women’s pietas was particularly associ-
ated with the fulfillment of private, familial obligations, whereas men’s pietas regularly
had connotations of public duty: Serena Zabin, “ ‘Iudeae Benemerenti’: Towards a Study
of Jewish Women in the Western Roman Empire,” Phoenix 50 (1996): 262–82, 275. Based
on her analysis of the Roman Jewish burial inscriptions, however, she argues that this
distinction was less true for Jewish women, who are regularly praised for their devotion
to the law, and so forth. I think this is an optimistic reading.
metuenti signals her particular degree of piety towards the divine? Is she sim-
ply a Jewish mother commended for her exceptional piety? Feldman certainly
thought so.49 But if so, this language is highly unusual, in fact unique so far,
in the corpus of Jewish inscriptions. Is she perhaps a convert—but she is not
called such—or is this that rare instance of a more obvious technical usage of
metuens, in which the deceased was in fact a “fearer” of the “Judean” religion,
understood as some particular category of affiliation?
The interpretation of this inscription is complicated somewhat by another
inscription from Pola which has no other apparent connection to Jews, but was
made by a woman also named Aurelia Soteria.50 In it, this Aurelia Soteria com-
memorates a 27-year-old woman named Aurelia Rufina, whom she describes
as an alumna, a term that frequently had the same connotations as threpte in
Greek. Unlike the epitaph of Aurelia Soteria by her sons, this one begins with
the common Latin abbreviation D(is) M(anibus). Whether the two women
are one and the same seems, like many similar issues, impossible to resolve
on the present evidence. That this Aurelia Soteria describes Aurelia Rufina as
pientissima, the term also applied by the sons to the Aurelia Soteria of the first
inscription, is intriguing, if hardly determinative. Here, too, whether it con-
notes devotion to the gods, or Rufina’s service to her mistress, is uncertain.
Some scholars think that if the two Soteria are the same woman, this strength-
ens the reading of the first Aurelia Soteria as some sort of partial adherent to
Judaism, on the assumption that a “full” Jew, or a “full” convert would not dedi-
cate a burial inscription to the Dii Manes.51 Alternatively, of course, it might
simply mean that Aurelia Soteria, herself Jewish, had an alumna who was not
Jewish, whom she honored in death with an appropriate burial inscription.52
49 Feldman, “Jewish ‘Sympathizers,’ ” 203, who here assents to what he characterizes as
Bernays’s correct belief that “Soteria was a pious Jewess,” but argues that Bernays was mis-
taken in thinking she was a “sympathizer,” and equating the two: for Feldman, “metuenti”
here again does not necessarily designate anything more than ordinary “god-fearing.”
50 It, too, is known only from antiquarian manuscripts of the eighteenth century and later.
JIWE 1.202 = CIJ 641. Noy includes it in an appendix of inscriptions “not considered
Jewish.”
51 On this problem, see Ross S. Kraemer, “Jewish Tuna and Christian Fish: Identifying
Religious Affiliation in Epigraphic Sources,” HTR 84 (1991): 141–62; Leonard Victor Rutgers,
“Dis Manibus in Jewish Inscriptions from Rome,” in Jews in Late Ancient Rome: Evidence of
Cultural Interaction in the Roman Diaspora, RGRW 126 (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 269–72; Erwin
R. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period, (13 vols., Bollingen Series 37,
(New York: Pantheon, 1953–68), 2.137–40.
52 Whether a household slave or ‘adoptee’ could in fact have different cultic devotions than
her owner is a complicated issue.
184 Kraemer
4.1.2 The Greek Theosebeis Inscriptions

Apart from face b of the Aphrodisias stele, with its list of about 50 men desig-
nated theosebeis (which I will discuss subsequently), there are about 17 inscrip-
tions designating an individual as theosebes and thought by at least some
scholars to have some association with Jewish practice.53 Two transliterate the
Greek term in Latin,54 but the remainder are all Greek. Six of these are epi-
taphs, two from Rome (third/fourth century CE?),55 one from elsewhere in Italy
(second-fourth century CE?), one from the island of Rhodes,56 one from Cos,57
and one whose provenance is unknown, although it has features common
to inscriptions from Asia Minor.58 The remainder are all votive and/or donative
inscriptions from several sites in Asia Minor: Philadelphia, Sardis, Aphrodisias,
and Tralles. Most of these appear dated to the fourth/fifth centuries CE.
Particularly important in this debate have been six votive inscriptions found
in a complex at Sardis that is almost universally taken to be a Jewish syna-
gogue.59 All were made by men, and all identify the donor as theosebes.60 Their
names are not distinctively Jewish, but they are also unremarkable for Jews in
Asia Minor in late antiquity.61 Two appear in the forecourt outside the main
basilica, which some scholars have read as an indication of the donors’ sta-
tus as “partial” adherents.62 The remaining four, however, were found at vari-
ous places in the main hall or, in one instance, in the peristyle. Nothing about
53 An eighteenth, JIWE 2.392/CIJ 202, is a Roman inscription whose reading of theosebes
is very much in doubt, leaving a corpus of 17 inscriptions. But see both above, n. 18 and
below, n. 39, for additional theosebes inscriptions that seem Christian.
54 J IWE 2.207=CIJ 228 (Eparchia); JIWE 1.113, a Latin inscription that calls the deceased teu-
seves, from Venosa, perhaps fourth/fifth century CE, on which see above, n.18.
55 J IWE 2.392, an inscription missing the name of the deceased, conventionally dated third/
fourth century; and JIWE 2.500, for one Agrippa, son of Phouskos, called by an ethnic
descriptor associated with Phaene in Trachonitis, and θεοσεβὴς. Noy disagrees that this
inscription is necessarily associated with Jews or Judaism, and remarks that “most other
theosebes inscriptions from Rome are likely to be Christian,” (JIWE 2.510).
56 C IJ 731e.
57 I JO 2.6.
58 Below, n. 51.
59 For an intriguing argument that the last stage of the Sardis synagogue is probably to be
dated to the fifth century, rather than somewhat earlier, see Jodi Magness, “The Date of
the Sardis Synagogue in Light of Numismatic Evidence,” AJA 109 (2005): 443–75.
60 I JO 2.67; 2.68; 2.83; 2.123; 2.125; 2.132.
61 And many names that are distinctively Jewish (which tends to mean biblical) are also
attested for Christians in the same period.
62 E.g., John H. Kroll, “The Greek Inscriptions of the Sardis Synagogue,” HTR 94, no. 1 (2001):
9–10.
them is dispositive: the Sardis theosebeis might simply be Jews demonstrating

their devotion through donations; they might be Gentile Sardians demonstrat-
ing their support for their Jewish co-Sardians by making donations to their
building; or indeed they might be Gentile Sardians who did, in fact, venerate
the Jewish god, while not being willing to separate themselves in more sig-
nificant ways from their natal communities and practices.63 At least one well-
respected scholar, Martin Goodman, has proposed a thought-experiment that
the Sardis complex might even be a “synagogue” of theosebeis, rather than a
Jewish synagogue.64
Outside Sardis, some other theosebes inscriptions have clear associations
with Jews.65 The epitaph of Eparchia, age 55, for example (dated perhaps to
the third/fourth century CE) is located in the Randanini catacomb in Rome;
this is usually taken as sufficient evidence to make a connection.66 Debate con-
tinues on the Jewish association of various other inscriptions, including the
epitaph of Agrippas, apparently from Rome; that of Euphrosyne, from Rhodes;
that of Epitherses, of unknown provenance;67 and even that of Marcus, from
63 I discuss the models underlying such possibilities in far more detail in Unreliable
Witnesses, including a critique of the categories of conversion and partial adherence,
and a consideration of conversion as a change of ethnicity. For the view that they are
more likely to designate Gentile adherents, see Kroll, “Greek Inscriptions,” 9, who argues,
among other things, that θεοσεβὴς cannot simply designate piety, since all the donors at
Sardis surely considered themselves pious.
64 Martin Goodman, “Jews and Judaism in the Mediterranean Diaspora in the Late-Roman
Period: The Limitations of Evidence,” in Ancient Judaism in its Hellenistic Context, ed.
Carol Bakhos (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 192–97.
65 The exceptions are Capitolina, IJO 2.27; not in CIJ, although Lifshitz included it in
Donateurs, no. 30; and Eustathios, IJO 2.49=CIJ 754 (Donateurs 28); see B. Lifshitz,
Donateurs et Fondateurs dans les synagogues juives, répetoires des dédicaces grecques rela-
tive à la construction et à la réfection des synagogues (Paris: Gabalda, 1967).
66 J IWE 2.207=CIJ 228. But on the difficulty of assuming that all inscriptions from these cata-
combs must be Jewish, see John Bodel, “From Columbaria to Catacombs: Collective Burial
in Pagan and Christian Rome,” in Commemorating the Dead: Texts and Artifacts in Context:
Studies of Roman, Jewish and Christian Burials, ed. Laurie Brink, O. P. and Deborah Green
(Berlin: de Gruyter, 2008), 177–242.
67 Published in Ernst Pfuhl and Hans Möbius, Die ostgriechischen Grabreliefs (Mainz am
Rhein: von Zabern, 1979), no. 1697, plate 248. Levinskaya, Book of Acts, 67–68, com-
ments that the inscription, which depicts “a man lying on a couch, a seated woman, and
a boy pouring a libation on an altar . . . would look perfectly at home in a pagan con-
text.” Conceivably, here theosebes simply designates Epitherses’s well-known piety, but
Levinskaya notes that it might also here indicate a “Jewish sympathizer in a pagan fam-
ily.” There seems to be no way to be sure, but if this inscription is not that of someone
186 Kraemer
Venosa.68 Further, as many scholars have repeatedly pointed out, while it is

possible that in some inscriptions, theosebes identifies a Gentile who engages
in some limited Jewish practices, and remains on some social fence between
Jews and non-Jews, in most cases, the inscriptions remain ambiguous.
An instructive case comes from almost identically worded epitaphs for two
women, that of Euphrosyne, on a black marble altar from Rhodes, and that of
Eirene from Cos.69 Both give the name of the deceased, followed by the words
“theosebes,” worthy, farewell.70 Lifshitz included Euphrosyne in his revision
of Frey’s corpus of Jewish inscriptions, based perhaps on the judgment of the
great epigrapher, Louis Robert, who thought it either Jewish or “judaizing.” But
theosebes turns out not to be a definitive marker of Jews for Ameling, the edi-
tor of the recent collection of Jewish inscriptions from Asia Minor (IJO 2): he
includes Eirene, perhaps because the name is well-attested for Jews through-
out the ancient Mediterranean, while excluding Euphrosyne,71 whose inscrip-
tion is otherwise identical. But it is important to note that classifying Eirene’s
inscription as Jewish still does not clarify whether theosebes here is anything
other than a generic indication of devotion to the divine.
A particularly problematic example is the donative inscription made by
a woman named Capitolina, from Tralles in Caria (as is Aphrodisias), dated,
although perhaps not terribly securely, to the mid-third century CE.72 I give
here just an English translation, with key Greek terms untranslated:
(I), Capitolina, αχιολογ and θεοσεβ

have made the whole βαθρο[ν]
and have decorated the stairs with mosaic
interested in Judean practices, it demonstrates, conversely, that theosebes is sometimes if

not often simply a marker of commendable piety. The circularity of the evidence is often
exceedingly irritating.
68 J IWE 2.627i=CIJ 500, which Noy includes only in an appendix of inscriptions considered
not Jewish; CIJ 12 731e, which Ameling excludes from IJO 2, discussing it only in a footnote
(58 n. 72 [incorrectly listed in the index]); JIWE 1.113=CIJ 12619a.
69 C IJ 12 731e. Eirene is IJO 2.6; not in CIJ. W. R. Paton and E. L. Hicks, The Inscriptions of Cos
(Oxford: Clarendon, 1891), no. 278.
70 θεοσεβὴς χρηστὴ [χρυστὰ] χαῖρε.
71 Levinskaya writes, with reference to Louis Robert, Études anatoliennes: recherches sur les
inscriptions grecques de l’Asie Mineure (Paris: de Boccard, 1937), 441 n. 5, “Either option is
equally tenable.” See Levinskaya, Book of Acts, 62 and n. 43.
72 I JO 2.57. The dating relies partly on IGRom 4.1340, discussed below, concerning a woman
also named Capitolina; and partly on seeing the term ἀχιολογωτάτη (most esteemed), as
characteristically third century CE. This conclusion may in fact require re-assessing.
in fulfillment of a vow on my behalf,

and that of my children and grandchildren.
Blessings.
Numerous aspects of the inscription are ambiguous. Whether the building

to which Capitolina has contributed is a synagogue remains uncertain, and it
cannot be determined from the inscription itself. That it is a religious site of
some sort is strongly suggested by the votive nature of the inscription: having
made a vow (to an unspecified deity), Capitolina has fulfilled it with these gifts.
Such votive donations are common in, but by no means unique to, late antique
synagogues. The phrase at the end, eulogia, blessings, is again well attested in
Jewish contexts, but also in Christian contexts, although rare in demonstrably
non-Jewish, non-Christian inscriptions.73
My concern here is primarily with the designation of Capitolina as θεοσεβ,
which some editors, including now Ameling, have completed as θεοσεβὴς.
Other readers of the inscription have suggested that both ἀχιολογ and θεοσεβ
should be taken as abbreviations of superlatives (most esteemed; most God-
revering), but to the best of my knowledge, there is little if any attestation
of the form theosebestate except in Christian inscriptions. Interestingly, this
inscription was initially taken to be Christian: in my view, it could conceivably
still be, although the earlier the inscription is dated, the less likely this seems.74
A woman named Claudia Capitolina is attested in another inscription from
Tralles. This Capitolina came from a prominent Asian family: her father was
proconsul of Asia, and her husband a Roman senator and priest for life of
73 E.g., Goodenough, Jewish Symbols 2.115–16 for its Jewish and Christian usages. Trebilco,
Jewish Communities, also cites Robert, Etudes Anatoliennes, 54 n. 1, to the effect that the
phrase “ὑπερ εὐχης” is rare in “pagan” inscriptions.
74 Also ambiguous is the term βαθρο[ν], which I have left untranslated. Trebilco translates
βαθρο[ν] as “platform,” ( Jewish Communities, 252 n. 53) and proposes that it is a Torah
or menorah platform, or perhaps a bema used for reading of scripture, all translations
that rely on the thesis that this is a synagogue inscription. According to Liddell-Scott-
Jones, s.v., it is generally anything on which something stands, but can specifically desig-
nate a bench or a seat (which would invalidate Trebilco’s interpretation), as well as steps
and even a throne. Since the inscription speaks also of a staircase, steps are an interest-
ing alternative, but there need not be any connection between the two elements of the
building Capitolina funded. Lampe, Patristic Greek Lexicon, defines βαθρο[ν] as a base,
foundation or pavement, or even a church bench (citing Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 10.4.44). It is
exceedingly common in Christian church inscriptions, usually with verbs of building, and
seeming to mean just built “from its foundations.”
188 Kraemer
Zeus Larasios in Tralles, with an illustrious pedigree of his own.75 Although

Trebilco seems certain that the two women are to be identified, others are
more cautious.76 But even if this inscription commemorates donations to a
synagogue by a non-Jewish woman benefactor,77 whether it testifies to a spe-
cific attachment to Jewish practice, alluded to, if not indicated by the term the-
osebes, cannot be determined.78 It might simply indicate that gifts to a Jewish
synagogue could be construed as a general form of piety (remembering that
for Gentiles, the Jewish god was still a god).
Another resistant instance is a third-century inscription from Deliler,
near Philadelphia. It records the donation of a wash-basin by a man named
Eustatios to the “most holy synagogue of the Hebrews,” in memory of his
brother, Hermophilos. The donation is made together with a woman named
Athanasia, who is probably Eustatios’ sister-in-law (his brother’s wife).79 Were
it not for the fact that Eustatios designates himself, but not either his brother,
or Athanasia, as “the theosebes,” the inscription would probably simply be read
as a memorial donation by a Jew to a local synagogue. Scholars have taken
Eustatios to be a ‘Godfearer,’ a proselyte, or just a devout Jew. But as Levinskaya
concedes at the close of an analysis favoring the first option, “it is impossible
to say for sure.”80
75 According to Trebilco, IGR 4.1340; he also cites E. Groag, “Notizen zur Geschichte kleinasi-
atischer Familien,” JÖAI 10 (1907): 282–99.
76 As Levinskaya notes, Groag thought that the inscription was Christian, and thus that
Capitolina could not be this same Claudia Capitolina, although he thought she was of the
same family. Levinskaya herself is more cautious, Book of Acts, 65–66, rightly in my view.
77 Analogous perhaps, to those of Julia Severa of Akmonia in the first century: Lifshitz,
Donateurs et Fondateurs, 33= MAMA 6.264; IJO 2.168; Ross Shepard Kraemer, Her Share of
the Blessings: Women’s Religions among Pagans, Jews, and Christians in the Greco-Roman
World (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 119–21.
78 Again, Levinskaya takes a similar position, concluding that this inscription in no way
resolves questions about the use of theosebes as a technical category. In my view, the use
of θεοσεβὴς together with ἀξιόλογος, particularly given the use of και to link them, suggests
that piety is at issue, not a technical term of affiliation with the local Judean community.
79 She is called νύμφη, which can mean bride but particularly in Asia Minor is also used for
sister-in-law, which certainly fits the context.
80 Levinskaya, Book of Acts, 61–62. She rebuts Trebilco’s argument that if Eustatios was
a ‘God-fearer,’ Hermogenes should have been one, too, since otherwise why would
Eustatios make a donation in his memory to an institution to which he had no connec-
tions. Hence Trebilco concluded that Eustatios was simply a Jew advertising his own
piety. In Levinskaya’s view, even in ancient Asia Minor people might make donations
to institutions dear to them on behalf of others with little or no connections to those
institutions. She notes especially Gentile gifts and offerings to the Temple, and Jewish
Two inscriptions, both from the theatre at Miletus, on the Aegean coast of
Asia Minor, warrant brief consideration.81 The first is a much-discussed plaque
which reads: τοπος Ειουδεων των και θεοεεβιον, which Ameling emends to τόπος
Ειουδέων τῶν καὶ θεοσεβίον (place of the Judeans[or: Jews] of/and the theose-
beis). There has been considerable discussion of the seemingly odd order of
the words τῶν καὶ (the genitive plural article, and the conjunctive ‘and’), and
its implications for translation. Is this the place of two groups (presumably
related in some manner), the ‘Jews’ and the ‘theosebeis,’ which would support
the view that theosebeis here indicates a category of Gentile participants in
Jewish practices? Or does theosebeis here modify Jews (e.g., “place of the Jews,
the ones who [also] are theosebeis”) and if so, why?82 Elsewhere in the the-
atre, and often less noted, is an inscription that only reads θε[οσ?]εβίον and
another which refers to the “Blue” Jews (the Blues were a circus faction in late
antiquity).83 The first inscription is usually dated to the second/third century,
but the Blues inscription is probably to be dated quite late, in the mid-fifth cen-
tury CE or after.84 Rouché suggests that at Miletus, the inscriptions designating
seat areas appear to have been made at the same time, in contrast to those at
the theatre in Aphrodisias, which were regularly scratched out and re-done. If
this is correct, then IJO 2.37 is likely to be much later, perhaps consistent with
the use of theosebes on face b at Aphrodisias.
Another potentially significant example is a fairly early inscription, perhaps
first or second century CE, which records the manumission of a threpte (often
designating an enslaved person born and raised in a household, as opposed to
purchased) named Elpis, done with the guardianship of the synagogue (or the
community) of the Judeans and of those who revere God (ἐπιτροπευούσις τῆς
o fferings on behalf of emperors and others who clearly had no affiliation with the Temple
or with particular synagogues, citing references from Emil Schürer, The History of the
Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ, ed. Geza Vermes, Fergus Millar, and Matthew Black,
4 vols. (London: T&T Clark, 1973–1987), 2.309–13. Part of the problem here, of course,
is that any explanation requires us to imagine the intentions of a man about whom we
know nothing other than this inscription.
81 I JO 2.37; IJO 2.38.
82 For a summary of some alternatives, see Trebilco, Jewish Communities, 159–62;
cf. Levinskaya, Book of Acts, 63–65. Feldman saw no reason to emend the text from τῶν και
to και τῶν, and asserted that θεοσεβίον was unquestionably an epithet for the Jews: “Jewish
‘Sympathizers,’ ” 204 n. 20.
83 I JO 2.38 and 2.39. Trebilco, Jewish Communities, for instance, does not mention this.
84 See, e.g., Alan Cameron, Circus Factions: Blues and Greens at Rome and Byzantium (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1976), 194–96, cited in C. Roueché, “Aurarii in the Auditoria,” ZPE
105 (1995): 37–50, 38 n. 2.
190 Kraemer
συναγωνῆς τῶν Ἰουδαίων καὶ θεὸν σεβῶν).85 Although the original editor, Bellen,
wanted it to read θεοσεβῶν, the Inscriptiones Judaicae Orientis editors (Noy,
Panayatov, and Bloedhorn) note that the correct reading is clearly two words,
as given here. They propose that it may mean that it is Elpis who must continue
to revere God, with σεβῶν here “taking the place of θωπειά in other [manumis-
sion] inscriptions.”86 Elsewhere, that is, the freed person is expected to submit
to the proseuche, but here is expected instead to fear God. They consider this
a forced reading but note that Levinskaya favored it and that she was not put
off by the somewhat awkward grammar, proposing that it was an addition or
afterthought (and noting also that there is no corresponding θωπειά clause).
They also remark that if it is a ‘Godfearing’ reference, it remains ambigu-
ous, like the much later Miletus inscription discussed above. That is, it may
refer to both Jews and Godfearers (and if so, why is there no article preceding
“Godfearers”?), or it may simply be adjectival: the synagogue (or community)
of the Jews, who fear God. On this they take no position, although they note
that the first option, that it refers to two separate groups, Jews and Godfearers,
has received the greater support.87
I return, now, to the stele from Aphrodisias, which, as I noted at the begin-
ning, many scholars treat as dispositive evidence that theosebes had a precise,
technical meaning, referring to Gentile adherents to Judaism. The Aphrodisias
stele is inscribed on two faces, designated a and b. The original editors,
Reynolds and Tannenbaum, favored a relatively early, third-century dating for
the inscriptions, which played a role in the early interpretation of the stele, but
which has since been revised. Face a is now thought to be the later inscription,
and has been convincingly re-dated to the fifth century CE; the earlier face b
has been re-dated to the fourth century CE.
The inscription on face a appears to recognize donors to a charitable organi-
zation of some sort.88 Several of the donors, who have names often associated
85 C IRB 71; republished with corrections in IJO 1 BS 7.

86 I JO 1.282–83.
87 In favor of the two-group translation: Bellen, Lifshitz, the revised Schürer, L. Gibson and
M. Williams; against: Ustinova and Levinskaya.
88 It is sometimes mischaracterized as a synagogue inscription, which cannot in fact be
determined; such a conclusion is not necessary and perhaps contrary to the association
mentioned on face a. The options for the organization range from the more plausible
burial society to the less likely soup kitchen proposed by the initial editors. I argued
for the probability of a burial association at a session on the inscription at the Annual
Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in 1989. Margaret H. Williams makes a similar
argument, critiquing the view that the organization on face a is a soup kitchen, in “The
Jews and Godfearers Inscription from Aphrodisias: A Case of Patriarchal Interference in
with Jews,89 are identified either as “proselyte” or as theosebes, assuming that

these are the correct completions of the abbreviations used.90 Face b, however,
provides more startling evidence of its own. It contains two lists. One, now
lacking any header, lists the names of approximately fifty men, some of whose
biblical names suggest that they are Jews.91 The second lists a group of about
fifty men, none of whose names are distinctively Jewish, and whose header
reads: “those who are theosebes.”
Certainly, the inscription on face b employs theosebes as some kind of tech-
nical term. But I remain skeptical that it is a list of some fifty Aphrodisian
Gentile practitioners of Judaism in the fourth century. Partly this is because
we simply do not know how the first list might have been headed (that is, to
Early 3rd Century Caria?” Historia 41 (1992): 297–310. This title is a slight misnomer, since
Jews are never explicitly identified as such in the inscription. On issues of dating, see
especially Marianne Palmer Bonz, “The Jewish Donor Inscriptions from Aphrodisias: Are
They Both Third-Century, and Who Are the Theosebeis?” HSCP 96 (1994): 281–99; and
Angelos Chaniotis, “The Jews of Aphrodisias: New Evidence and Old Problems,” Scripta
Classica Israelica (2002): 209–42; also H. Botermann, “Griechisch-jüdische Epigraphik:
Zur Datierung der Aphrodisias Inschriften,” ZPE 98 (1993): 184–94. Most recently, see Gary
Gilbert, “Jews in Imperial Administration and its Significance for Dating the Jewish Donor
Inscription from Aphrodisias,” JSJ 35 (2004): 169–84; and Dietrich-Alex Koch, “The God-
Fearers between Facts and Fiction: Two Theosebeis-Inscriptions from Aphrodisias and
Their Bearing for the New Testament,” ST 60 (2006): 62–90.
89 Such as Theodotus, Samouel, Benjamin, Ioudas and Sabbatios. The patron of the asso-
ciation is named Iael, and may have been a woman: if so, she is the only woman named
on either face of the inscription: see Bernadette J. Brooten, “Iael Prostates in the Jewish
Donative Inscription from Aphrodisias,” in The Future of Early Christianity: Essays in
Honor of Helmut Koester, ed. Birger A. Pearson, et al. (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991), 149–62.
90 Respectively, προσηλυ, προση, and θεοσεβ. The more problematic completion is that of
θεοσεβ, which might also be completed as θεοσεβεστατης (most reverent or pious one)
which is given in Sophocles as an epithet for Christian bishops (noted in Noy’s discussion
of JIWE 2.364, which has itself sometimes been reconstructed as [θεο]σεβεστατε). It has
also been offered as the expansion of θεοσεβ in IJO 2.27, the offering of Capitolina (e.g.,
Lifshitz, Donateurs, 30, perhaps also Robert, Études Anatoliennes, 409–12), but the current
editors prefer θεοσεβής.
91 Joseph, son of Zenon, several named Ioudas, (including one whose father was named
Paulos) and a few named Jacob. That these names are also used by Christians in late antiq-
uity has played little role in scholarly debates. The occurrence of the name Paulos might
actually give one pause, but conversely, the multiple persons named Ioudas are often
thought to demonstrate non-Christian identity, on the theory that Christians would not
name a child after the arch-traitor Judas.
192 Kraemer
what category theosebes is here opposed or juxtaposed).92 The numerous late

antique uses of theosebeis to denote general piety seem to me to challenge any
simple reading of this inscription. Perhaps this is a list of Gentile men who have
contributed in some way to a communal enterprise whose donations them-
selves are understood to be an act of piety, with nothing further to be deduced
about their interest in Jewish practices. Perhaps it is a long list of Aphrodisian
men who have affiliated themselves in some unknown way with the Jewish
community there, although it is important to remember that we do not know
where the inscription was initially placed, and precisely what these lists are.
The inscription on face a, designating three persons as proselytes and
two as theosebeis (if, again, these are the correct completions) may indicate
that in the fifth century (or at whatever date the inscription was made), in
Aphrodisias, these terms had the connotation often imputed to them, or more
precisely, that theosebes indicated an affinity for Jewish practices positioned
between natal piety and a change in ethnicity and religious practice entailed
in what is often called “conversion.” At the same time, this argument rests
partly on the proximity of the terms proselyte and theosebes, which conceiv-
ably still retains its connotation of special but still Jewish piety. Further, since
the term is abbreviated both times, it seems not inconceivable that its proper
completion is in fact theosebestate, not theosebes, which would have a material
impact on its interpretation. Unquestionably, its completion as theosebes rests
particularly on the use of theosebeis on the other, later, side of the inscription;
I suspect it also relies on the use of theosebes at relatively nearby Sardis. This
is complicated, however, by the significant difference in their dating, as well
as the difficulty in determining how the two faces are related (whether, for
instance, there is some social continuity between the persons responsible for
both faces).
It seems rather striking to me that the vast majority of epigraphical evi-
dence for a distinctive category of ‘Godfearers’ comes from a relatively
confined geographical area (western Asia Minor) in a relatively limited time-
period, mostly the fourth and fifth centuries CE, and largely in donative/votive
contexts, with the primary exception of the Miletus theatre inscriptions.
92 Some scholars have proposed that it would have read οσοι Ιουδαιοι, e.g., Koch, “God-Fearers
Between Fact and Fiction,” 6. In my view, there is simply no way to tell what the missing
phrase was. I think this reconstruction relies on the construal of θεοσεβεῖς as a category
of Gentile God-worshippers, although Koch, who thinks it likely, does also share my view
that here θεοσεβὴς is a term of praise applied to donors, rather than a demonstrable indi-
cation of their interest in the practice of Judaism. See Koch, “God-Fearers Between Fact
and Fiction,” 6–7.
This confluence might support the thesis that in parts of Asia Minor in this
period, theosebes—which earlier has only a more generic connotation—
does come to designate persons interested in Jewish practice and belief, but
who found more formal affiliation with Judaism unfeasible or undesirable. It
is worth noting that by the fourth century (the dating of face b), Jews were
increasingly under pressure in various parts of the empire, with, for example,
synagogues burned in Rome and in Callinicum on the Euphrates in 388.93 By
the early fifth century, the climate for Jews in many parts of the empire had
become considerably more hostile.94 Synagogues in various locations were
physically attacked and sometimes destroyed, often by mobs under episco-
pal support. Conversion to Judaism was prohibited in various edicts from the
fourth and fifth centuries.95 And yet face a does, unquestionably, seem to refer
to at least a few proselytes.
In this light, consideration should be given to one other piece of evidence
rarely invoked in these debates. Several early fifth century Roman impe-
rial edicts legislate against persons called “heaven-fearers” (Caelicoli). In one
set of legislation, they are classed together with Donatists, Manichaeans,
Priscillianists, and “Gentiles.”96 In a second, they are prohibited together
with converts to Judaism (including forced conversions). Honorius calls the
Caelicoli those “who have meetings of a new doctrine, unknown to me (qui
nescui cuius dogmatis novi conventus habent),” and language similar to this
is repeated in various other versions of this law, e.g., Codex Justinianus 1:9:12:
“A new crime of superstition claimed somehow the unheard name of Heaven-
Fearers (Caelicolarum nomen inauditum quodammodo novum crimen super-
stitionis vindicavit).” Linder comments that since there is extensive evidence
for Godfearers previously (assuming a continuity of the evidence), what must
be new about these Godfearers is that they seem to be Christians. That they
do appear to be Christians is implicit in the Codex Justinianus, which orders
93 Ambrose, Letter 40 (to the Emperor) and Letter 41 (to his sister, Marcellina).
94 A classic overview of sources remains James Parkes, The Conflict of the Church and the
Synagogue: A Study in the Origins of Antisemitism (London: Soncino; New York: Jewish
Publication Society of America, 1934), originally his doctoral dissertation at Oxford.
The relevant imperial legislation is conveniently collected in Amnon Linder, The Jews in
Roman Imperial Legislation (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1987).
95 For an overview, see Linder, Jews, 80–81.
96 See, e.g., Linder, Jews, no. 35, Honorius, with Arcadius and Theodosius II, 25 Nov 407 and
no. 39, Honorius with Theodosius II, 1 April 409. Linder renders caelicoli sometimes as
“heaven-fearers” (especially in his translation of the actual legislation) and sometimes
as “God-fearers” (especially in his discussions). On pp. 81–82, he defines them as “semi-
converts who observed only a part of the halachic rules.”
194 Kraemer
these Heaven-Fearers to return to God’s law and Christian veneration, or be

subject to the penalties of heretics. But if this is true, then it is not clear to me
that these Caelicoli are, in fact, the people called theosebeis in inscriptions. The
relationship between these particular persons (assuming they are real) and
other persons designated theosebeis seems less obvious than Linder presumes.
Alternatively, and perhaps much more transgressively, perhaps the theosebeis
of Aphrodisias and Sardis are in fact these Christian Caelicoli. This entire ques-
tion deserves further thought, particularly given the dating of these edicts to
precisely the period for which we have the most plausible evidence for theose-
beis as some sort of technical term in parts of Asia Minor.97
5 Analysis
As this extensive review of the evidence demonstrates, there do appear to have

been some ancient persons not born into Judean/Jewish ‘families’ who, for var-
ious reasons, took up some of those practices and associated ideas, while not
relinquishing their natal practices, associated ideas, and social identifications.
Such persons are routinely called Godfearers in modern scholarly literature,
perhaps because of the references in Acts to phoboumenos or sebomenos ton
theon. Even in Acts, however, the designation of such persons is inconsistent,
and the utility of Gentiles interested in Judean practices for Luke’s explanation
of how the Christian movement spread continues to raise questions about the
reliability of this representation. Gentiles who participated in some aspects
of Judean cult practice are almost never called theosebes in literary sources,
and the most frequently cited example—that of Josephus’s characterization
of Poppaea—is probably misconstrued by contemporary scholars precisely
because Josephus calls her theosebes. Further, as I have also shown at great
length, virtually all Greek literary uses of theosebes and theosebeia, from the
LXX on, signify something other than Gentile interest in Judean (or, later,
Jewish) practices. On the contrary, they regularly signify the commendable
religious piety of Jews, Christians, and others in the ancient Mediterranean.
The epigraphical evidence, however, tells a slightly different story. Most
instances of persons designated as theosebes in inscriptions appear to have
some relationship to Jews, although even here we find instances that are clearly
Christian, and others whose relationship to Jews is tenuous at best. Further,
the majority of the theosebes inscriptions that might possibly signify the inter-
97 The edict of 409 is addressed to the prefect of Italy, but Linder argues that all these are
general laws, addressed at the very least to Italy, Spain, and Africa ( Jews, 257).
est of Gentiles in Jewish practices come from a specifically-delineated setting:

Asia Minor, probably in the fourth and fifth centuries CE; and it is impossible
to determine what, precisely, the designation signifies beyond some degree of
commendable piety.
All this notwithstanding, modern scholars have construed an interest in
things Judean/Jewish almost entirely as something unique to the relations
between Judeans and non-Judeans, rather than redescribing it as a subset of
larger ancient experimentations with and adoptions or adaptations of the
practices of others. In the normal course of religious practice in the ancient
Mediterranean, taking on the cult practices of others was not inherently trans-
gressive and did not (necessarily) require one to relinquish one’s own natal
practices.98 This may be a function of a pluralist cosmology, where devotion
to one god does not of necessity negate devotion to another, even as certain
cult devotions probably were seen to be ethnically specific, and thus not eas-
ily open to others. Gender is certainly a significant factor here, in that women
were regularly expected to take on the cultic devotions of their marital house-
holds, abandoning the practices of their natal families.
When modern scholars talk about these ancient practices, they miss the
context. This is not only a case of distinguishing between ‘Godfearers,’ always
envisioned in relationship to Jews and Judaism, and other comparable practi-
tioners. In fact, there is a tendency to simply ignore comparable moves when
they do not involve interest in Judean religion, failing to see them as examples
of the same larger cultural phenomenon, if with some distinctive elements.
A Godfearer, for example, by definition is not merely a non-Judean or non-Jew,
but also a non-Christian, a distinction that Paula Fredriksen intends to make
when she insists on a definition of Godfearers as pagan adherents to Judaism,
clearly meaning to exclude Christians.99 Christians who took up some Jewish
98 Sometimes, of course, taking up the cult practices of others was problematic: Romans,
in particular, seem to have been anxious both about the importation of foreign rites into
Rome (such as the Bacchanalia, or the worship of Magna Mater), and to have thought that
some rites were properly restricted to Romans alone. For some references and discussion,
see Kraemer, Unreliable Witnesses, 29–34.
99 Fredriksen has made this point at the Colloquium honoring Segal at Barnard in December,
2010; at her keynote address at the Association for Jewish Studies later that same month
in Boston; and in personal correspondence. I no longer share Fredriksen’s acceptance of
the term ‘pagan’ to designate the enormous range of ancient persons who did not ven-
erate the God of Israel (that is, who were not Jews, Christians, or Samaritans): see, e.g.,
Paula Fredriksen, Augustine and the Jews: A Christian Defense of Jews and Judaism (New
York: Knopf, 2008), 22–23, but she is absolutely right that when scholars think about
Godfearers, they inevitably exclude Christians.
196 Kraemer
practices are categorized (in the Christian writings that appear to be virtually
our only literary evidence for them) as Judaizers of some sort, and modern
scholarly analysis mostly tends to reproduce that description. Meanwhile,
other ancient persons who took up some of the cultic practices or cosmologies
of others, while retaining some of their natal practices, usually do not merit
any consideration in such discussions. The idea that ‘Godfearers’ are simply
doing something many people regularly did is often lost, and even when it is
acknowledged, the larger phenomenon is regularly not the focus of interest.
That is, these discussions do not take place out of scholarly interest in ancient
religion; they take place as part of a narrower scholarly discourse about Jews
in antiquity.
The deficiencies of this approach are relatively easy to identify. The behav-
ior of Constantine, for instance, is exactly what is envisioned for Godfearers.
He becomes a patron of the emergent orthodox church, effectively elevating it
to orthodoxy; he participates in many of its practices, but continues his prior
practices of patronizing other deities, and at best, is said to have “converted”
on his deathbed. Constantine was unique, at best, in his singular elite sta-
tus. The recent work of Ramsay MacMullen illuminates the diverse practices
of what he calls the 95 percent: the vast majority of ancient persons in the
fourth century and subsequently, who get called, already in antiquity, “semi-
Christians”; “Christians in name alone”; “neither Christian nor pagan”; the “half-
converted.”100 Another surprising example might come from the account of
Severus of Minorca, who envisions that until the events of 418, when Minorcan
Christians pressured all the Jews on Minorca to convert in the space of a single
week, Minorcan Christians might very well have had the kinds of social rela-
tions with Jews that we would easily misrecognize (literally) as “religious” and
god-fearing—such as the making of financial contributions to Jewish chari-
table organizations or synagogues.101 For many, if indeed not most, persons in
antiquity, practice was everything, and it was fluid and variable. Elite officials
might strive to set boundaries; ordinary people ignored them. Elite clerical
authorities might insist on arcane theological distinctions as fundamental for
religious identity; ordinary people were largely oblivious to these.
100 Ramsay MacMullen, The Second Church: Popular Christianity AD 200–400 (Atlanta:
Scholars Press, 2009), 109.
101 Scott Bradbury, Severus of Minorca: Letter on the Conversion of the Jews, OECT (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1996); see also Kraemer, Unreliable Witnesses, 153–78.
Thus, although the category of Godfearer does all sorts of work in argu-
ments about ancient Jews, and about the growth of Christianity,102 in fact,
there is nothing particularly unique about the underlying social phenomenon
it envisions. What people (including Constantine) did was practical: it was use-
ful for a wide variety of purposes. It was useful for some elites for the formation
of power alliances and relations; it was useful for more ordinary people for
more ordinary purposes: because it delivered the many practical things people
sought from the divine realm(s). In this regard it is also important to point
out that scholars almost inevitably envision ‘Godfearing’ as, first and fore-
most, cultic and perhaps theological—that is, about worshipping the Judean/
Jewish God and observing some of the distinctive practices of Judeans/Jews.
Yet this very characteristic (derived especially from a few choice tidbits in the
satirist Juvenal) is part of the problem. Many persons identified as theosebes
in the epigraphical record may, in fact, have been engaged in fairly practical
activities: making donations to their neighbors’ associations, or capitalizing
on the access to divine powers thought to be available in synagogues, or fulfill-
ing the responsibilities of patrons, benefactors, and clients, or acting on the
basis of interests, positions, and ideas wholly inaccessible to us now.103 Thus
to distinguish ‘Godfearers’ from other such persons in the ancient world who
engaged in both their own ancestral practices, and other non-natal practices, is
to somehow mark them as distinctively different precisely because these non-
natal practices are those of Judeans. If they were those of the Egyptians, or the
Nabateans, or, as in MacMullen’s many examples, those of the Christians, what
would we say?
This essay has also shown that, these social realities notwithstanding, we
cannot identify such persons in either the literary sources or the epigraphi-
cal evidence simply by the use of the terms theosebes, metuens/metuenti,
and other Greek and Latin verbs of ‘fearing.’ The conflation of these two cre-
ates confusion and facilitates erroneous historical and cultural reconstruc-
tions, themselves put to use in the service of various arguments (about how
Christianity spread; about the circumstances of Jews and Jewish communities
in antiquity).
102 Above, n. 14. All of these authors, to varying degrees, seem to replicate the assumptions of
Luke and Acts, that God-fearers enable the transfer of Christianity from Jews to Gentiles,
despite the thin evidence for their actual presence.
103 I particularly liked Seth Schwartz’s redescription, at the Segal colloquium, of some such
persons as “friends,” who provided financial patronage, social capital, and other necessi-
ties of ancient social and political life.
198 Kraemer
One of my goals here has been to demonstrate the pitfalls of conflating

ancient usages of theosebeia and being theosebes with the contemporary schol-
arly category of ‘Godfearers.’ My argument, throughout, has been that the lan-
guage of ‘fearing’ the divine is an unreliable indicator of what I have attempted
to re-describe as ancient persons who take on some of the practices of religious
piety distinctive to other ancient groups, while continuing to participate in the
social life of their own natal groups, and perhaps also continuing to observe
some of their own natal practices. This is particularly true for the literary evi-
dence, where, as I have shown, ‘god-fearing’ rarely if ever carries the meanings
scholars routinely impute to it.
Presuming that those persons called theosebes in the epigraphical record
were (sometimes, at least) something other than Jews commended for their
proper devotion to their ancestral God, the late antique epigraphical evi-
dence, particularly that from Asia Minor, does, however, pose the possibility
that in some areas, at certain times, being theosebes could bear a more limited
meaning. It might, sometimes, reflect the emic perspective of Jews that those
persons who befriended them, and participated in Jewish communal life in a
variety of ways (and for diverse and perhaps idiosyncratic reasons), were to
be commended, and thus called with a term of respect. At the same time, it
seems impossible to know how Jews in late antique Asia Minor might have felt
about the converse: about Jews who engaged in some of the practices of their
non-Jewish neighbors, for which there is tantalizing if inconclusive evidence.
We have ample evidence for how elite Christian authors felt about people who
engaged both in specifically Christian practices and their natal non-Christian
practices, or who blended the two in creative ways. We know how they felt
about Christians who engaged in actual Jewish practices, or practices that
seemed Jewish.
More generally, then, how such practices are viewed, especially when rede-
scribed as I have attempted to do here, depended very much on the standpoint
of the viewer. I continue to think, though, that ancient Jewish claims to worship
only one God, proclaimed on inscriptions and amulets with the formula heis
theos, constituted some sort of game-changer. It complicated both the ability
of those Jews or Judeans to participate in the practices of others (although
there is adequate evidence that some people did), and their own responses to
Jews or Judeans who did so. Christian ‘monotheism’ (expressed also with the
formula heis theos) seems also to create some of the same issues. MacMullen
and many others have argued that the spread of Christianity was facilitated to
a significant degree by the brilliant innovation of the cult of the martyrs, pre-
cisely because it was so easily grafted onto traditional practices. And although
it is not really germane to the concerns of this paper, this may also suggest a
fruitful argument for why Judaism did not fare better in the ancient competi-
tion, namely that it had no easy way to incorporate or accommodate the tradi-
tional practices MacMullen illuminates so effectively.104
In conclusion, there is little evidence to sustain the view that there was a
universal, static category stretching from the first century through the fifth
century CE, across the range of the Roman empire, of (non-Christian) Gentiles
who practiced some aspects of ancient Jewish devotion yet refrained from a
complete adoption of Jewish practices, and from a complete identification
with Jews. Yet at the same time, it is the case that the best epigraphical evi-
dence for theosebeis as a technical category of some sort, as well as the rather
puzzling and short-lived references to the Caelicoli, comes from the fourth
and fifth centuries, precisely when Jews were coming under increasing pres-
sure from the Christianized imperial administration, and when Christians and
other non-Jews who engaged in practices that even appeared to be Jewish were
increasingly at risk.105 It seems worth thinking further about how and whether
these two data sets are connected. But in the meantime, it seems equally clear
that it is time to give up the broad, unparsed category of Godfearers, in favor
of much more careful scrutiny of local evidence at particular times and places.
104 The cult of angels being less useful, and always more fraught, even among Jews themselves.
105 This raises a whole other complex issue, including how scholars categorize Christians
who took up some Jewish practices, like Chrysostom’s congregation in Antioch in the late
fourth century, as compared to their categorization of non-Christians who did the same.
CHAPTER 8
Marcion and Boundaries

Stephen G. Wilson
Presented with the overall theme of this volume, my thoughts turned imme-
diately to Marcion and his followers as a particularly intriguing example of
boundary crossing.1 On both social and ideological levels they have classically
been seen as a radical group—distinctive, dangerous and divisive. On the one
hand, after a period of rapprochement with ‘mainstream’ Christians, notably
in Rome, they hived off to form a separate community with a unique constella-
tion of practices and commitments. On the other hand, following their creative
and original founder, they discarded widely-held Christian beliefs in favor of a
raft of innovative ideas in such areas as the nature of god, scriptural authority,
apostolic history, christology and the relationship to Jews and their tradition.
According to this way of looking at Marcion he was both a boundary maker
and a breaker—a maker because he defined a new set of ideological and social
commitments, and a breaker because, in doing so, he discarded many of the
common markers of Christian identity. In the light of recent studies it is worth
reflecting on the accuracy of this depiction as well as on the factors that may
have provoked him to take the path that he eventually chose.2
1 I am delighted to be included in a volume that honors Alan Segal, a good friend for many
decades, a constant source of intellectual stimulation and, it must be said, of invaluable
information about where to dine! It also gives me an opportunity, after a gap of some twenty
years, to alter and refine my earlier views on Marcion in the light of recent studies. See
Stephen G. Wilson, Related Strangers: Jews and Christians 70–170 CE (Minneapolis: Fortress,
1995), 207–21. The final version of this paper (completed in 2011) benefited from comments
by Paula Fredriksen and John W. Marshall. Many thanks to them.
2 The ancient evidence requires careful sifting. It is uniformly hostile, becomes suspiciously
more detailed the further from Marcion it gets, confuses his views with those of his followers,
and frequently forces him into heresiological straitjackets. Adolf von Harnack’s brilliant and
influential work in modern times presents another kind of problem—in many ways rigorous
and judicious, but also partisan and replete with personal and cultural predilections (Adolf
von Harnack, Marcion: The Gospel of an Alien God [Durham, NC: Labyrinth, 1989]). See the
splendid volume edited by Gerhard May and Katharina Greschat, Marcion und seine kirch-
engeschichtliche Wirkung (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2002), especially the essays by Wolfram Kinzig,
“Ein Ketzer und sein Konstrukteur. Harnacks Marcion,” 253–72; and Achim Detmers, “Die
Interpretation der Israel-Lehre Marcions im ersten Drittel des 20. Jahrhunderts,” 275–92.

Marcion And Boundaries 201
1 Community Life
We have no evidence for Marcionite communities in Asia Minor prior to

Marcion’s move to Rome.3 In Rome (ca. 140–160 CE) he allied himself with
other Christians and was not initially considered a renegade (Tertullian, Marc.
1.1.6, 4.4.3–4).4 The decision to establish distinctively Marcionite communities,
following the failure of his discussion with the elders of Rome (usually dated
to 144 CE) was probably Marcion’s own. Moreover, while there is evidence that
the Christians in Rome could act collectively on occasion—in supporting the
poor, for example—they were essentially a loosely-organized group of house
churches with no central authority enjoying the power to legislate or excom-
municate.5 In a situation that encouraged diversity and tolerance it could thus
be argued that Marcion did not break communal boundaries or challenge exist-
ing authorities, because neither of them was at this time firmly established.6
Was he thus like Valentinus, his contemporary in Rome (ca. 135–155 CE)
who, despite his later reputation as an arch heretic, seems to have worked
relatively undisturbed, merely establishing separate enclaves for worship and
instruction?7 Not quite. Marcion was more confrontational. He encouraged,
even insisted on, a public discussion of his views with other church leaders,
perhaps motivated by a belief that he had found the key to the gospel and by
3 Contra R. Joseph Hoffmann, who dates Marcion early, locates his activities mostly in Asia
Minor and doubts any substantial activity in Rome (Marcion: On the Restitution of Christianity.
An Essay on the Development of Radical Paulinist Theology in the Second Century [Chico, CA:
Scholars Press, 1984], 31–74).
4 On the dates see Barbara Aland, “Marcion/Marcioniten” in TRE 22 (1992), 89–101, here 90–92.
5 The date of the discussion is based on Tertullian, Adversus Marcionem 1.19.2. (hereafter all
references to this text are simply designated Marc.), and it seems to have turned in part on
the meaning of some of Jesus’s parables: old and new wineskins (Marc. 3.16.5; 4.9.11) and
the good and bad trees (Marc. 1.2.1). See further Gerhard May, “Marcion in Contemporary
Views: Results and Open Questions,” SecCent 6 (1987–8): 129–51, here 137; Gerd Lüdemann,
Heretics: The Other Side of Early Christianity (London: SCM, 1996), 161; Sebastian Moll, “Three
Against Tertullian: The Second Tradition about Marcion’s Life,” JTS, n.s., 59 (2008): 169–80,
here 179–80. For the church in Rome in the second century see the rich discussion in Peter
Lampe, From Paul to Valentinus: Christians at Rome in the First Two Centuries (Minneapolis:
Fortress, 2003), 100–103, 380–96; and Einar Thomassen, “Orthodoxy and Heresy in Second
Century Rome,” HTR 97 (2004): 241–56.
6 Thomassen (“Orthodoxy,” 244) notes that Tertullian at one point implies expulsion (Praescr.
30.2), but later implies that Marcion and Valentinus left of their own accord (Carn. Chr. 1.3).
7 On Valentinus see Lampe, Rome, 292–318; Gerd Lüdemann, “The History of Earliest
Christianity in Rome,” Journal of Higher Criticism 2 (1995): 112–41, here 112–23.
202 Wilson
optimism about the outcome of a public debate. But when he was rebuffed,
he set up an independent and immensely successful network of Marcionite
communities.
Life in a Marcionite community, however, still fell comfortably within the
broad parameters of Christian lifestyle in the second century. Marcionites
were ascetics. They eschewed sex, and candidates for baptism were vir-
gins, widows, unmarried or divorced for the purpose of baptism (Tertullian,
Marc. 1.29.1). They did not consume meat or wine (Tertullian, Jejun. 15.1;
Epiphanius, Pan. 42.3.3). Yet the Encratites also favored sexual asceticism and
vegetarianism, as did Tatian, and sexual abstinence is repeatedly held up as an
ideal in the popular apocryphal Acts. So while many Christians increasingly
favored a more relaxed view of sex and food, the Marcionites were not unique.
Their emphasis on three sacraments (baptism, eucharist, anointing) was not
unusual, and although their liturgical use of bread, water, milk and honey
looked odd to later heresiologists (Tertullian, Marc. 1.4.3), this may be only
because they perpetuated once common practices that others had given up.8
Women had a significant role in their churches, and they opened their gath-
erings to catechumens as well as outsiders, but in this they were not alone.9
They may not have welcomed, but neither did they eschew, martyrdom (Marc.
1.24.4; Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 4.15.46)—rather to the annoyance of their detrac-
tors. Most of them, it is normally assumed, were Gentile in origin, though there
is the curious allusion in Marc. 3.12.3 that may suggest that some were Jewish:
“. . . among the Hebrews there are Christians, even Marcionites, who use the
name Emmanuel when they wish to say God-with-us.”10
In general their day-to-day existence did not especially mark the Marcionites
out. Was the same true of their beliefs? Here the evidence is more complicated,
as a brief look at a few examples will suffice to show.11
8 Alistair Stewart-Sykes, “Bread and fish, water and wine. The Marcionite menu and the
maintenance of purity,” in May and Greschat, Marcion, 207–20.
9 Harnack, Marcion, 95.
10 Though perhaps the text could be construed as “among Hebrew Christians, even among
Marcionites . . .” By “Hebrews” Tertullian may at any rate have meant Semitic-speakers
(Aramaic, Syriac) rather than Jews. Translations of Tertullian follow Ernest E. Evans,
Tertullian Adversus Marcionem (Oxford: Clarendon, 1972).
11 I will focus on a few themes where the most interesting work has been done in recent
years.
2 Law and Gospel and the Two Gods
It is natural to start with Marcion’s reading of Paul and his theory of two gods
since that is where Tertullian, our main witness, began: “The separation of the
Law and Gospel is the primary and principal exploit of Marcion . . . for such
are Marcion’s Antitheses, or Contrary Oppositions, which are designed to show
the conflict and disagreement of the Gospel and Law, so that from the diver-
sity of principles between those two documents they may argue further for
the diversity of gods. . . . It is precisely the separation of Law and Gospel which
has suggested a god of the Gospel, other than and in opposition to the god of
the Law” (Marc. 1.19.4–5; cf. 4.1.1). Hoffmann offers the following pithy sum-
mary: for Marcion “the antithesis between law and gospel became, in effect,
a synechdoche for the whole of Paul’s thought,” and “his failure to resolve the
tensions in Paul’s religious thought led him to declare war against the unity of
God, almost as an exegetical necessity rather than a theological conclusion.”12
Law and Gospel are thus transmuted into old and new gods. The first, creator
god is identified with the world and the law. He is sometimes petty, unfair and
malicious though, at least on one reading, not evil but essentially just.13 The
second, alien god is by contrast all goodness and grace, not to be compared
with the creator or indeed anything in this world. Even his goodness cannot be
compared to other good things.
That Marcion was in some sense a dualist seems as certain a thing as we can
know. It appears in the earliest witnesses, Justin and Irenaeus, in Tertullian,
and in everyone who follows them. Beyond this, however, many things are
not so clear. For example, the notion that Marcion’s dualism flowed from his
radical reading of Paul on gospel and law (supported by Jesus’s parables) has a
certain logic, but if it was so crucial why do neither Justin nor Irenaeus make
the connection? They know of his separation of the gods, but do not connect
it with the separation of law and gospel. Tertullian is the first to do this and it
is central to his refutation, but it looks suspiciously like this owes as much, if
not more, to his procrustean response and to his confusion of Marcion’s views
with those of his successors.14 Indeed the attempt of his followers to refine
and clarify his ideas—by redefining the demiurge as an angel subordinate
12 Hoffmann, Marcion, 152–53.

13 Harnack, Marcion, 70; Aland, “Versuch”, 428; Markus Vinzent, “Der Schluss des
Lukasevangeliums bei Marcion,” in May and Greschat, Marcion, 78–89, here 79.
14 Vinzent, “Schluss,” 79–80. Schmid also notes Tertullian’s use of the rhetorical conven-
tion of reading an opponent’s views in an overly literal way and then accusing them of
204 Wilson
to the supreme god, for example, or by positing matter as a third principle

beside the demiurge and the god of love15—itself suggests his views were ill-
defined. Some have argued, moreover, that dualism was not a primary con-
viction but a by-product, either of Marcion’s emphasis on the overwhelming
novelty of the salvation revealed by the father of Jesus or, quite the reverse, of
his primary conviction about the evil nature of the creator.16 Dualism could
lead to a negative view of the material world, but if Marcion drew this conclu-
sion it does not seem to have been central to his thought, nor fully worked
out, nor reflected in all aspects of community life (in sacramental practice,
for example).17 If the precise nature of Marcion’s dualism remains obscure, so
does his characterization of the creator. Harnack’s sympathetic description of
him as essentially “just” has been labeled a “Protestant version” that ignores
the evidence that “just” is “an abbreviation for his being a cruel judge, a petty-
minded and self-contradictory legislator.”18
Marcion, it seems, was a dualist, but his dualism was neither as central nor
as carefully thought out as many have supposed. In this he was not alone. Other
Christians, especially gnostics, played with similar ideas, and they produced a
variety of views about the creator and his world, from the radically dualistic
(Paraphrase of Shem, Carpocrates) to the relatively positive demiurge of some
contradiction (Ulrich Schmid, Marcion und sein Apostolos: Rekonstruction und historische
Einordnung der marcionitischen Paulusbriefausgabe [Berlin: de Gruyter, 1995], 258).
15 Aland has a good discussion of Marcion’s followers (“Marcion,” 98–100). Most of them
(e.g., Markus, Prepon, Megethius) worked within the Marcionite church. Apelles, perhaps
the best known, eventually started his own school, combining Marcionite and Gnostic
ideas. In old age he reportedly reverted to a belief in one supreme god, which gives a sense
of how far Marcion’s followers could evolve (Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 5.13.5–7).
16 For the first view see Barbara Aland, “Marcion: Versuch einer neuen Interpretation,” ZTK
70 (1973): 420–47, here 445–47; Andrew McGowan, “Marcion’s Love of Creation,” JECS 9
(2001): 295–311, here 311. For the second see Sebastian Moll, “Marcion: A New Perspective
on his Life, Theology and Impact,” ExpTim 121 (2010): 281–86, for whom the good god is
merely a foil or counterpart to the creator. Marcion, he thinks, had a fanatical hatred of
the world which he then transferred to its creator.
17 See Ekkehard Muhlenburg on whether Harnack downplays the role of the creator in the
origin of evil (“Marcion’s Jealous God,” in Disciplina Nostra: Essays in Memory of Robert
F. Evans, ed. Donald F. Winslow [Philadelphia: Philadelphia Patristic Foundation, 1979],
93–113). Eginhard P. Meijering has a good discussion of Tertullian’s opening attack on
Marcion (“Bemerkungen zu Tertullians Polemik gegen Marcion (Adversus Marcionem
1.1–25),” VC 32 [1976]: 81–108).
18 So Winrich Löhr, who also thinks the contrast between the just and the good god may
come from Marcion’s successors (“Did Marcion Distinguish between a Just God and a
Good God?” in May and Greschat, Marcion, 131–46, especially 144).
Valentinian writings (Letter to Flora, Tripartate Tractate). Marcion’s ideas fit

broadly within this spectrum, though his may have different roots. The distinc-
tive elements in Marcion’s dualism may be in part because, unlike the many
gnostic texts that are obsessed with the contradictions of the biblical creation
stories, his views were colored by (though not, as we have seen, necessarily
rooted in) the distinction between the old and the new order in the teachings
of Jesus and Paul.19
3 Scriptures
What, then, were Marcion’s sources for the teachings of Jesus and Paul? The
classic view, rooted in heresiological sources, often since repeated, is that he
radically reduced the sources available to him, accepting only Luke from among
the Gospels and only seven (ten) letters from among Paul’s thirteen; and that
he then aggressively edited them, purging them of judaizing distortions origi-
nating with the false apostles and introducing a vast range of textual variants
to support his own eccentric views. In doing so he broke with contemporary
Christian opinion, set new boundaries of scriptural authority, and became the
first to elevate Christian writings to the status of scripture. This, however, is
another aspect of Marcion’s thought that has been unduly simplified.
Clabeaux has shown, for example, that Marcion’s version of Paul was based
on a pre-existing seven-letter collection that already had Galatians (which
some have seen as a significant Marcionite document) at its head; that many of
the supposed Marcionite readings are normal scribal variants or are also found
in other manuscripts not influenced by Marcion; and that the text of Marcion’s
collection was of the Western type, probably with some Syrian connections.20
These conclusions were in large part confirmed by Schmid, who added three
further significant observations: that Marcion’s editing of Paul consists entirely
of omissions, usually large ones to do with Abraham and Israel (Gal 3:6–9, 14a,
15–18, 19; Rom 4:1ff?; 9:1ff?; 10:5ff?; 11:1–32?), judgment according to works (Rom
2:3–11), and the mediation of Christ in creation (Col 1:15b–16); that apart from
19 I focus on those closest in time and content to Marcion for comparison. Paula Fredriksen
pointed out to me that the notion of dualism as a distinctive belief is questionable, since
virtually all ancient world views have the notion of a high god and a contractor god.
20 John James Clabeaux, A Lost Edition of the Letters of Paul (Washington, DC: Catholic
Biblical Association of America, 1989). The ten-letter collection becomes seven letters if,
as in the so-called Marcionite prologues, 2 Cor and 2 Thess are subsumed respectively
under 1 Cor and 1 Thess, and Philemon under Col.
206 Wilson
such major omissions, there is very little evidence of Marcion tampering with
the text of Paul; and that Marcion retains many Old Testament allusions and
references in Paul (especially when they are negative) that, on the traditional
view, he should have deleted.21
Not dissimilar are the conclusions reached in recent discussions of Marcion’s
gospel. According to Tertullian (Marc. 4.2.5, 4.3.4), Marcion understood Paul’s
reference to “my gospel” in Galatians 1–2 to refer to a gospel text rather than
a gospel message, i.e., the written gospel that Paul, and in turn Marcion him-
self, used. There is little evidence that Marcion knew more than one gospel
and the one he knew he did not attribute to Luke the companion of Paul.22
Nevertheless this gospel was related to canonical Luke—not the Luke we
know, but rather a shorter version lacking much of Luke 1–3 and all or parts of
Luke 24 and perhaps a fair bit more, though we cannot be sure.23 One current
hypothesis is that a short version of Luke became the basis for both Marcion’s
gospel and a subsequent anti-Marcionite expansion and redaction that
became canonical Luke (and Acts), though it is not without its difficulties.24
Like his version of Paul, Marcion’s gospel seems to have had affinities with the
21 Schmid, Marcion, passim.

22 Hans F. von Campenhausen argues vigorously that Marcion did not criticize the other
gospels and that if he knew them it was only to ignore them (Formation of the Christian
Bible [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1972], 156 n. 40). Ulrich Schmid suggests that Marcion could
have known a collection of four gospels, but not that he did (“Marcions Evangelium und
die neutestamentliche Evangelien: Rückfragen zur Geschichte und Kanonisierung der
Evangelienüberlieferung,” in May and Greschat, Marcion, 73–74).
23 See Joseph B. Tyson, Marcion and Luke-Acts: A Defining Struggle (Columbia, SC:
University of South Carolina Press, 2006), 79–120; Matthias Klinghardt, “Plädoyer für die
Wiederaufnahme eines alten Falles,” NTS 52 (2006): 484–513, here 496–503. Most recon-
structions suggest that Marcion’s gospel began with Luke 3:1, 4:31–7, 4:16–30 and that parts
of Luke 24 (especially those that suggest that the disciples were finally enlightened) were
not original.
24 Recently argued by Klinghardt, “Plädoyer,” who notes that the traditional view of a
Marcionite redaction of canonical Luke is riddled with difficulties. Tyson simultaneously
revived Knox’s theory that Luke-Acts was written to challenge Marcion’s version of the
apostolic age (Marcion, passim). The anti-Marcionite reading of Luke-Acts requires a very
late date for them and an earlier date than most would accept for Marcion’s activities.
The thematic arguments are also largely reversible, e.g., Marcion could be reacting to the
domestication of Paul in Acts or in the traditions that end up in Acts. We should also
allow that Luke and Acts were written by the same person but not necessarily at the same
time. In that case the later volume (Acts) might be anti-Marcionite, but not the earlier.
A good case for dating Acts in the early second century is made by Richard I. Pervo, Dating
Acts: Between the Evangelists and the Apologists (Santa Rosa, CA: Polebridge, 2006).
Western text and contained many readings that, on the traditional view, we
would have expected him to delete (e.g., references to Moses and the proph-
ets and the identification of Jesus with the Son of David), though knowing
precisely what text he had in the first place is not easy to surmise.25 Part of
the reason, says Tertullian, is Marcion’s cunning deceit: “Now here [Luke 24]
Marcion, on purpose I believe, has abstained from crossing out of his gospel
certain matters opposed to him, hoping that in view of these which he might
have crossed out and has not, he may be thought not to have crossed out those
which he has crossed out, or even to have crossed them out with good reason”
(Marc. 45.43.7). If we put aside the polemical intent, this inadvertently tells us
that Marcion’s editorial activity was neither as heavy-handed nor as consistent
as Tertullian and others made it out to be.
This presents a very different picture from the traditional view. Not only
did Marcion use versions of Paul and Luke already in circulation among other
Christians, these versions were amenable to, perhaps even prompted, his
way of reading them. Variants previously designated Marcionite were simply
part of the Western versions he (and others) used. He did not engage in
detailed editing perhaps because the versions he used already played into his
hands. His version of 2 Cor 7:1 and 2 Thess 1:8, for example, lend themselves to
his understanding, and are probably not tendentious alterations.26 Moreover,
it was not difficult to read passages such as Phil 3:1–10 in a Marcionite way
(Marc. 5.20.5–7). Even Tertullian is at times uncomfortably aware of this. When
Marcion takes the “god of this age” to be the creator, Tertullian (who argues that
it is the devil) admits that the dispute is about punctuation and emphasis and
quickly moves on, in the fear that dwelling on it would present an advantage
to his opponent (Marc. 5.11.9–11). Or when Jesus’s rhetorical question, ‘Who is
my mother and who are my brothers?’ indicates to Marcion that Jesus was not
born in a normal human way, the best that Tertullian can come up with is the
blustering reply that this simply confirms the way heretics twist and distort
things to their own ends (Marc. 4.19)!
The Christian texts that Marcion used were used by others, and if he read
them with a particular bent no doubt others did too. In neither way was he
25 See David Salter Williams, “Reconsidering Marcion’s Gospel,” JBL 108 (1989): 477–96, here
478–81. He works with “explicitly correlated” readings, where Tertullian and Epiphanius
quote the same piece of Marcionite text. He gives a good summary of the difficulties of
getting close to the text of Marcion’s gospel, but notes that what we can surmise indicates
the need to revise our view of Marcion’s theology and editorial goals.
26 Schmid, Marcion, 255. Examples could be multiplied from Schmid, passim.
208 Wilson
distinctive.27 Two things, however, do stand out. One is that he was the first, as
far as we know, to designate a collection of letters and a gospel as authorita-
tive sources for Christian life and thought. There is an ongoing debate, much
of it overly defensive, about the extent to which this provoked the formation of
the catholic canon, but there is no real competitor for his bold initial role. The
other is that his major editorial excisions, especially those from Paul, and his
reading of the teaching of Jesus appear to have a clear and distinctive purpose:
to distance Christianity from Judaism and the Christian God from the created
world.
Closely connected with these is Marcion’s rejection of the Jewish bible as
a source of authority for Christians. It was not, he thought, the scripture of
Christians but that of Jews, telling their story and containing reprimands and
promises directed to them alone.28 Some of Marcion’s contemporaries would
not have found this altogether strange.29 The Shepherd of Hermas, for example,
ignores the Jewish scriptures entirely. Ptolemy’s Letter to Flora suggests that
various parts of the law are to be rejected because they are mere concessions
to human weakness, fulfilled or negated by Jesus, or, in the case of ritual or
ceremonial law, obsolete.30 Most interestingly Ignatius, in the midst of arguing
with the Philadelphians about the use of Jewish scriptures (Phld. 8:2), abruptly
asserts that he has in fact only one irrefutable authority, Christ, since the
“inviolable documents are his cross, his death, his resurrection, and the faith
which he creates.” Is this just a moment of exasperation, and would it be “per-
verse to read into such a profession a deliberate depreciation of the ancient
scriptures?”31 I’m not so sure. Ignatius does quote the scriptures occasionally
27 In principle, though not in content, Marcion’s handling of Christian writings is not much
different from the way the authors of the canonical and apocryphal gospels, or figures like
Tatian, adapted their sources to particular ends.
28 In a sense Marcion’s is the more common view in antiquity: gods associated with an eth-
nic group was the norm; claiming that an ethnic deity was also the high god (as did Jews)
is the exception. See Paula Fredriksen, “What Parting of the Ways?” in The Ways That
Never Parted: Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, ed. Adam H.
Becker and Annette Yoshiko Reed (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2007), 35–63, here 39.
29 The idea of “false pericopes” in the Pseudo Clementines is rather later than Marcion.
Generally on Christian views of scripture see von Campenhausen, Formation, 62–102;
Lüdemann, Heretics, 148–58; John Barton, “Marcion Revisited,” in The Canon Debate, ed.
Lee M. McDonald and James A. Anderson (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1980), 341–54, here
345–48.
30 Lüdemann, “Rome,” 132–35 sees the letter of Ptolemy as a sustained attack on Marcion. If
so, it was not without conceding quite a lot to Marcion en route.
31 So von Campenhausen, Formation, 72; similarly Lüdemann, Heretics, 150.
elsewhere (Eph. 5:3; Magn. 12; Trall. 8:2), although they don’t play a large part in
his argument and he may well be quoting from Christian sources rather than
directly from scripture itself.32 But when the chips are down he seems to aban-
don the Jewish scriptures without much compunction—hardly the sign of one
who treasured and clung to them—and this is consistent with his appeal else-
where to Christians to abandon the ‘old ways’ of Judaism (Magn. 9:1–2, 10:1–3).
While Hermas is indifferent, Ptolemy discriminating and Ignatius dismissive,
none of them quite matches Marcion’s vigorous, principled and wholesale
rejection of the scriptures. As in so many areas, Marcion’s views are not entirely
without precedent, but they do have a flavor that is distinctly their own.
4 Jews and Judaizers
Although he rejected the Jewish scriptures for Christian use, Marcion ended up
allying himself in some ways with the Jews to whom they belonged: the scrip-
tures were their book, associated with their god and understood in their way.
Thus the biblical messianic prophecies did not refer to Jesus but to some future
Jewish messiah who would bring an earthly kingdom in Judea for Jews and
proselytes (Marc. 3.6–8, 3.21, 3.24, 5.8). Unrighteous Israelites might respond to
Jesus’s message, unlike faithful Israelites, because they were already alienated
from the creator god (Irenaeus, Haer. 1.27.3). While the Jews understandably
rejected Jesus since he did not fit their messianic expectations, they were not
responsible for his death, which was engineered by the creator and the pow-
ers working under him (Marc. 3.24, 5.6).33 Thus Marcion, by following his own
peculiar logic, concurred with the Jews on some important matters of exegesis
and belief. But it does not make him any more well-disposed towards their
god or their scriptures. He may not have attacked the Jews, conceding space to
them to pursue their own (to him, inferior) traditions, but he reveals a strong
desire to draw a firm line between Jewish and Christian truth.34
Related to this is Marcion’s reading of apostolic history, which focuses
obsessively on the role of “judaizers” or “false apostles” who had obscured and
distorted the teaching of Jesus and Paul by lodging it securely in the Jewish
32 See William R. Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch: A Commentary on the Letters of Ignatius of
Antioch (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985), 54, 130, 150. He thinks that Ignatius may have tacitly
recognized them as scripture even if he’s not directly quoting from there.
33 See further details in Wilson, Related Strangers, 215–16.
34 See Wilson, Related Strangers, 215–17; Heikki Räisänen, Marcion, Mohammed and the
Mahatma (London: SCM, 1997), 73–76.
210 Wilson
tradition. Whether the “false apostles” were the same as the original apostles
or some other group of “unauthorized and unnamed Judaizers” is unclear in
Tertullian’s discussion of the key Pauline passages.35 To give only one example,
when in Marc. 4.3.1–5 he says that Marcion got hold of Galatians, in which
Paul “rebukes even the apostles themselves for not walking uprightly accord-
ing to the truth of the gospel,” and “accuses also certain false apostles of per-
verting the gospel of Christ,” it is not clear how many groups are in mind.
Perhaps Tertullian is deliberately evasive when dealing with these texts,
because here there is clear evidence of serious conflict between Paul and the
original apostles and this leant itself more to Marcion’s reading than his own.36
Whatever Marcion’s precise views, they involved a strongly negative reading
of the apostolic age. At best the twelve were hapless and ignorant; at worst
they were directly opposed to the truth of the gospel. There is no one else that
we know of who produced such a divisive reading of the apostolic age with
such an emphasis on the malign influence of the false apostles—unless it was
those (usually called Jewish Christians) who took quite the opposite view and
demonized Paul.
Where, then, does this leave us with Marcion and boundaries? In many areas
Marcion and his followers look less radical than we once thought. Their com-
munal practices, dualistic speculations, use of Christian writings and indiffer-
ence to Jewish scriptures are not without precedent in other Christian groups.
Both individually and in combination their ideas and practices give them a
particular profile, but these only serve to define and maintain their boundaries
within the larger Christian family, in which there were no fixed scriptures, no
fixed beliefs, and no fixed practices. Other things, however, seem to have set
them apart and driven them to conclusions that tested and transgressed even
those flexible conventions. Marcion’s blunt rejection of the creator god and
his views on the meaning and ownership of the Jewish bible are hard to match
among Christians. His views on Jewish messianism are not found elsewhere
in Christian writings of this period, as far as I know. His excisions from the
Pauline letters and his obsession with the corrupt influence of the judaizers
are peculiar to him. All of these seem to point in the same direction and to
something that is central to this thought—a desire to make a clear distinction
35 They are Marc. 4.3.1–5, 5.1–3, 5.12.7, discussing Gal 1:6–9, 2:4; 1 Cor 11:13–14. Harnack,
Marcion, 26–27 insists that they are two different groups. Also von Campenhausen,
Formation, 154. Hoffmann thinks the distinction is false (Marcion, 135–39).
36 The so-called Marcionite prologues to Paul’s letters do not clarify things and may not
even be Marcionite in origin. See Nils A. Dahl, “The Origin of the Earliest Prologues to the
Pauline Letters,” Semeia 12 (1987–88): 233–77.
between Judaism and Christianity. While other Christians emphasize the

novelty of the Christian message and loosen their ties with Judaism,37 only
Marcion pushes beyond this to a radical separation. This, it seems to me, is a
real case of boundary making, incidentally with reference to other Christian
groups, but more importantly with reference to another religious community
altogether, the Jews. And if this is so, our final task is to consider briefly what
drove Marcion and his followers in this direction.
5 The Context of Marcion’s Ideas
It is natural to turn first to consider the influence of place—where Marcion

lived and what he may have been exposed to. The evidence for Marcion’s
life comes from two quite different lines of tradition: Tertullian, who
knows only about his activities in Rome, and implies that he was a mem-
ber of the congregation there for some time before establishing his own
church; and Pseudo-Tertullian/Epiphanius/Philastrius who provide mostly
scurrilous and unreliable details of his life in Pontus—that he was expelled
from the church in Sinope by his father, the bishop, for seducing a virgin.38 The
Asia Minor tradition gives us little to go on and all we can conclude is that
Marcion came from Pontus, perhaps from Sinope on the Black Sea, and that he
was in the shipping business.39
37 For example, Ignatius (Magn. 8–9) and Diogn. 7–9.

38 Harnack is inclined to accept the tradition (Marcion, 16–17). Jürgen Regul divides the bio-
graphical traditions into two strands and largely rejects those referring to Asia Minor (Die
antimarcionistische Evangelienprologe [Freiburg: Herder, 1969]). He is followed by Aland
(“Marcion,”) and Moll (“Three Against”).
39 Hoffmann’s view (Marcion, 31–74) that Marcion worked mainly if not exclusively in Asia
Minor is eccentric, though he is followed by Tyson (Marcion, 29–31). A connection with
Aquila, a convert to Christianity and then back to Judaism and the author of a version of
the LXX, is unproven. Harnack’s late view that Marcion was from a family of converted
Jews is sheer fancy (Neue Studien zu Marcion [Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1923], 15–16). Pliny the
Younger’s account (Ep. 10.96–7) of Christian trials in Bithynia sheds little light on Marcion,
except perhaps to explain why he left! Stephen Mitchell’s account of pagan religions in
northern Asia Minor, with their strict moral code, emphasis on the gods of vengeance and
justice (shades of Marcion’s demiurge), and distinction between the highest god (Zeus)
and a divine angel (which he likens to the neo-Platonist Numenius’s views) is tantalizing
(Anatolia: Land, Men, and Gods in Asia Minor, 2 vols. [Oxford: Clarendon, 1993], 36–37,
45). Such notions could have influenced Marcion, but in the end cannot persuasively be
preferred to the biblical and Christian sources that most animate him. All of this is not to
212 Wilson
Most of what we otherwise know is connected with Marcion’s time in Rome,

dated approximately 140–165 CE.40 Tertullian states, based on a copy he had
of Marcion’s own letter, that on arrival he allied himself with other Christians
there, perhaps even first learned from them the Christian message (Marc.
1.1.6, 4.4.3–4).41 Irenaeus claimed that Marcion learned basic elements of his
thought in Rome from the Syrian gnostic, Cerdo (Haer. 1.27.1, 3.4.3), but it seems
that Irenaeus simply offloaded all he knew about Marcion onto Cerdo (in turn
a follower of Simon Magus), in part to place him in his favored successio hae-
reticorum.42 Marcion’s time in Rome coincided in part with that of Valentinus
(ca. 130–155 CE) and Justin (ca. 140–160 CE).43 All three were immigrants and
active in the Christian community at the same time. Yet they had little in com-
mon. Justin saw Marcion as a dangerous deviant, and their views couldn’t
have been further apart (1 Apol. 1.26.8).44 There is little to connect Valentinus
and Marcion, especially if Valentinus was not a Valentinian and his followers
went well beyond their founder and produced a “controlled mutation” of his
say that Marcion was not influenced by his years in Asia Minor, only that we know noth-
ing useful about them.
40 Aland has a good summary of the evidence (“Marcion,” 90–91).
41 When Tertullian says that Marcion used to accept the catholic version of Luke “when in
the first warmth of faith (in primo cadore fidei) he presented a generous financial gift . . .”
it could imply that he first became a Christian in Rome, though see the discussion by
Lüdemann, Heretics, 295–96 n. 513.
42 Hoffmann, Marcion, 41–42, 158–59; May, “Marcion,” 135–36; most recently and fully David
W. Deakle, “A Re-examination of the Patristic Evidence for Marcion’s Mentor,” in May and
Greschat, Marcion, 177–90. References to Cerdo are always a mere prelude to mentioning
Marcion and their views are always identical, suggesting a lack of any independent tradi-
tion about Cerdo.
43 Justin was, of course, martyred there. Valentinus probably left for Cyprus around 166 CE.
(Epiphanius, Pan. 31), maybe because of a plague. We know little of Marcion’s move-
ments, though the tradition that he tried to rejoin the catholic church at the end of his
life (thwarted by his death) smacks of legend (Tertullian, Praescr. 30.3).
44 Justin’s lost Syntagma against All Heresies (1 Apol. 1.26.8) was thought by some to be aimed
primarily at Marcion (Irenaeus, Haer. 4.6.2). On Justin’s allusions to Marcion see Moll,
who notes that Justin may have known more than he records—partly because some
things may have appealed to his pagan readers (Marcion’s denial of resurrection, or his
ascetic lifestyle) and partly because Marcion’s views were uncomfortably close to his own
(the supersession of the law). Sebastian Moll, “Justin and the Pontic Wolf,” in Justin Martyr
and His Worlds, ed. Sara Parvis and Paul Foster (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2007), 145–51,
here 150–51.
thought.45 None of this gets us far, though the importance of the Roman con-
text is something to which we will later return.
Another approach is to draw on Marcion’s professional and personal experi-
ences to explain aspects of his thought. Some think his life as a mariner is a
clue: he transferred the unpredictable moods and violent storms of the seas
onto the nature of the god who controlled them; or he projected onto the
demiurge the bellicose, inconstant character of imperial rule experienced by
ship owners/captains pressed into compulsory military service and subjected
to the emperor’s unpredictable demands.46 Such arguments are interesting
but too vague to be of much use. Moreover, most of those who suffered the
uncertainties of the seas—Jewish, Christian or pagan—did not commonly
abandon their gods but turned to them for protection. And since imperial rule
was often arbitrary and unpredictable, for mariners and for many others, it is
not clear why these particular expressions of it were so influential.
Harnack took quite another tack: Marcion had a revelatory experience that
left him overwhelmed by a sense of the unprecedented goodness and grace
of the alien god which became the basis of all his subsequent thought. The
chief testimony to this is the ecstatic exclamation that, Harnack thought,
opened Marcion’s Antitheses: “O wonder beyond wonders, rapture, power and
amazement is it, that one can say nothing at all about the gospel, nor even
conceive of it, nor compare it with anything.” Here Marcion felt in the gospel
the whole force and power of the Numinous, to use Otto’s expression, a mys-
terium et fascinosum.47 As often, there is a lot of Harnack in this, but in the
end it explains little. Religious experience, as many have noted, is a problem-
atic notion and has no independent standing as an explanatory tool. It does
not occur in a vacuum, but happens to those locked into a particular cultural
45 This is Christoph Markschies’s intriguing argument, based on a comparison of the few
authentic traditions attributed to Valentinus (mostly in Clement of Alexandria) and the
later Valentinian systems. He sees Valentinus as a forerunner of Clement of Alexandria
rather than the later gnostics (Valentinus Gnosticus? Untersuchingen zur valentinischen
Gnosis mit einem Kommentar zu den Fragmenten Valentins [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck,
1992]).
46 For the first see Gerhard May, “Der ‘Schiffsreeder’ Markion,” StPatr 21, ed. E. A. Livingstone
(Leuven: Peeters, 1989), 142–53; for the second see Lampe, Rome, 248.
47 Harnack, Marcion, 59, 66, 151 n. 3. Note that the attribution and wording of the excla-
mation and its location at the head of the Antitheses are based on one obscure Syriac
source and, thereafter, largely on Harnack’s say so. Aland also stresses the importance of
Marcion’s need to express his sense of the incomparable, undeserved love of the alien god
(“Versuch,” 445–47).
214 Wilson
t radition and social matrix. It does not in itself explain anything; rather, it is
the thing that needs to be explained.
Clearly one of the keys to understanding Marcion is his relationship to Paul.
Paul himself, of course, often used extreme arguments and intemperate lan-
guage to make his case, especially when he sensed that his understanding of
the gospel was under threat from his opponents. It drove him to make sharp
contrasts—between law and gospel, for example, or between true and false
apostles—that lent themselves to Marcion’s way of viewing things. When
Marcion was developing his ideas, the sharp edges of Pauline teaching had
largely been ignored (Barnabas, Didache, Justin), misunderstood (2 Pet 3:16,
James 2), blunted (Polycarp’s Philippians, Acts) or eclipsed (Rev 2–3). It may
be that Marcion misunderstood Paul, but he is still in some respects closer to
the real Paul than many who favored him, let alone those who casually ignored
or actively opposed him.48 But if Paul was largely ignored or misunderstood,
how did Marcion come to a different understanding? Did he just pick up his
copy of Paul’s letters and start reading? Something else was presumably in play,
something that predisposed him to read Paul (and Jesus) in a particular way,
and what this was is precisely what we are trying to uncover.
Part of the answer, some think, is that Marcion had a distinctly literal turn
of mind that was deaf to the nuances of texts and hostile towards allegorical
modes of interpretation. Harnack states that Marcion was “a conscious and
decisive opponent of allegorical interpretation,” and that this is announced in
the opening of the Antitheses.49 It has even been claimed that Marcion’s rejec-
tion of the allegorical mode was his most original contribution to Christian
exegesis.50 There are many problems with this. First, the evidence is taken
from much later sources (Origen is the most explicit), or doesn’t appear to
exist at all, e.g., for the Antitheses.51 Second, as Harnack himself notes, there is
clear evidence that Marcion did use allegorical modes of interpretation, most
importantly in his well-documented use of the parables of good and bad trees
and old and new wineskins to argue for the separation of religious traditions,
48 John W. Marshall, “Misunderstanding the New Paul: Marcion’s Transformation of the
Sonderzeit Paul,” JECS 20, no. 1 (2012): 1–29, makes the fascinating argument that Paul
believed in distinct salvific paths for Jews and Gentiles and that Marcion preserved this
tradition, if in attenuated form.
49 Harnack, Marcion, 46, 152 n. 26.
50 Barton, “Marcion Revisited,” 351. His argument that Marcion was in other respects more
conservative than innovative is, I think, strained.
51 May, “Marcion,” 147.
gods and scriptures.52 Apparently he also retained the Hagar/Sarah passage in

Gal 4, which Paul specifically calls an allegory (Marc. 5.4.8). It seems that later
writers, themselves steeped in the allegorical approach to texts, characterized
Marcion as an opponent of it, but wrongly—or at least exaggeratedly—so.
Moreover, some of the important ideas Marcion found in the scriptures—such
as the stern, vengeful god of the Jews—did not hinge on allegorical versus
non-allegorical readings. And when there is evidence of Marcion rejecting, say,
some of Paul’s allegorical readings, it often seems that it is the content and
conclusions, not the method as such, that he rejects. Why he does so remains
the question to be answered.53
Marcion’s exposure to the intellectual currents of his day has often been
presented as the key to the formation of his ideas. While Harnack famously
rejected any philosophic (or gnostic) influence on Marcion, the trend has
rightly gone against him. Gager long ago argued that Marcion’s concern with
issues of theodicy—the goodness, prescience and power of god—is akin to
that of Epicurus and Sextus Empiricus.54 The connection may be slight, but
it cannot be dismissed entirely even if Marcion’s solutions are not those of
the Epicureans.55 May has suggested the influence of Platonism, and he and
others note an intriguing parallel with Numenius’s distinction between a first
god/father and a demiurge/lawgiver (though Marcion’s demiurge has some-
what different characteristics).56 Others think Marcion accepted the common
philosophic notion that the high god was essentially good and either could not
reconcile this with the anthropomorphic traits of the biblical god, or could
not accept that the same good god could deal with humans in two contradic-
tory forms of salvation, through law and through faith.57 His dualism was thus
52 Harnack, rather awkwardly, admits this (Marcion, 150 n. 22).

53 Harnack refers to Marc. 3.5 as evidence of Marcion’s rejection of allegorizing (Marcion,
150 n. 22). Tertullian is trying to forestall further debate on hermeneutical methods—
prophetic prediction and figurative speech—because it deflects attention from more sub-
stantial issues. This implies clearly that Tertullian and the Marcionites disagree, but not
so much on methods as on the conclusions they generate.
54 John G. Gager, “Marcion and Philosophy,” VC 26 (1972): 53–59.
55 Enrico Norelli thinks that Marcion engaged with some of the profound philosophical
issues of the day but came up with profoundly unphilosophical conclusions (“Marcion:
ein christlicher Philosoph oder ein Christ gegen die Philosophie?” in May and Greschat,
Marcion, 113–30, here 128–29). Lampe thinks Marcion knew only textbook summaries of
philosophical issues, but that would not preclude their influence on him (Rome, 252–56).
56 May, “Marcion,” 144–46.
57 For the first see May, “Marcion,” 145; for the second see Aland, “Marcion,” 94.
216 Wilson
driven by conceptions of deity that he could neither abandon nor reconcile

with the biblical record.
Whether Marcion was influenced by ‘Gnosticism’ turns largely on matters of
definition, some of which we can bypass by asking if there is evidence of a con-
nection between Marcion and other “biblical demiurgical traditions?”58 Many
such texts do make a distinction between the highest god and the creation and
management of the cosmos, but most of them are later than Marcion. His con-
temporaries Basilides and Valentinus did not define the creator or his world as
evil and the more developed mythologies of their followers usually preserve an
original link between the highest god and human beings. Cerinthus probably
taught that the world was created by an inferior power (Irenaeus, Haer. 1.26.1),
a role which Saturninus assigned to angels created by the highest god (Irenaeus,
Haer. 1.24.1–2; Hippolytus, Ref. 7.16). While it is difficult to pin down direct influ-
ence of gnostic demiurgic thought on Marcion, it is hard to imagine, unless he
was a religious and intellectual recluse, that he was unaware of the currents of
exploratory Christian thinking going on around him.59
Contemporary philosophical and ‘gnostic’ speculation is an important part
of the context of Marcion’s thought. Some of the directions he followed were
not unfamiliar. We don’t know how broadly educated he was, but it didn’t take
much to be aware of summary versions of philosophical systems or the gist
of gnostic demiurgic thought which, if we think of Neoplatonism at least, are
themselves not worlds apart. Yet these alone don’t capture the distinctive twist
of Marcion’s ideas on the nature of the two gods, the role of the Jews and their
scriptures and, above all, the separation between Christians and Jews.
We can make more headway, I would argue, by taking account of the politi-
cal events and social context in which Marcion’s ideas were forged. I once
suggested this in a general way but I now think it can be more securely tied
58 Adopting Williams’s useful definition (Michael Allen Williams, Rethinking “Gnosticism”:
An Argument for Dismantling a Dubious Category [Princeton: Princeton, 1996], 51–53).
Williams uses Marcion as one of his four main examples of ‘gnostic’ variety, whereas
Pearson purposely ignores him (Birger A. Pearson, Ancient Gnosticism: Traditions and
Literature [Minneapolis: Fortress, 2007], 20). On Basilides and Valentinus see Markschies,
Valentinus, 75–94. On Cerinthus and Saturninus see Pearson, Gnosticism, 34–39.
59 None of the parallels with Gnosticism noted by Aland, “Versuch,” 423 can certainly be
attributed to Marcion’s time. Markschies suggests that Marcion and his followers may
have influenced the gnostics rather than the other way round (Christoph Markschies, “Die
valentinianische Gnosis und Marcion: einige neue Perspektiven,” in May and Greschat,
Marcion, 159–76, here 173–74).
to Marcion’s experience in Rome.60 What first comes to mind is the diaspora

revolts under Trajan (115–117 CE) and the Bar Kokhba rebellion (132–135 CE) in
Judea. Both were messianically inspired, fierce and bloody, and a catastrophic
failure for the Jews. Nationalist aspirations and messianic hopes were dashed.
After the Judean revolt the losses, both military and collateral, were massive,
Jewish practice outlawed, and the Jews banished from Jerusalem. Jerusalem
was renamed (Aelia Capitolina) as a Roman colonia, a temple to Jupiter built
on the ruins of the Jewish temple and, in a final act of paganization, Judea itself
renamed.61 These were not good times for the Jews or anyone associated with
them.62 It is important to note, too, that these events were well known in Rome
and far from being considered a minor ruckus in a distant part of the empire.
It is reported (Dio 69.14.13) that Hadrian, who may have been actively involved
in Judea during the rebellion, reported the result to the Senate without the
usual greeting “I and the legions are well,” thus indicating severe Roman losses.
His subsequent actions, including extraordinary honors awarded to the Roman
military leaders and the unusual decision to rename Judea, indicate that the
rebellion was considered a highly significant event in Rome.63
The failure of god to intervene on behalf of his people raised serious
doubts about his omniscience, omnipotence and providential care. If we are
to believe some later rabbinic sources it led at least one famous rabbi, Elisha
60 Wilson, Related Strangers, 218–20. Others have suggested a connection between the rebel-
lions and Marcion’s thought, often only in passing. See Robert M. Grant, Gnosticism and
Early Christianity (New York: Columbia, 1966), 122; William R. Farmer, The Formation of
the New Testament Canon (New York: Paulist, 1983), 61. David L. Balas makes more of it
(“Marcion Revisited,” in Texts and Testaments: Critical Essays on the Bible and the Early
Church Fathers, ed. Waller E. March [San Antonio: Trinity University Press, 1980], 95–108,
here 99).
61 Martin Goodman (“Trajan and the Origins of Roman Hostility to the Jews,” Past and
Present 182 (2004): 3–29, here 27–29) thinks the diaspora revolts had a hugely negative
effect on the Roman view of the Jews and provoked Hadrian to attempt to settle the
Jewish question once and for all in Judea. Establishing a colony, he argues, was “explicitly
intended for the settlement of foreign races and foreign religious rites,” and was, uniquely,
designed “not to flatter but to suppress the natives.”
62 The sequence of events is much discussed. In particular it is not clear whether the cir-
cumcision ban and the transformation of Jerusalem into a pagan colony coincided with,
or were the result of the rebellion. For our purposes this makes little difference.
63 Werner Eck, “The Bar Kokhba Revolt: The Roman Point of View,” JRS 89 (1999): 76–89.
See further his “Hadrian’s Hard-Won Victory: Romans Suffer Severe Losses in Jewish War,”
BAR 33 (2007): 42–51. The significance of the reference in Dio is often noted.
218 Wilson
ben Abuyah, to abandon his affiliation with Judaism and its god.64 If some
Jews could react in this way, then why not some Christians too, especially if
some Christians were put to death for failing to support the Bar Kokhba rebels
(Justin 1 Apol. 31.6; Apocalypse of Peter 2:8–13)? Important, too, was the take-
over of the Jerusalem church by a line of Gentile bishops who entered the
city as part of the trappings of Roman victory and which, according to Simon,
“marked the failure of Jewish Christianity. . . . And [it] underlined the funda-
mental incompatibility of Christianity and Judaism.”65
Lampe thinks these events were far too remote to have had much effect on
Marcion’s thinking.66 But much points in the other direction. Marcion was a
traveller and thus able to pick up all kinds of information, and he arrived in
Rome soon after the Bar Kokhba revolt. And if these events could provoke his
contemporary Justin to reflect on the relation between Jews and Christians,
why not Marcion too? For Justin the failure of the rebellions was conclusive
evidence that Christians had superseded the Jews as God’s people. Their dis-
obedience and denial of Christ were confirmed in their humiliation by the
Romans. But that was not the only way to read events. Another was to cut
the ties altogether with a bellicose people and their fickle, belligerent god.
By ‘social context’ I am alluding to something even closer to home—internal
Christian tensions. In a telling exchange Justin, reacting to the practices of
Jewish Christians (I use this contested term as a convenience) and judaizers,
alludes to the following groups: Jewish Christians who live by the law but mix
with Gentile Christians who do not; Jewish Christians who live by the law and
insist that Gentiles do the same; Gentile Christian judaizers who live by the
law; and Gentile Christian judaizers who eventually renounce their faith in
Christ and defect to the Jewish community (Dial. 46–47). For Justin the strict
Jewish Christians and the Gentile defectors are beyond the pale. But he allows
that the more relaxed Jewish Christians and Gentile judaizers will be saved—a
judgment which, he implies, was not shared by others. These ‘others’ are an
64 Stephen G. Wilson, Leaving the Fold: Apostates and Defectors in Antiquity (Minneapolis:
Fortress, 2006), 44–48. The defectors in 2 Baruch 41:3, 42:4 could reflect these events too,
depending on its date.
65 Marcel Simon, Verus Israel: A Study of the Relations between Christians and Jews in the
Roman Empire (135–425) (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986), 67. Simon may be dra-
matizing and foreshortening a more gradual process, like Eusebius before him (Hist. eccl.
4.5), as argued by Oded Irshai, “From Oblivion to Fame: The History of the Palestinian
Church (135–303 CE),” in Christians and Christianity in the Holy Land: From the Origins to
the Latin Kingdoms, ed. Ora Limor and Guy G. Strousma (Turnhout: Brepols, 2006), 91–139,
here 96–102.
66 Lampe, Rome, 248–49.
important group, i.e. Christians who took a hard line on judaizing, rejected
Jewish Christians without exception, and drew a firm distinction between
the two communities. They were Christians for whom there was no room for
Jewish practice or belief, a conclusion that Marcion came to as well, perhaps
partly for the same reasons.
It seems unlikely that Justin was describing a dead issue, part of a dialogue
that dealt only in hypothetical possibilities or a mere replay of things that went
on in the early church. The allusion to a division of opinion between Justin
and his contemporaries suggests something that he knew about firsthand in
Rome—precisely where Marcion was at the same time.67 For both of them,
judaizing wasn’t just an issue for Paul and his followers in the distant past, but
something staring them in the face.68
Marcion was not alone, but almost certainly part of a larger group of puz-
zled enquirers and disaffected believers. They experienced a sort of situational
incongruity. On the one hand there was the internal problem of Christian Jews,
Gentile judaizers and defectors who blurred the boundaries of Christian defi-
nition in both ideological and practical ways.69 External events also raised seri-
ous questions about association with a rebellious and humiliated people and
about the character of their god. On the other hand, in many Christian circles
the links with Judaism, its scriptures and its god seemed so central as to be
irrevocable. All of this, in the most pointed way, raised the question of Chris-
tianity’s relationship with Judaism, of how it conceived of and defined itself.
One way of dealing with such incongruities was Justin’s supersessionist
claim that the failed rebellions merely confirmed that ‘the covenant that was
once yours is now ours.’ Another was Marcion’s decision to sever the ties alto-
gether. The one is a sort of takeover, the other a decision to take an entirely
different path. A step in this direction had already been made by Gentile
67 There is also of course evidence of Gentile judaizing in Asia Minor (Rev 2:9–10, 3:9;
Ignatius, Phld. 6:1, Magn. 8:1, 10:3). See Wilson, Related Strangers, 162–66.
68 Some think that Jewish Christians were originally dominant in Rome, but by the mid-
second century they appear to have been only one group among others. Harnack even
thought Marcion was attracted to Rome because Christians there had severed ties with
Judaism by separating their festivals from the Jewish Sabbath and Passover, but these
shifts come later and are associated more with Asia Minor. See Harnack, Marcion, 148 n. 9;
and Wilson, Related Strangers, 230–40.
69 That judaizing could provoke a sense of alarm and a call for clarification can be seen
in Ignatius (Magn. 10:3) and the Epistle of Barnabas (4:6–8, 13:1–5; 14:1–4), whose author
came to a view reminiscent of Marcion in its radical and decisive nature though quite dif-
ferent in its conclusion—that the covenant has always been ours (Christians) and never
yours (Jews).
220 Wilson
Christians known to Justin who condemned all forms of Jewish Christianity.

They abandoned the Jewish people. Marcion goes one step further and aban-
dons their god and their scriptures. There is no way to prove that these were
the catalysts that led Marcion and his followers to read Paul and Jesus in such
a distinctive way, to reconfigure the entire history of the early church and its
traditions, and to define a clear boundary between Christianity and Judaism.
They do, however, provide a political and social context that enriches our
speculations.70
70 Since this paper was competed some important studies of Marcion have appeared. I
note in particular Jason D. BeDuhn, The First New Testament: Marcion’s Scriptural Canon
(Salem, OR: Polebridge, 2013); Markus Vinzent, Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic
Gospels (Leuven: Peeters, 2014); Judith M. Lieu, Marcion and the Making of a Heretic: God
and Scripture in the Second Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015); Dieter
Roth, The Text of Marcion’s Gospel (Leiden: Brill, 2015); Matthias Klinghardt, Das älteste
Evangelium und die Entstehung der kanonischen Evangelien (Tübingen: Francke, 2015).
CHAPTER 9
The Interpreter as Intertext: Origen’s First Homily

on the Canticle of Canticles
Celia Deutsch
1 Introduction
Much of Alan Segal’s enormously productive work probed the relationship

between Judaism and Christianity in the early centuries of the Common Era.
It seems fitting to turn to Origen, an early Christian giant, who founded his
school in Caesarea at the same time that a rabbinical school was emerging
there, and both Christians and Jews were in debate with ‘pagan’ philosophers
and ‘heretics’ (Marcionites, various groups of Gnostics and Valentinians).
As did his Jewish counterparts, Origen commented on the Song of Songs.1 At
some point during the lectionary cycle for the years 239–242 CE, in Caesarea,
he preached a series of homilies on that text.2 Then, in 245 while in Athens,
Origen wrote the first five books of his Commentary on the Canticle of Canticles,
completing the remaining five when he returned to Caesarea later that year.3
1 I use Song of Songs or Songs to refer to the biblical text, and Canticle of Canticles or Canticle
to designate the homilies or commentaries on that text.
2 Pierre Nautin, Origène: sa vie et son oeuvre, Christianisme antique 1 (Paris: Beauchesne, 1977),
411; John Anthony McGuckin, “Caesarea Maritima as Origen Knew It,” in Origeniana Quinta:
Papers of the 5th International Origen Congress Boston College, 14–18 August, 1989, ed. Robert J.
Daly (Leuven: University Press and Uitgeverij Peeters, 1992), 17–18. Hom.Cant. 2.7 indicates
the presence of catechumens, people being prepared for baptism: Origen, Homélies sur le
Cantique des Cantiques, ed. and trans. Olivier Rousseau, SC 37 bis (Paris: Cerf, 1966), 128. The
three-year cycle corresponded to the three-year duration of the catechumenate (Trad. Apost.
17). Catechumens were excluded from the Eucharist, which was held Sunday, Wednesday and
Friday. The setting for these homilies thus was the service held on other days, consisting of a
reading from the Hebrew Bible, followed by a homily. Cf. Nautin, Origène, 391–401.
3 Nautin, Origène, 381; Elizabeth Ann Dively Lauro, The Soul and Spirit of Scripture within
Origen’s Exegesis, The Bible in Ancient Christianity 3 (Boston: Brill, 2005), 10. Cf. Eusebius,
Hist. eccl. 6.32.1–2. The Commentary was directed to a different audience, the more advanced
Christians, “perfect souls”; cf. Karen Jo Torjesen, Hermeneutical Procedure and Theological
Method in Origen’s Exegesis, PTS 28 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1986), 60. Two sources indicate that
Origen wrote a now-lost commentary as a young man; cf. Jerome, Epistle 33 and Philocalia 7.1;
cf. J. Christopher King, Origen on the Song of Songs as the Spirit of Scripture: The Bridegroom’s

222 Deutsch
Both Homilies and Commentary survive only partially, the first four books of
the Commentary in Rufinus’s translation and in Greek fragments, and two
Homilies in Jerome’s translation.4 Even in fragmentary state, the extant mate-
rial suggests the question of boundaries and boundary-crossing evoked in Alan
Segal’s work and in the title of this volume.
Both Homilies and Commentary represent the development of the meta-
phorical use of the Song of Songs. Nuptial imagery had been used to represent
the relationship between God and Israel as far back as the eighth century BCE
prophet Hosea.5 Early Jewish sources indicate that the Canticle was inter-
preted as representing the relationship between God and Israel by the middle
of the second century CE.6 A few of those materials suggest possible early use
of the Song for more specific reference to the interpretation of Torah.7 Other
texts suggest use of Canticles in the context of martyrdom.8 Still others refer to
mystical speculation.9
One discovers literary evidence for use of nuptial imagery to represent
God or Christ and the Church as early as the first and early second centuries.10
Morevoer, the epitaph of Avircius indicates that as early as 180 CE, Christians
Perfect Marriage-Song, Oxford Theological Monographs (Oxford: Oxford University Press,

2005), 6–7.
4 Clark notes that, while ancient translators worked by different standards than our own,
the translations of Jerome and Rufinus “preserve the substance of Origen’s exegesis;”
Elizabeth Clark, “Origen the Jews and the Song of Songs: Allegory and Polemic in Christian
Antiquity,” in Perspectives on the Song of Songs/Perspektiven der Hoheliedauslegung (ed.
Anselm C. Hagedorn; BZAW 346; Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2005), 279.
5 E.g., Hos 2:1–20; 3:1–5; Jer 3:6–10, 20; Ezek 16:1–63; Isa 62:1–5. For earlier precedents, see
Brian McNeil, “Avircius and the Song of Songs,” VC 31(1977): 23–34; J. Christopher King,
Origen on the Song of Songs as the Spirit of Scripture: the Bridegroom’s Perfect Marriage
Song, Oxford Theological Monographs (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press,
2005), 1–5.
6 E.g., 4 Ezra 5: 23–30; cf. McNeil, “Avircius,” 30; m. Taʿan. 4:8; ’Abot R. Nat 20, 33; Mek.
Ba-hodesh 3:102; Mek. Shirata 3:49–54; Mek. Pisha 13:147; Sifre Deut 35, 305, 355; cf.
Ephraim E. Urbach, “The Homiletical Interpretations of the Sages and the Expositions
of Origen on Canticles, and the Jewish-Christian Disputation,” in Studies in Aggadah
and Folk Literature, ed. Joseph Heinemann and Dov Noy, vol. 22, (Jerusalem: Magnes,
1971), 247–75; see also Gershom G. Scholem, Jewish Gnosticism, Merkabah Mysticism and
Talmudic Tradition (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1965), 36–42.
7 Cf. y. Ber. 1.7.3b; ARNa 2, 17.
8 E.g., Mek. Shirata: 49–53; Sifre Deut 343; cf. Urbach, “Homiletical Interpretations,” 250–51.
9 E.g., t. Ḥag. 2:4; b. Ḥag. 13a.
10 E.g., Matt 22: 1–14; 25: 1–13; Eph 5:25–27; Rev 21:1–17; Ign. Pol. 5:1; Acts of the Martyrs of
Lyons (Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 5.1.48); Herm. Vis. 4,2,1; Justin, Dial. 134; cf. McNeil, “Avircius,”
27–29.
The Interpreter as Intertext 223
were using the Song as an allegory for the relationship between Christ and
the Church.11 And Hippolytus, Origen’s third century contemporary, wrote a
Commentary on the Song of Songs, using the Song as an allegory for the rela-
tionship between God or Christ and the Church.12 Origen develops the tradi-
tion further. In his Commentary and Homilies, he is the first to interpret the
figure of the Bride in the Song as representing the individual soul as well as
the Church.13
In the first Homily on the Canticle of Cantles, Origen uses his own experience
as an intertext with the biblical text, and invites his hearers/readers to enter
that process. That is, at various places, where the Bride speaks in the first per-
son singular, Origen writes himself into the text of the Song of Songs, appro-
priating the Bride’s voice as his own and making autobiographical statements
about his experience of the presence and absence, approach and withdrawal
of Christ the Bridegroom.14 Origen thus uses personal experience as a narra-
tive to illuminate the biblical text, but that usage also shows ways in which the
text illuminates Origen’s experience. Examining three autobiographical pas-
sages in the first Homily in relationship to the Commentary as well as to his
other work, shows that Origen is speaking about the presence and absence
of Christ specifically in reference to his task as interpreter of the biblical text.
Our examination of these three texts will allow us to understand better how
Origen understood the Song of Songs, as well as his experience as interpreter.
It will also suggest that Origen used the Song to urge his hearers to more
intense encounter with the Logos/Word in ways that served in the task of iden-
tity construction in relationship to other groups (Jews, pagan philosophers,
Valentinians, Marcionites, etc.).
Origen frequently uses the first person singular in his homilies, and makes
autobiographical statements of varying length.15 However, I am focusing on
his first Homily on the Song of Songs because the Homilies and Commentary
11 McNeil, “Avircius,” 31; W. M. Calder, “The Epitaph of Avircius Marcellus,” JRS 29 (1939): 1–4.
12 For the reproduction and translation of the Georgian and Greek texts of Hippolytus’s
commentary, see Yancy Smith, “Hippolytus’ ‘Commentary on the Song of Songs’ in Social
and Critical Context” (PhD diss., Texas Christian University, 2009), 242–374.
13 For earlier precedents, see McNeil, “Avircius,” 23–34; King, Origen on the Song of Songs,
1–5. On Origen’s contribution to the use of the bridal imagery to signify the relation
between Christ and the individual Christian, see Patricia Ciner, Plotino y Orígenes: el amor
y la unión mística (San Juan, Argentina: Ediciones del Instituto de Filosofía – Universidad
Católica de Cuyo, 2001), 110.
14 Henri Crouzel, Origène et la “connaissance mystique,” Museum lessianum section
théologique 56 (Paris: Desclée de Brouwer, 1960), 529.
15 Cf. Daniel Sheerin, “The Role of Prayer in Origen’s Homilies,” in Origen of Alexandria; His
World and His Legacy, ed. Charles Kannengiesser and William L. Petersen; Christianity
224 Deutsch
on the Canticle of Canticles are contemporaneous with work being done in the
Caesarean Jewish community. Moreover, the autobiographical passages in the
first Homily are lengthier and more evocative than autobiographical passages
elsewhere in Origen’s work, and are of interest because they are directly related
to the text being interpreted. They can thus tell us with particular clarity some-
thing of the way in which Origen understood his task as exegete. In so doing,
they tell the hearers/readers something about their own task in confronting
the Word/text in third-century Caesarea.
Ancient reading was performative. That is, an audience was implied, if not
actual.16 Reading was usually done aloud, even on those occasions when the
reader was alone.17 Origen’s homilies were general public instructions on the
biblical texts, given in Caesarea to a congregation that included both bap-
tized and catechumens. Jews, ‘heretics’ and ‘pagans’ curious about the teach-
ing in the Christian gathering may also have been present, though they would
have been excluded—along with the catechumens—from the Eucharist. So,
the Song of Songs would have been read aloud and interpreted for a mixed
congregation, most of whom would have been illiterate.18 In this sense it
was performed. Something happened and—in the nature of performance—
something was changed.19
Reading the Song of Songs was performative in a particular way. Later in this
article, we will see that Origen highlights the nature of the Song as a wedding
and Judaism in Antiquity 1 (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1988),
201–214.
16 On the presence of an audience for performance, cf. Richard Schechner, Performance
Theory (New York: Routledge, 1988), 30. On the collective or communal quality of per-
formance, see Lawrence E. Sullivan, “Sound and Senses: Toward a Hermeneutics of
Performance,” HR 26 (1986), 5.
17 Cf. Paul Saenger, Space Between Words; the Origins of Silent Reading (Stanford, Calif.:
Stanford University Press, 1997), 1, 6–17; Alberto Manguel, A History of Reading (New York:
Penguin Books, 1996), 41–53; William V. Harris, Ancient Literacy (Cambridge, Mass. and
London, England: Harvard University Press,1989), 36, 225–229.
18 High rates of illiteracy for the ancient world, including Roman Palestine, would sug-
gest that the great majority of those listening to Origen would have been illiterate. See
Meir Bar-Ilan, “Illiteracy in the Land of Israel in the First Centuries c.e.,” in Essays in the
Social Scientific Study of Judaism and Jewish Society, vol. II ed. Simcha Fishbane, Stuart
Schoenfeld, Alain Goldschläger (Hoboken, N.J.: KTAV, 1992), 46–59; William V. Harris,
Ancient Literacy (Cambridge, Mass. and London, England: Harvard University Press,
1989), 175–284.
19 See Frances Young, “Sexuality and Devotion: Mystical Readings of the Song of Songs,”
Theology and Sexuality 14 (2001): 81; “Exegesis is meta-discourse, enabling the text to
shape and re-shape readers in reading communities.”
song, an epithalamium and a drama. He tells his hearers that they are to join the
‘cast’ of the drama and take part in the action that will unfold. Remembering
the performative nature of ancient reading and of this particular text will
help us to understand more clearly Origen’s autobiographical passages in the
first Homily.
In the course of our reading, we will see Origen deploy understandings of
gender common to the late antique Mediterranean world, in which the woman
is typified as passive recipient in sexual relations. We will also see him engage
in an exercise in gender bending in which, determined by the text he is inter-
preting, Origen takes on the woman’s role, and invites his hearers—including
male hearers—to do the same.
I will analyze each of the three relevant passages in the order in which they
appear in the first Homily. I will look to other of Origen’s works, including the
Commentary on the Canticle of Canticles, when that is helpful in elucidating the
first Homily. Lastly, I will turn with greater attention to the context in Caesarea,
to make suggestions about what was at stake for Origen, and how his autobio-
graphical statements may have functioned in his broader project. Our reading
will be informed by insights from speech-act and performance theory, as well
as contemporary theory on autobiography as a genre.
2 Origen Sings the Song: The Interpreter as Bride
The first Homily includes three passages pertinent for our work. In the first text
Origen comments on Cant 1:2 (“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth”):
It is advantageous for us to keep the precept of Solomon, and even more,

of the one who, through Solomon, spoke in this fashion about Wisdom,
saying: “love her, and she will serve you; surround her, and she will exalt
you; honor her, that she might embrace you” (Prov 4:8).20 There is a spiri-
tual embrace, so to speak, and oh that he [Christ, the Bridegroom] might
touch and enfold my Bride in a tighter embrace, that I also might be able
20 The translation of the citation from Proverbs is that found in Jerome’s translation of the
Homily. The LXX has έράσθητι αύτη̃ς καì τηρήσει σε. περιχαράκωσον αυτήν, καì υψώσει. τίμησον
αυτήν ινα σε περιλάβη (“love her, and she will guard you; honor her that she might embrace
you.”). The clause “love her, and she will keep thee safe” does not appear in the MT in
Prov 4:8, but rather in 4:6b.
226 Deutsch
to say what is written in this book: “his left hand is under my head and his
right hand will embrace me.” (Cant 2:6; Origen, Hom. Cant. I.2)21
The dominant referent of the metaphor of the Bride in the first homily is the
Church, which is present throughout in Origen’s use of the first person plu-
ral. But here Origen’s voice breaks through the more general comment, and
he expresses his own desire for intimacy with Christ the Bridegroom. He is
commenting on Cant 1:2a—“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth.”
Origen has just remarked on the ‘secret’ (secretus) hidden beneath the literal
meaning of the text (Hom.I.2), which is the ‘spiritual love’ (amor spiritalis)
between Bridegroom and Bride. Having described the Bridegroom’s ‘spiritual
embrace,’ (spiritalis amplexum), Origen then he bids his congregation to live
with detachment from money and property in order to acquire ‘spiritual love’
(amorem capere spiritalem). In our passage, Origen articulates his own desire
for the Bridegroom’s ‘spiritual embrace’ and thus the personal appropriation
of the text of the Song.
The secretus alludes to Origen’s understanding of the three ‘senses’ of the
sacred text. These are variously called ‘literal’ or ‘somatic,’ ‘psychic’ or ‘moral,’
and the third is the ‘mystical’ or ‘spiritual’ sense. The psychic and spiritual
senses are the ‘hidden’ meanings, the ‘allegorical’ meanings, the secretus which
are to be perceived through study and contemplative or ‘inspective’ knowledge,
as we shall see later in our remarks about allegory.22 In Origen’s Homilies and
Commentary on the Song, the second sense (‘psychic,’ ‘moral’) usually refers
to the Church, and the third (‘mystical,’ ‘spiritual’) to the individual soul in its
relationship with Christ.23
In relation to this vocabulary in the context of Origen’s first Homily on the
Song, it is helpful to keep in mind that the terms are fluid for the latter two
senses.24 Furthermore, Origen does not use the word ‘mystical’ as it occurs
21 The English translation here is my own; the Latin text is that found in Origen, Homélies
sur le Cantique, 76. Elsewhere I have used Lawson’s translation (hereafter “Lawson”)
unless otherwise indicated: Origen, The Song of Songs: Commentary and Homilies, trans.
R. P. Lawson, ACW 26 (New York: Paulist, 1957).
22 See Prin. IV. Ii.4–6; cf. Henri Crouzel, Origen, trans. A. S. Worrall (Edinburgh: T. and
T. Clark, 1989), 79–80; Lauro, Soul and Spirit of Scripture, 2; David Dawson, “Plato’s Soul
and the Body of the Text in Philo and Origen,” in Interpretation and Allegory: Antiquity to
the Modern Period, ed. Jon Whitman (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2000), 102–103.
23 Cf. Tamari Kadari, “Rabbinic and Christian Models of Interaction in the Song of Songs,”
in Interaction between Judaism and Christianity in History, Religion, Art and Literature,
ed. Marcel Poorthuis, Joshua Schwartz, and Joseph Turner, Jewish Perspectives Series 17
(Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2009), 70.
24 Cf. Crouzel, Origen, 79–80.
in post-Enlightenment literature, to designate particular forms of religious

experience. Rather, in his work on the Song it refers to the hidden meaning of
the text.25
The spiritual embrace (spiritalis amplexus) of our text is a correlative of that
spiritual love, the love that is “a particular mode of erōs that directs him or
her toward spiritual reality.”26 Origen moves from spiritual love to the spiritual
embrace by joining the text of Proverbs 4:6b and 4:8 with Cant 2:6. He has
introduced the subject of spiritual love, justified it with the command “love
her and she will serve you . . . honor her that she might embrace you,” and then
looked ahead to Cant 2:6, anticipating the moment when he might experience
the Bridegroom’s embrace.
Origen assumes, of course, that the Song of Songs, with Proverbs and
Ecclesiastes, are all the work of Solomon.27 And he assumes that an interpreter
can use one document of the Bible to interpret another, on the basis of a catch-
word. He also believes that the text is present; that is, it has a continued life in
the community which has received and continues to receive it. So he can speak
as the Bride. And so, he implies, can the members of his congregation speak.
Origen expresses his desire for the Bridegroom’s embrace. In this passage he
does not say a great deal about what that means, and no homily survives which
gives a lengthier comment. But he does have more to say in the Commentary.
There he tells us that the left hand represents the Church’s faith in the
Incarnation. The Bride’s desire for the embrace of the Bridegroom’s right hand
signifies “that she may know and be instructed in those matters which were
locked up in mysteries and secrets before the time of this dispensation . . .”
(III.9.9; Lawson, 202).28 In other words, access to the meaning of the events is
25 As will become evident, however, understanding of the hidden meaning of the text is
often related, in Origen’s work, with the kind of intense experience that modern readers
might term “mystical.” On the range of Origen’s use of the word “mystery” (μυστήριον)
and its cognates, see Stamenka Antonova “Mysteries,” in The Westminster Handbook to
Origen (ed. John Anthony McGuckin; Louisville and London: Westminster, 2004), 152–154.
On the use of “mystics,” “mysticism” and the like as a modern development, describing a
literature and experiences defined by certain “rules,” see Michel de Certeau, The Mystic
Fable; Vol. 1, The Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, trans. Michael B. Smith (Chicago
and London: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 16, 75–78.
26 David Dawson, “Allegorical Reading and the Embodiment of the Soul in Origen,” in
Christian Origins; Theology, Rhetoric and Community, ed. Lewis Ayres and Gareth Jones
(London and New York: Routledge, 1998), 27.
27 Comm. Cant., prologue 3.1–16 (SC 375, 129–139; Lawson, 39–44).
28 Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique des Cantiques, ed. and trans. Luc Brésard et al.,
2 vols., SC 375–76 (Paris: Cerf, 1991–92), 2:586; id est illa agnoscere et de illis instrui quae ante
huius quoque per carnem gestae dispensationis tempus in arcanis habentur et reconditis.
228 Deutsch
embodied in the biblical text. The Bridegroom’s embrace is correlative with the
process of allegorical interpretation.
Why would Origen have chosen this moment in his homily to display his
own inner experience, longing, desire? Origen is in the process of interpreting
the text for his community, and nothing could seem further from the intel-
lectual labor of that task than the erotic tone of his comment. Origen’s inter-
pretation is actually driven by the text itself, which he calls an epithalamium, a
wedding song, as we noted in our opening remarks.29 He has arrived at a point
in the text where the Bride is speaking in the first person singular. Origen’s
words indicate that he experiences the hermeneutical task as a matter of inti-
macy with the divine. In the Commentary, he interprets the “kisses” to signify
interpretations of the Word. He says that
As long as she was incapable of receiving the solid and unadulterated

doctrine of the Word of God Himself, of necessity she received ‘kisses,’
that is, interpretations, from the mouth of teachers. But, when she has
begun to discern for herself what was obscure, to unravel what was tan-
gled, to unfold what was involved, to interpret parables and riddles and
the sayings of the wise along the lines of her own expert thinking, then
let her believe that she has now received the kisses of the Spouse Himself,
that is, the Word of God. (I.1.11; Lawson, 61)30
Intimacy with the divine, then, allows the interpreter to discern the hidden
meaning of the text. The interpretive process is thus a matter of illumination,
of visitation, as well as of the intellectual labor usually associated with the her-
meneutical task.
Origen, a male, identifies himself with the Bride in the Song. Origen is able
to make this move, first of all, because he understands the Song of Songs to
be a drama as well as a wedding song (Hom. Cant. I.1; Lawson, 268).31 In the
Commentary he says:
29 Hom. Cant. I.1 (SC 37bis, p. 70); Comm. Cant. I.1 (SC 375, p. 176).
30 Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique, 1:184.
31 Cf. Lorenzo Perrone, “ ‘The Bride at the Crossroads’: Origen’s Dramatic Interpretation of
the Song of Songs,” ETL 82 (2006): 81–85. Origen tells us in the first Homily that from the
Song of Songs “the heathen appropriated the epithalamium” (#1; Lawson, 268). In the pro-
logue to the Commentary on the Song of Songs Origen calls the book an “epithalamium”
(prologue; Lawson, 21). Marguerite Harl notes Origen’s use of drama as an interpretative
tool in relation to his work on Psalms, the prophets, the Canticle and to Paul’s letter to the
Romans; see “Origène et la sémantique du langage biblique,” VC 26 (1972): 183.
For we call a thing a drama, such as the enaction of a story on the stage,
when different characters are introduced and the whole structure of
the narrative consists in their comings and goings among themselves.
And this work contains these things one by one in their own order, and
also the whole body of it consists of mystical utterances. (Comm. Cant.
Prologue 1.3; Lawson, 22)32
As with any drama, there are the dramatis personae, the characters of the
text—Bride, Bridegroom, young women and Bridegroom’s companions. And
there are the “actors”—the members of the congregation, gathered in hearing
the text and celebrating the mysteries.33 Origen invites them:
Listen to the Song of Songs and make haste to understand it and to join
with the Bride in saying what she says, so that you may hear also what she
heard. And, if you are unable to join the Bride in her words, then, so that
you may hear the things that are said to her, make haste at least to join
the Bridegroom’s companions. And if they also are beyond you, then be
with the maidens who stay in the Bride’s retinue and share her pleasures
(Hom. Cant. I.1; Lawson, 268).34
Origen uses the first person singular to signify himself as an actor in the drama,
a singer in the epithalamium that is the Song of Songs. He can do so because
he is focused on the roles in that drama, rather than literal understandings of
gender.
Origen understands the reading/hearing of the text as performative; that is,
it falls within that category of discourse that is itself “the performance of an
action”35 or a “speech-act.” As King says: “The supreme speech-act discerned

33 Cf. Hom. Exod. XIII.3, where Origen speaks to the congregation as “those who are accus-
tomed to attend the divine mysteries” (qui divinis mysteriis interesse consuestis); cited in
Daniel J. Sheerin, ed., The Eucharist, Message of the Fathers of the Church 7 (Wilmington,
DE: Glazier, 1986), 178.
34 Origen, Homélies sur le Cantique, 70; cited by Richard Layton, “Hearing Love’s Language:
The Letter of the Text in Origen’s Commentary on the Song of Songs,” in Reception and
Interpretation of the Bible in Late Antiquity: Proceedings of the Montréal Colloquium in
Honour of Charles Kannengiesser, 11–13 October, 2006, ed. Lorenzo DiTommaso and Lucian
Turcescu, Bible in Ancient Christianity 6 (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 297.
35 J. L. Austin, How to Do Things with Words, 2nd ed., ed. O. Urmson and Marina Sbisà
(Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1962), 6–7.
230 Deutsch
by Origen in the Song is the unique ‘mystical utterance’ of the Bridegroom

himself, singing the ‘whole body’ of the Song to his Bride.”36 Because the
Song is a drama, there is an “interchange” of characters. Origen assumes that
Solomon’s Song is dialogical in its very nature.37 The hearers, in hearing both
text and interpretation, enter the text, and perform it. And the text enters them;
in joining the Song, hearers/performers/singers actualize and embody it. And
so Origen says, “set your course for greater heights, so that as a fair soul with
her Spouse you may sing this Song of Songs too” (Hom. Cant. I.1; Lawson, 267).38
The nature of the text as drama, and Origen’s interpretation of it, create an
“analogy between the reader’s own progress toward spiritual perfection and
the dramatic situation of the lovers.”39 In the reading of the text, then, some-
thing happens in and among those participating in the performance. Origen’s
understanding of the performative nature of the Song of Songs is evident as he
metaphorically steps to the front of the stage and addresses his congregation
in the most personal of terms.
The gender categories are ambivalent in our passage. Origen has moved
from the topic of “spiritual love” to a citation from the book of Proverbs about
Lady Wisdom: “Love her, and she will keep thee safe; enfold her, and she will
exalt thee; render her honor, that she may embrace thee” (Prov 4:8).40 Here,
Origen casts the congregation—and himself—in the male role. The connec-
tion is established by the term ‘love’ which unites the earlier discussion with
the text from Proverbs. In identifying the congregation with the male, Origen
simply follows the tradition which is already present in Proverbs and then con-
tinues through Sirach, Wisdom of Solomon, certain Qumran traditions and
other materials, in which the male sage is the lover of Lady Wisdom.41
But Origen shifts immediately. He identifies himself as the Bride, consis-
tent with his usage throughout his work on Canticles, where the Bride signi-
fies either the Church or the individual soul. In our text, then, Origen, a male,
tells us that the Bride, the female character, represents his experience.42 This is
36 King, Origen on the Song of Songs, 268.

37 Layton, “Hearing Love’s Language,” 309.
38 Origen, Homélies sur le Cantique, 68.
39 Layton, “Hearing Love’s Language,” 291.
40 With Lawson, 270; Origen, Homélies sur le Cantique, 76.
41 E.g., Sir 6:18–31; 14:20–27; 51:13–30; Wis 6–9; Philo, passim, esp. Fug. 109, and QG 4.66;
4 Q 185 1–2 ii.
42 Eusebius reports that Origen had had himself secretly castrated in order to protect his
reputation as an instructor of both men and women; Hist. eccl. VI.8. Commenting on
Matt 19:12, however, Origen himself mocks literal interpretation of the text. On the apolo-
getic function of the tradition of Origen’s castration, see John A. McGuckin, “The Life
as astonishing as his public expression of personal religious experience. How

can he make this interpretive move?
The transgression of gender boundaries in early Christian and early Jewish
literature is not, however, as extraordinary as would first appear. We have only
to remember Perpetua who becomes, in her dream, a male gladiator doing
battle with Satan.43 And Philo, that first century Alexandrine to whom Origen
owed so much, occasionally portrayed Wisdom as a male impregnating the
sophos, cast in the role of female.44 It would seem, however, that some in
ancient audiences found the transgressive use of gendered metaphors as star-
tling as moderns. Philo addresses the apparent confusion of sexual roles:
Let us, then, pay no heed to the discrepancy in the gender of the words,
and say that the daughter of God, even Wisdom, is not masculine, but
father, sowing and begetting in souls aptness to learn, discipline, knowl-
edge, sound sense, good and laudable actions. (Fug. 52)
Philo assumes, with the medical thinking of the ancient world, that women
play a passive role in sexual relationships.45 Rufinus, the translator of the
Commentary, displays a similar perspective. He breaks into the translation of
Cant 2:6 (“His left hand is under my head, and His right hand shall embrace
me”) with a long comment:
. . . Just as in this place you will not think that Wisdom is a woman because
she appears under a feminine name, so also you must not understand the
left and right hands of the Word of God in a corporeal sense, simply He
is called the Bridegroom, which is an epithet of male significance. Nor
must you take the Bride’s embraces in that way, simply because the word
‘Bride’ is of feminine gender. Rather, although the ‘Word’ of God is of the
masculine gender in Greek, and neuter with ourselves, yet all these mat-
ters with which this passage deals must be thought of in a manner that
of Origen,” in The Westminster Handbook to Origen, ed. John A. McGuckin, Westminster

Handbooks to Christian Theology 10 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2004), 6–7.
43 Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis 18. Cf. Anders Klostergard Petersen, “Gender-Bending in
Early Christian Martyrdom,” in Contextualizing Early Christian Martyrdom, ed. Jakob
Engberg, Uffe Homsgaard and Anders Klostergard Petersen, Early Christianity in the
Context of Antiquity 8 (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 2011), 225–256.
44 Congr. 9; Fug. 52; cf. Celia M. Deutsch, Lady Wisdom, Jesus, and the Sages: Metaphor and
Social Context in Matthew’s Gospel (Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International, 1996), 13.
45 E.g., Soranus, Gynecology I.x.36–38; cf. Richard A. Horsley, “Spiritual Marriage with
Sophia,” VC 33 (1979): 34–37; R. A. Baer Jr., Philo’s Use of the Categories of Male and Female
(Leiden: Brill, 1970), 62–63.
232 Deutsch
transcends masculine and neuter and feminine, and everything what-

ever to which these words refer. And this applies not only to the ‘Word’ of
God, but also to His Church and to the perfect soul, who likewise is here
called ‘the Bride.’ For thus says the Apostle: ‘For in Christ there is nei-
ther male nor female, but we are all one in Him.’ (Comm. Cant. III.9.2–4;
Lawson, 200–01)46
Philo thinks of Wisdom as male in so far as she sows the seed and begets the
qualities of the sage, and the sage is female insofar as he receives that seed.47
Rufinus appears simply to want to get beyond the question of gender raised by
Origen’s text; he gives no explanation.
Origen’s understanding of the Church as the Bride is very much in keeping
with his predecessors, both the Jewish sources who understood Israel as God’s
Lover, Bride and Wife, and early Christian materials who used erotic female
imagery to represent the Church in its relationship with God and with Christ.
The transgression of gender boundaries does not appear to have been prob-
lematic for Origen. Rather, he focuses on what he understands to be the func-
tion of the metaphors of Bride and Bridegroom in the context of late antique
understandings of gender and sexuality. It is Origen’s understanding of the
Bride as the individual ‘soul’ (anima), whether male or female, that is so strik-
ing and innovative in the context of Christian hermeneutical traditions.
3 The Text as Mediation of the Logos
Origen identifies himself as the Bride specifically in relation to his interpretive

task. For Origen, Christ is the Word, present in the sacred text, and there is an
analogy to the Incarnation in the residing of the mind of Christ (νοῦς Χριστοῦ)
in the text (Prin. IV.2.3; SC 268, p. 306).48 Scripture and the Logos—understood
as the ‘unity of the intelligibles’49—constitute a single Word incarnated in
the text in a way that is similar to the Incarnation of the Logos in the flesh
46 Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique, 2:582, 584.

47 To my knowledge, the only occasion in which Philo speaks of women as sages is in the
case of the Therapeutrides; Contempl. 2, 32, 69, 72.
48 Cf. Prin. 4.1.1–7 (SC 378, pp. 256–292); 4. 2.3–4 (SC 268, pp. 304–316); 4.2. 7 (SC 368, pp. 326–
330); cf. King, Origen on the Song of Songs, 49–51; Daniel Shin, “Some Light from Origen:
Scripture as Sacrament,” Worship 73 (1999), 405.
49 Karen Jo Torjesen, Hermeneutical Procedure, 83.
of Jesus.50 Scripture, with its many λόγοι or meanings, thus mediates the pres-
ence of the Λόγος.51 Origen, entering with his hearers into the Song, encounters
the Logos embodied there. Logos as discourse, text, and inspired meaning is
the vehicle for union with the divine Logos encountered in that text and in the
interpretive task.52 Religious experience is thus linguistic.53 It is intimacy with
the Word that dwells not only in the scriptural text, but in the ἡγεμονικόν, that
part of the soul that is the governing principle over the five senses as well as
the powers of reproduction and speech.54 Religious experience has to do with
understanding the meaning of the text-Word,55 and that intimacy is in rela-
tion to the ‘mysteries,’ the hidden meanings, the spiritual meanings of the
literal text.56
4 Hom. Cant I.3 Passivity and the Bride’s Loveliness
Ancient understandings of gender and sexual roles would suggest that Origen
uses the image of the Bride to evoke the passive quality of mystical experience.57
That is, Origen believes that this kind of experience is given to, or happens to
the person. While the person can prepare for this, as we will see at a later point,
she or he cannot earn it or create it. This, however, is not to deny a certain reci-
procity in the relationship. And so, in our second passage, Origen says:
50 Cf. Henri Crouzel, Origen, 70; Daniel Boyarin, “Philo, Origen and the Rabbis on Divine
Speech and Interpretation,” in The World of Early Egyptian Christianity: Language,
Literature and Social Context; Essays in Honor of David W. Johnson, ed. James E. Goehring
and Janet A. Timbie (Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University of American Press, 2007),
117–123.
51 Cf. Shin, “Some Light from Origen,” 411–412.
52 Cf. Marguerite Harl, “Origène et la sémantique du langage biblique,” VC 26 (1972), 174.
53 Cf. Patricia Cox Miller, “ ‘Pleasure of the Text, Text of Pleasure’; Eros and Language in
Origen’s Commentary on the Song of Songs,” JAAR 54 (1986), 243.
54 Cf. P. Aloisius Lieske, Die theologie der Logosmystik bei Origenes (Münster: Aschendorff,
1938), 150. On the ᾑγεμονικόν see A. A. Long, Hellenistic Philosophy; Stoics, Epicureans,
Sceptics, 2nd ed. (Berkeley CA: University of California Press, 1986), 170–175.
55 Cf. Torjesen, Hermeneutical Procedure, 85–96.
56 Lieske, op. cit., 25–26.
57 Cf. Joan B. Burton, “Themes of Female Desire and Self-Assertion in the Song of
Songs and Hellenistic Poetry,” in Perspectives on the Song of Songs/Perspektiven der
Hoheliedauslegung, ed. Anselm C. Hagedorn, BZAW 346 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2005), 189.
Burton notes that earlier representations indicate passivity as the more traditional qual-
ity in female eroticism; but during the Ptolemaic era, there is some indication of “[height-
ened] attention to the possibility of symmetry between male and female desire” (189).
234 Deutsch
And if he considers it fitting to come to my soul made His Bride, how

beautiful then must she be that she draws Him from heaven to herself, to
make Him descend to earth so that He might come to the Beloved? With
what beauty must she be adorned, with what love must she glow, that he
might speak to her, those things which he has spoken to the perfect Bride,
because of “your neck,” “your eyes,” “your cheeks,” “your hands,” “your belly
[womb],” your shoulders, your feet? If God is willing, we will discuss these
things, how the members of the Bride are varied, and a special praise is
spoken for the diverse parts, that we might labor after the d iscussion to
have our soul spoken to in a similar fashion. (Hom. Cant. I.3)58
The Bride in the Song, the reader/hearer’s own soul, draws the Bridegroom,
attracts him because of her/his beauty. In other words, there is something
about her that attracts the Bridegroom in such a way that he descends to earth.
Origen’s words suggest that he understands God as Word to take pleasure in
him as Bride, to find him attractive, enticing, compelling. Origen certainly
reinscribes late antique understandings of female sexuality. That which is
attractive—physical beauty—can only be enhanced by its possessor, it cannot
be manufactured. However, Origen’s comments contain a kind of paradox, for
in describing the Bride’s attractiveness to the Bridegroom, Origen suggests an
understanding of at least a kind of autonomy. The Bride is a being apart from
the Bridegroom.59
5 Hom.Cant. I. 7 The Bridegroom Withdraws
The dynamic of Origen’s Song manifests absence as well as intimacy.

He tells us of his experience in our third passage:
Then she sees the Bridegroom, who leaves as soon as she has seen him.
And he frequently does this throughout the song which one is unable to
understand unless one has experienced it. Often, God is witness, I have
seen the Bridegroom approach me and be with me so intensely; and then
he suddenly withdraws, and I have been unable to find the one I sought.
58 My translation; Origen, Homélies sur le Cantique, 78.

59 That intimation of autonomy may find its social location in the shifting of gender roles
that had begun as early as the Ptolemaic era, when social mobility resulted in women’s
being left alone while husbands were absent and thereby gaining more autonomy in
some instances. Cf. Burton, Perspectives, 181–83.
Therefore I desire his coming once again, and sometimes he comes; and
when he has appeared to me, and I have seized him with my hands, he
has slipped away again, and, when he has gone, I seek again. He does this
often, until I hold him truly and go up “leaning on my nephew.” (Hom.
Cant. I.7)60
Origen comments on the “disappearance” of the Bridegroom. In the text of the

Song of Songs, this occurs, not after 1:6, but after 1:17. The Bridegroom’s disap-
pearance is a dominant motif in the Song, resulting in the Bride’s nocturnal
search (Cant 5:2–6:3). The Homiliae in Canticum I.7 itself indicates that Origen
is interpreting 1:6 by the “disappearance” which occurs after 1:17, as well as the
later scene in chapter 5 where the Bridegroom comes to the woman’s home,
and calls, inviting her to let him into the house. She opens the door only to find
that he has disappeared, which results in her search, and then the denouement
of the drama in the final chapters of the Song.
Origen notes the way in which the motif of appearance and disappearance
dominates the Song of Songs.61 He interprets the text in terms of his own expe-
rience of Christ the Word. We know from his earlier comments, that Origen’s
relationship to Christ includes moments of seeing, touching, embracing. But
that relationship also includes the experience of Christ’s withdrawal and dis-
appearance, and Origen’s concomitant suffering—Jerome’s translation has
patiatur—and frustration. “Often” (saepe, crebro), Origen says and speaks to
us of his renewed search. It is so painful, so vivid, that Origen punctuates his
words with the oath “God is witness” (Deus testis est).62
60 My translation; SC 37bis, pp. Origen, Homélies sur le Cantique, 94, 96. Jerome uses fratru-
elus to translate ἀδελφιδός (LXX) in Hom. Cant. II.3. Similarly, Rufinus uses fraternus in
his translation of the Commentary. See Comm. Cant. II.10.3 (Origen, Commentaire sur le
Cantique, 1:SC 475, p. 447); II.10.11 (Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique, 1:SC 375, p. 450).
In II.10, Origen explains the significance of the title ‘nephew’ for the Bridegroom. The
Hebrew is ‫דודי‬. The Vulgate has dilectus. See the complementary note “Le Bien Aime,” in
Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique, 2:774–76.
61 David Carr says, “in the end the Song is more about desire than consummation.” This
could be said, as well, of Origen’s interpretation. See David M. Carr, The Erotic Word;
Sexuality, Spirituality, and the Bible (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 116.
62 Cf. King, Origen on the Song of Songs, 16. Origen also discusses the Bridegroom’s with-
drawal and absence in Comm. Cant. III.13. There, however, he speaks in the third per-
son, without the intense autobiographical note. Ciner interprets “Saepe, Dios testis est”
to refer to the relation existing between God the Father, the Son and the soul, seemingly
unaware of the fact that it is an oath; cf. Plotino y Orígenes, 196.
236 Deutsch
In Comm. Cant. III.13, Origen speaks of the Bridegroom’s presence and

absence. Commenting on Cant 2:9b–13b, Origen tells us that the
Bride of the Word, the soul who abides in His royal house—that is, in the
Church—is taught by the Word of God who is her Bridegroom, whatso-
ever things are stored and hidden within the royal court and in the King’s
chamber. (Comm. Cant. III.13; Lawson, 231)63
In this passage, the content of the teaching is the Law and the Prophets, and
when the Bride is “adequately trained in that she receives unto herself the
Word Himself, who was God with God in the beginning” (Lawson, 232). Τhis
corresponds to the “inspective” (inspectiva) study “by which we go beyond
things seen and contemplate somewhat of things divine and heavenly,
beholding them with the mind alone, for they are beyond the range of bodily
sight” (Comm. Cant. Prologue 3.3; Lawson, 40).64 This “inspective science”
(inspectivum), or contemplative knowledge, is the subject of the Song of Songs
(Comm. Cant. Prologue 3.7; Lawson, 41).65
The Bridegroom/Word visits the Bride; he does not remain with her. In this
way she is led to greater longing for Him (Comm. Cant. III.13; Lawson, 232).66
The ebb and flow of the Bridegroom’s presence and absence, arrival and
withdrawal thus serve an erotic function. The pain of withdrawal heightens
the Bride’s longing and engages her more fully in the quest for the Word. But
the text of Comm. Cant. III.13 suggests something else. For Origen also tells us
that “for human nature” it is not possible that the Bridegroom remain con-
tinually with the Bride. That permanent state of awareness will be possible in
the next life.67 It is then, at the final consummation, when God will be “all in
all”68 that “everything which the rational mind . . . can feel or understand or
think will be all God and that the mind will no longer be conscious of anything
besides or other than God” (Princ. III.6.3; Butterworth, 248).69
63 Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique, 2:660, 662. The latter has this passage as III.14.
64 Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique, 1:130, Inspectiva dicitur, qua supergressi visibilia de
divinis aliquid et caelestibus contemplamur, eaque mente sola intuemur, quoniam corpo-
reum supergrediuntur adspectum.
66 Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique, 2:662 at III.14.10.
67 Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique, 2:159–60. Cf. Cels. III:56 (Chadwick, 166); Origen,
Contre Celse. Livres III–IV, ed. and trans. Marcel Borret, SC 136 (Paris: Cerf, 1968), 130.
68 1 Cor 15:28.
69 Origen, Traité des Principes III et IV, 1:240.
We have seen that the referent of the imagery of erotic pleasure is under-
standing the text, with its hidden meanings. The interpreter/Bride meets
the Bridegroom/Logos enfleshed there.70 Beginning in 3:1, however, the
Bridegroom’s withdrawal dominates the text of the Song of Songs (Cant 3:1–4;
5:2–8; 6:1–3, 11–12). The pain of his absence leads the Bride to roam the city’s
streets late at night and unaccompanied (3:1–4; 5:2–8). Origen does not tell us
directly the referent of the Bridegroom’s withdrawal and absence. But surely,
it refers to his hermeneutical work.71 It is the concomitant of Origen’s inability
at times to penetrate the text, to understand it, and to draw forth its hidden
meanings.
Origen’s inability to understand the mysteries of the text suggest that lan-
guage and text—logos—are the site of struggle. The text is opaque and its
meaning obscure because of the ambiguity, even absurdity, of language and
the lack of continuity or coherence in the discourse.72 One is thus faced with a
Word whose contradictions render it incomprehensible, silent. The obscurity
of the text is analogous to the unknowability of God who “hides Himself as if in
darkness from those who cannot bear the radiance of the knowledge and who
cannot see Him, partly because of the defilement that is bound to a human
‘body of humiliation’, partly because of its restricted capacity to comprehend
God” (Cels. VI.17).73 Origen continues his comments in the Contra Celsum by
saying that
Although a derived knowledge is possessed by those whose minds

are illuminated by the divine Logos himself (δἐ το̃ις ἐλλαμπóμενοις τὸ
ἡγεμóνικον ὑπ᾽ ἀυτου̃ του̃ λóγου̃ καὶ θεου̃), absolute understanding and
knowledge of the Father is possessed by himself alone in accordance
with his merits . . .
70 Cf. Layton, “Hearing Love’s Language,” 314.

71 Cf. Patricia Cox Miller, “Poetic Words, Abysmal Words: Reflections on Origen’s
Hermeneutics,” in Origen of Alexandria; His World and His Legacy, 174–75. Marguerite
Harl believes that the “I” of this passage refers to the Bridegroom of the text rather than
to Origen himself (Marguerite Harl, “Le langage de l’expérience religieuse chez les pères
grecs,” in Mystique et Rhétorique, ed. F. Bogliani, Rivista di Storia e Letteratura Religiosa
13 [Florence: 1977], 24–25). I do not believe, however, that reference to the textual
Bridegroom excludes a self-referential statement.
72 Cf. Harl, “Origène et la sémantique,” 173–81; Miller, “Poetic Words,” 172–73.
73 Origen, Contre Celse. Livres V–VI, ed. and trans. Marcel Borret, SC 147 (Paris: Cerf, 1969),
220; cited in Miller, “Poetic Words, 173.
238 Deutsch
Paradoxically, Origen completes his statement:
By participation in him who took away from the Father what is called
darkness, which he made “his hiding place,” and what is called his cover-
ing, “the great deep”, thus revealing the Father, anyone whatever who has
the capacity to know Him [the Father] may do so. (Cels. VI:17; Chadwick,
330–31)74
The obscurity of the text is not simply a matter of the limitations of its human
authors. The biblical text is divinely inspired. Thus, the difficulties, ambigui-
ties, ruptures in the text are there by divine intent. They hide from the unwor-
thy mysteries too deep for the readers’ level of growth and invite the more
advanced to search out the divine realities waiting to be disclosed in the most
seemingly insignificant detail.75 The trained, the purified know how to draw
forth speech from the silence of the Word (Comm. Cant. Prologue 3.16–23;
Lawson, 44–46).76
Just as the Song of Songs is the site of labor rewarded by discovery and
pleasure, union with the Logos/Bridegroom, so too is it the site of anguish at
the inability to find him. And just as the narrative of withdrawal and absence
pairs with that of presence and pleasure, so in the interpretive task. The alter-
nating between presence and absence tells us something about the nature of
the Word—the Logos/text. The Word desires the Bride/reader who similarly
desires the Word.77 And the text, because it is the dwelling place, the embodi-
ment of the divine Logos, is always beyond the interpreter, no matter how pre-
pared or how diligent.78 That experience of incapacity before the text is the
analogue of the Bridegroom’s absence.79
Origen does not have a clearly delineated apophatic theology; rather the
language of illumination appears to dominate his work.80 Some texts, however,
suggest that he has incorporated the ἐπέκεινα τῆς οὐσίας (surpassing quality of
being) of Clement of Alexandria, or even of Philo.81 God is
74 Origen, Contre Celse V–VI, 222.

75 Princ. IV.2.7; 3.5; cf. Harl, “Origène et la sémantique,” 174.
76 Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique, 1:138–42.
77 Cf. Miller, “Pleasure of the Text,” 248.
78 Cf. Crouzel, Origène et la “connaissance mystique,” 137.
79 Crouzel, Origène et la “connaissance mystique,” 140.
80 Cf. Harl, “Le langage de l’expérience religieuse,” 15, note 42.
81 Cf. John Rist, Eros and Psyche: Studies in Plato, Plotinus and Origen, (Phoenix Journal of
the Classical Association of Canada, Supplementary vol. 6 (Toronto: University of Toronto
incomprehensible and immeasurable. For whatever may be the knowl-

edge which he have been able to obtain about God, whether by percep-
tion or by reflection, we must of necessity believe that he is far and away
better than our thoughts about Him. (Princ. I.1.5; Butterworth, 9)82
God is beyond the “vision of the human mind” (Princ. I.1.5; Butterworth, 10).
Aporia, withdrawal, absence dominate, but do not have the final word in this
passage, however. In the context of the first Homily, reading leads to break-
through, which yields to the sense of absence or un-language and then to new
text.83 And so, the experience of incapacity draws the interpreter farther in the
quest, just as the Bridegroom’s withdrawal leads the Bride to seek him in the
streets at night.
6 The Function of Pain and the Wound of Love
The withdrawal and absence of the Bridegroom need to be considered in the

wider context of the ways in which pain manifests itself in the text. The logos/
text/Bridegroom desires the reader and the reader is “inflamed” (Comm. Cant.
Prologue II.46; Lawson, 38).84 But the Logos hides in “parables, dark speech,
and riddles” (Comm. Cant. Prologue 3.11).85 In the text of the Song, the appear-
ance of the Bride, inflamed with desire in her wish for the Bridegroom’s kisses,
suggests from the beginning absence, lack and deprivation, aporia.86 Moreover,
the description of the Bride suggests not wife, but “betrothed,” a status that
is one of incompletion.87 She has not yet gone to live in her beloved’s home,
Press, 1964), 198; see Cels. 6.64 (SC 147, p. 340); 7.38 (SC 150, p. 100); Comm. Jo. 19.6 (SC 290,
p. 48); Prin. I.1.5 (SC 252, pp. 96, 98).
82 Origen, Traité des Principes I et II, 96, 98; quidem deum incomprehensibilem esse atque
inaestimabilem.
83 Huub Welzen, “Intertextuality: Traces of Mysticism,” in One Text, a Thousand Methods:
Studies in Memory of Sjef van Tilborg, ed. Patrick Chatelion Counet and Ulrich Berges,
Biblical Interpretation 71 (Boston and Leiden: Brill Academic Publishers, 2005), 319–324.
84 Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique, 1:122, 124.
85 Cf. Miller, “Pleasure of the Text,” 244–45.
86 Miller, “Pleasure of the Text,” 246. Here, Miller is speaking about the Commentary, but this
consideration is also true of the Homilies.
87 I am grateful to Prof. Nicolae Roddy of Creighton University (Omaha, Nebraska) for this
observation. On practices of betrothal and marriage in antiquity and pre-Constantinian
late antiquity, see Judith Evanas Grubbs, Law and Family in Late Antiquity; the Emperor
Constantine’s Marriage Legislation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 140–156;
240 Deutsch
his mother’s house. Indeed, she would bring him into her mother’s house
(Cant 3:4; 8:2).88
Beyond the context of the first homily, Origen comments on the image of
the wound of love (LXX, τετρωμένη ἀγάπης ἐγώ), present in Cant. 2:5.89 Origen
brings together the Septuagint translation of Isa 49:2 (καὶ ἔθηκεν τὸ στόμα μου
ὡσει μάχαιραν ὀξεῖαν; “he has made my mouth like a sharp sword”) with the LXX
of Cant 2:5, which translates the Hebrew ‫“( כי־חולת אהבה אני‬I am sick with
love” or “I am faint with love”) as “I am wounded with love.”90 Origen knows the
more literal translation of Symmachus, as the Hexapla indicates.91 However, he
chooses, as is his custom, to follow the Septuagint.92 In Isa 49:2, the prophet,
Lynn H. Cohick, Women in the World of the Earliest Christians; Illuminating Ancient Ways
of Life (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker Academic, 2009), 61–64.
88 References to the young woman’s mother also appear at 1:6; 6:9; and 8:5. Joan Burton notes
the “attention paid to mothers both in the Song and in Theocritean poetry,” believing the
similarity to be one of several elements that suggests an origin for the Song in Ptolemaic
Egypt; “Themes of Female Desire,” 191. However, papyrological evidence suggests that
the Bride’s father and Bridegroom agreed on the place of residence for the new couple;
see Sarah B. Pomeroy, Women in Hellenistic Egypt from Alexander to Cleopatra (New York:
Schocken Books, 1984), 86–91. There are, however, at least two other references to the
mother’s house of an unmarried woman (Gen 24:28; Ruth 1:8); see Kenton L. Sparks, “The
Song of Songs: Wisdom for Young Jewish Women,” CBQ 70 (2008): 280.
89 Comm. Cant. Prologue 2.17 (Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique, 1:102, 104); III.8.13
(Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique, 2:574, 576); Hom. Cant. II.8; see also Comm. Jo.
I.228–29 (Origen. Commentaire sur saint Jean, tome I. Livres I–V, ed. and trans. Cécile
Blanc, SC 120 bis (Paris: Cerf, 1966), 170, 172); Cels. VI.9 (Origen, Contre Celse V–VI, 200);
Hom. Ps. XXXVI.3.3 (on Ps 36[37]:14) (Origen. Homélies sur les Psaumes 36 à 38, ed. and
trans. Henri Crouzel et al., SC 411 (Paris: Cerf, 1995), 136–137); Hom. Ps. 37(38):2–3 (Origen.
Homélies sur les Psaumes, 306–11). Use of this image does not occur before Origen. He has
joined the imagery of Cant 2:5 with Isa 49:2 (Comm. Cant. III.8; Hom. Cant. II.8) and with
the Eros depicted in Plato’s Symposium (Comm. Cant. Prologue 2.17); cf. Crouzel, Origen,
123. The LXX translated Cant 2:5 (‫חולת‬, “sick”) with τετρωμένη (wounded); cf. Ciner, Plotino
y Orígenes, 182.
90 Cf. Henri Crouzel, “Origines patristiques d’un theme mystique: le trait et la blessure
d’amour chez Origène,” in Kyriakon: Festschrift Johannes Quasten, ed. Patrick Granfield
and Josef A. Jungmann, 2 vols. (Münster: Aschendorff, 1970), 1:309. Most of the texts refer-
ring to Cant 2:5, with the exception of Cels. VI.9, use Isa 49:2. Comm. Jo. I.228–29 also cites
Heb 4:12; Matt 10:34 and Gal 5:17.
91 Crouzel, “Origines patristiques,” 309.
92 On Origen’s customary use of the Septuagint, see Comm. Cant. I.3.14; Lawson, 74; Origen,
Commentaire sur le Cantique, 1:216.
whom Origen understands to be the Christ,93 tells his hearers that God has
made his mouth “like a sharp sword” and himself “like a chosen (selected) dart
(arrow).”
In Homiliae in Canticum II.8, Origen comments at length on the “wound of
love” (caritas): “How beautiful, how fitting it is to receive a wound from Love!
(a caritate vulnus accipere).” And later: “How blessed is it to be wounded by
this dart!” (Quam beatum est hoc iaculo vulnerari). God is the archer and the
Son is the “chosen dart, the lovely dart” (iaculo electo, iaculo formoso).94 He is
the arrow hidden in the archer’s quiver. Origen continues, reflecting on how
one is wounded by the dart that is the Son. He cites the two men convers-
ing on the road to Emmaus, joined by the risen and unrecognized Lord who
interprets the Scriptures to them. When he later disappears, they reflect on
his appearance, now recognizing the stranger’s identity: “Was not our heart
burning within us on the way, while He opened to us the Scriptures?” (nonne
cor nostrum ardens erat in via, cum aperiret nobis scripturas?).95 At this point
Origen identifies the agent of the wounding as “our discourse” and the “teach-
ing of the Divine Scripture” (si quis sermon nostro, si quis scripturae divinae
magisterio vulneratur). If, he says, one so identifies that wounding, then she
can say “I have been wounded by love.”
The Song of Songs is a drama and wedding song. Origen’s listeners, the con-
gregation of Caesarea, including its catechumens, as well as Jews, ‘heretics,’
and pagans, are bid to enter that Song with all its intimacy. In this passage in
the glissement of his allegory,96 Origen identifies God as archer. He interprets
the prophet of Second Isaiah as the Son who is dart and arrow. The wound is
Love and the Son, Origen implies, is Love. The means of the wounding is the
sacred text and Origen’s homily interpreting that text. Origen has identified
himself with the prophet of the Isaian text and the Son. His congregation has
access to the Son who is Word, he implies, through his teaching.97
93 Crouzel, “Origines patristiques,” 1:309.

94 Origen, Homélies sur le Cantique, 132.
95 Luke 24:32. My translation.
96 On glissement in reference to the allegorical process in Origen, see Miller, “Poetic Words,”
177.
97 In Hom.Ps. 36:3.3 on Ps. 36(37): 14, Origen cites Cant 2:5 and Isa 49:2 in reference to “all
those through whom Christ has spoken or speaks” (omnes in quibus Christus locutus est
vel loquitur). In Hom.Psalms 37(38): 3.2–3 on Ps. 37[38]: 2–3; (Origen. Homélies sur les
Psaumes, 273–74), Origen uses Isa 49:2 to refer to the process of repentance. The Word of
God is like arrows and someone who speaks a word of the Lord lances arrows; cf. Crouzel,
“Origines patristiques,” 315–18.
242 Deutsch
In Comm. Cant. III.7–8, Origen comments on Cant 2:5 and the wound of
love (caritas). Citing Isa 49:2, he further cites 1 John 4:8:
It beseems God to strike souls with such a wound as this, to pierce them
with such spears and darts, and smite them with such health-bestowing
wounds, that, since God is Charity, they may say of themselves: ‘I have
been wounded by Charity’. (Lawson, 199)98
For Origen, the wound of love includes the wounds of wisdom, strength, good-
ness, mercy.99
In Comm. Cant. III.8.13 it is actually the Logos, the Word of God (hoc amore
Verbi Dei) that wounds and is himself the dart.100 The person who has been so
wounded is the one who lives in constant longing “so that he yearns and longs
for Him by day and night, can speak of nought but Him, would hear of nought
but Him, can think of nothing else, and is disposed to no desire nor longing
nor yet home, except for Him alone” (III.8.13). The “darts of God which inflict
the wound of salvation on the soul” function in opposition to the “fiery darts
of the wicked one.”101 These darts include fornication, greed, avarice, boasting
and vainglory.102
There is another, extra-biblical source for the image of the arrow of love in
Origen’s work on the Song of Songs. In the Prologue of Comm. Cant., Origen
speaks of Greek sages who produced writings in the dialogue form, similar to
that of the dramatic form of the Song of Songs. Seeking to
pursue the search for truth in regard to the nature of love (amoris
Natura), [they] produced a great variety of writings in this dialogue form,
the object of which was to show that the power of love is none other
than that which leads the soul from earth to the lofty heights of heaven,
and that the highest beatitude can only be attained under the stimulus
of love’s desire (conantes ostendere non aliud esse amoris vim nisi quae
98 Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique, 2:574; cf. Plato, Symposium, 197a–b for the associa-
tion of Eros with archery.
99 Comm. Cant. III.8.15 (Lawson, 198–200; Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique, 2:574, 576).
Cf. Héctor Padrón, “Prologo,” in Ciner, Plotino y Orígenes, 23–24. These darts, bearing
health and salvation, are in contrast to those of the demons—fornication, greed, avarice.
100 See also Comm. Jo. I.229 (Heine, 79). In 1:228–29, Origen quotes Isa 49:2 three times.
101 Eph 6:16.
102 The fiery darts of the demons evokes another text, Origen’s Hom. Ps. 36:3.3, where he
counter-poses the arrows of Moses and the prophets, Christ, the apostles, with that of
the Antichrist.
a nimam de terris ad fastigia caeli celsa perduucat). (Comm. Cant. Prologue

2.1; Lawson, 23–24)103
Later, in Comm. Cant. Prologue 2.17, he contrasts the carnal love (carnalis amor)
represented by Erōs with the love of the one
moved by heavenly love and longing (amore autem et cupidine caelesti)

when, having clearly beheld the beauty and the fairness of the Word of
God, it falls deeply in love with His loveliness and receives from the Word
himself a certain dart and wound of love.
Origen expands on the Word’s beauty:
For this Word is the image and splendor of the invisible God, the Firstborn
of all creation, in whom were all things created that are in heaven and earth,
seen and unseen alike.104 If, then, a man can so extend his thinking as to
ponder and consider the beauty and the grace of all the things that have
been created in the Word,105 the very charm of them will so smite Him,
the grandeur of their brightness will so pierce as with a chosen dart—
as says the prophet (Isa 49:2)—that he will suffer from the dart Himself
a saving wound, and will be kindled with the blessed fire of His love
(Comm. Cant. Prologue 2:17; Lawson, 30).106
Origen thus begins his Commentary on the Song of Songs with an initial use of
the image of the wound of love, prompted by the reading of the text of Cant 2:5
in conversation with other biblical intertexts (Isa 49:2; Col 1:15; Gen 1). In the
Prologue to Commentary 2.17, he locates the Word, not only in the biblical text,
but in the Word through whom creation is made. It is the Logos, the Intelligible
World, who is the Christ-Arrow and referent of Isa 49:2.107
103 Cf. Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique, 1:90, 770; see Plato, Symposium 209e–212a.
104 Col 1:15.
105 Cf. Gen 1, where all things are created by God’s Word, God’s speaking.
107 Cf. Crouzel, “Origines patristiques,” 314.
244 Deutsch
7 Spiritual Senses and the Text/Word
One is able to enter the text and see, touch, smell, feel as the Bride because,
Origen says, the scriptures use homonyms, “identical terms for describing dif-
ferent things” (Comm. Cant. Prologue 2.6; Lawson, 26).108 The scriptures, he
continues,
even go so far as to call the members of the outer man by the same names
as the parts and dispositions of the inner man; and not only are the
same terms employed, but the things themselves are compared with one
another.
Elsewhere he says:
For the names of the organs of sense are often applied to the soul, so that
we speak of seeing with the eyes of the heart, that is, of drawing some
intellectual conclusion by means of the faculty of intelligence. So too we
speak of hearing with the ears when we discern the deeper meaning of
some statement (Princ. I.i.9; Butterworth, 14).109
There is, in other words, an analogous relationship between the text of

Scripture and the text of physical human experience. The human body is a way
into the text. And, conversely, “the language of the Song becomes the best way
to read the inner text of the soul.”110
Origen, then, speaks of his comprehension of the text in terms of “senses.”
These are “powers of perception by which the soul both recognizes and
delights in the Logos.”111 These “powers of perception” do not eliminate human
108 Harl, “Origène et la sémantique,” 162–65.

109 Origen, Traité des Principes I et II, 110; cf. also Princ. I.i.7; Cels. I.48;7.34. See other materi-
als cited by Bernard McGinn, The Foundations of Mysticism: Origins to the Fifth Century,
The Presence of God: A History of Western Christian Mysticism 1 (New York: Crossroad,
1991), 377, n. 171. Cf. John Dillon, “Aisthēsis Noētē: A Doctrine of Spiritual Senses in Origen
and in Plotinus,” in Hellenica et Judaica: Homage à Valentin Nikiprowetzky, ed. A. Caquot,
M. Hadas-Lebel, J. Riaud (Leuven: Peeters, 1986), 443–449.
110 McGinn, Foundations, 121.
111 Torjesen, Hermeneutical Procedure, 78; cf. also Rosa Maria Parrinello, “Da Origene a
Simeone il Nuovo teologo: la dottrina dei sensi spirituali,” in Origeniana Octava: Origen
and the Alexandrian Tradition. Papers of the 8th International Origen Congress, Pisa, 27–31
experience, but rather redirect the person’s powers, passions, and capacities.112
The reader sees, touches, embraces, grasps Christ through the text he inter-
prets. But he also experiences the lover’s withdrawal and disappearance. He
knows what it is, in other words, to have the meaning of the text elude him, and
the perception of Christ’s presence slip away. Word, presence and touch are the
inverse of withdrawal, absence and silence.
8 Logos, Silence and Allegory
As Miller says, “Origen’s response to the silence . . . is allegory.”113 Or, one might
say that, it is allegory and, in the face of withdrawal, further allegory. The
“script” is read, interpreted by use of allegory. Jerome’s translation does not use
“allegory” in the first Homily, but seems to prefer “secret” or “spiritual sense of
Scripture” or even “prophetic mystery.”114 However, this does not in any way
minimize the fact that Origen, like Philo and other antecedents, assumed
that each word of the inspired text enveloped a hidden, deeper meaning.
Scripture, he says, “never uses any word haphazard and without a purpose”
(Hom. Cant. I.8; Lawson, 280).115 The unseen is known through the seen, the
invisible through the visible (Comm. Cant. III.12; Lawson, 218). Allegory has to
do with analogy, for there is a “correspondence between all things on earth and
their celestial prototypes . . .” (Comm. Cant. III.12; Lawson, 219).116 A creature of
his rich Mediterranean culture, Origen “draws on Stoic ideas about language
and about the logical and metaphysical connections between items in the cos-
mos in order to describe three things: the sequence of scriptural narrative, the
sequential character of that narrative’s second, allegorical story; and the inti-
mate connection between the two stories.”117
August 2001, ed. L. Perrone, P. Bernardino, D. Marchini, 2 vols., BETL 164 (Leuven: Leuven
University Press, 2003), 2:1123–1130.
112 Cf. Layton, “Hearing Love’s Language,” 307.
113 Miller, “Poetic Words,” 176. See Princ. IV.2.4–9.
114 Secretum, Hom. Cant. I.2 (Lawson, 270; Origen, Homélies sur le Cantique, 74); the adjec-
tive spiritalis (“spiritual”) and the adverb spiritualiter (spiritually), I.2 (Lawson, 270;
Origen, Homélies sur le Cantique, 74); propheticum sacramentum, I.2 (Lawson, 272; Origen,
Homélies sur le Cantique, 80).
115 Origen, Homélies sur le Cantique, 96; McGinn, Foundations, 111.
116 Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique, 2:630 [III.13.10].
117 Dawson, “Allegorical Reading,” 30.
246 Deutsch
The discovery of those hidden mysteries is the goal of an arduous process

that requires that Origen first avail himself of the most reliable text.118 Usually,
he says, he adheres to the “Seventy” or the Septuagint (Comm. Cant. I.3.14;
Lawson, 74).119 He asks the questions of grammar, including those of vocab-
ulary and homonyms, and usually, of the historical reality that provides the
context of the passage before continuing to the question about what the Logos
is teaching in the particular text and how that can be applied to the reader.120
Assuming the unity of the entire biblical text, Origen, of course, uses the inter-
texts of Scripture, interpreting the Bible through the Bible.121 Through this pro-
cess, Origen lays out the three senses of the text—literal or narrative, moral
(psychic), and spiritual (pneumatic).122
A whole curriculum stands behind Origen’s interpretation of the Song
of Songs. He places the Song in the context of the other works attributed to
Solomon, Proverbs and Ecclesiastes. These three texts represent the Greek sub-
jects of ethics, physics, and “enoptics” or philosophy.123 Logic, Origen says is
woven throughout these three subjects (Comm. Cant. Prologue 3.2–3; Lawson,
39–40).124 In book I of the Commentary, Origen says that the soul
will have traversed in order all the sorts of instruction in which she was
exercised and taught before she attained to the knowledge of the Word of
God, whether those teachings be based on ethics or on natural philoso-
phy (Comm.Cant. I.3.12; Lawson, 73).125
118 Cf. Letter to Julius Africanus, especially chapter 9 (Origen, Philocalie I–XX Sur les Ecritures
et la Lettre à Africanus sur l’Histoire de Suzanne, ed. and trans. Nicholas de Lange, SC 302
[Paris: Cerf, 1983], 534). Cf. Anthony Grafton and Megan Williams, Christianity and the
Transformation of the Book: Origen, Eusebius and the Library of Caesarea (Cambridge:
Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2006), 86–132.
120 Cf. Shin, “Some Light from Origen,” 419–20. There is no discussion of historical context in
Origen’s exegesis of the Song of Songs.
121 E.g., Comm. Cant. III.12 (Lawson, 217; Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique, 624–629);
Crouzel, Origène et la ‘connaissance mystique,’ 403; on Origen’s exegetical process, see
Harl, “Origène et la sémantique,” 182–83; Torjesen, Hermeneutical Procedure, 49–69.
122 Cf. Lauro, Soul and Spirit, 2.
123 Cf. King, Origen on the Song of Songs, 165–70.
124 Comm. Cant. Prologue 3.2–3 (Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique, 1:128, 130).
125 Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique, 1:214, quas Graeci ethicam, physicam, epopticem
appellarunt.
Preliminary studies, the ἐγκύκλια, as well as geometry, astronomy, geometry,

music, grammar, rhetoric and the philosophy to which they are accessory,
comprise the classical Greek and later Greco-Roman curriculum, available
only to the elite.126 They prepare the hearer/reader to penetrate the hidden
mysteries of Scripture.127 Availing oneself of the curriculum in service of the
true philosophy, Origen says wryly, is like the despoiling of the Egyptians by the
Israelites as a preparation for the mobile sanctuary in the desert (Ep. Greg. 2).128
The labor involved in exercising the allegorical method does not guarantee
success, however. In Book III of the Commentary, Origen says graphically:
When I consider the difficulties of finding out the meaning of the words
of Scripture that we have here adduced, it seems to me that I am in like
case with a man who pursues quarry by means of the power of scent,
such as a wise dog has. . . . So, when the tracks of the explanation that
we thought to find have in some way failed us, we likewise hope that
after a little search and after pursuing a plainer sort of explanation than
appeared possible before, the Lord our God may deliver the prey into our
hands. . . . (Comm. Cant. III.13; Lawson, 229).
We recall the passage in the first Homily where Origen describes his frequent
experience of the Logos/Bridegroom’s withdrawal and absence.
The interpreter, the reader/hearer prepares the way for the interpretive
task through a course of intellectual training. But s/he cannot control under-
standing. The text is divinely given. It is the “body” of the Logos. Thus, it can
only be understood if understanding is given. And so Origen speaks of praying
that God assist him in correctly interpreting the text.129 For it is a matter of
inspired interpretation, with the inspiration of the biblical author being that
126 Origen, “Lettre d’Origène à Grégoire,” 1 (Origen, Remerciements à Origène et Lettre

d’Origène à Grégoire, ed. and trans. Henri Crouzel, SC 148 [Paris: Cerf, 1969], 187–89);
Gregory Thaumaturgos (Theodore), Panegyrion, chapters 7–13 (Origen, Remerciements,
135–61). Cf. Hayim Lapin, “Jewish and Christian Academies in Roman Palestine: Some
Preliminary Observations,” in Caesarea Maritima: a Retrospective after Two Millenia,
ed. Avner Raban and Kenneth G. Holum (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 502–503.
127 Cf. Rist, Eros and Psyche, 200.
128 Cf. Exod 11:2; 12:35; 25:1–9.
129 Comm. Cant. Prologue 2. 3 (Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique, 1:92). See also Hom.
Exod. I.1 (Origen, Homélies sur l’Exode, ed. and trans. Marcel Borret, SC 321 (Paris: Cerf,
1985), 42; IX.2.56–58 (Origen, Homélies sur l’Exode, 286–287). “On Origen’s teaching on the
relationship of prayer to the interpretation of Scripture, see Sheerin, “The Role of Prayer
in Origen’s Homilies,” 200–214.
248 Deutsch
shared by the interpreter130 and a process in which the “perfect” is inspired

directly by God in a way analogous to the biblical prophet.131 The hermeneuti-
cal process requires that the interpreter be transformed and share the mind of
Christ the Logos, and at the same time the process itself makes possible that
transformation.132
Transformation and union with the Logos require an ascetical practice com-
mensurate with one’s domestic status.
He . . . who can discern the spiritual sense of Scripture or, if he cannot, yet
desires so to do, must strive his utmost to live not after flesh and blood,
so that he may become worthy of spiritual mysteries and—if I may speak
more boldly—of spiritual desire and love. . . .
This requires, in turn that one set aside attachment to money and property,
and that the passions be purged so that one loves “spiritually” (Hom. Cant. I.2;
Lawson, 270).133
Study is part of the person’s ascetical practice. Reading Proverbs and
Ecclesiastes purifies the person’s way of life and teaches her to “know the dif-
ference between things corruptible and things incorruptible” (Comm. Cant.
Prologue 3.16; Lawson, 44).134 Reading these texts prepares the soul to “pro-
ceed to dogmatic and mystical matters, and in this way advances [sic] to the
contemplation of the Godhead with pure and spiritual love.”135
The Logos is embodied in the sacred text, and yet the Logos’s presence is
mediated through the prophet and then the prophetic interpreter.136 There
130 Cf. Crouzel, Origen, 73.

131 Cf. Princ. IV.3.11, 14 (Origen, Traité des Principes III et IV, 1:382, 384); Hom. Ezech. II.2.14–19
(Origen, Homélies sur Ézéchiel, ed. and trans. Marcel Borret, SC 352 [Paris: Cerf, 1989], 102,
104, 106), 24–40; Hom. Exod. IV.5.1–9 (Origen, Homélies sur l’Exode, 128, 130); XIII.4.30–46
(Origen, Homélies sur l’Exode, 390, 392); Comm. Jo. I.89 (Origen. Commentaire sur saint
Jean I–V, 104); X.266 (Origen, Commentaire sur saint Jean, tome II. Livres VI et X, ed. and
trans. Cécile Blanc, SC 157 [Paris: Cerf, 1970], 544, 546).
132 Cf. Patricia Cox Miller, “Shifting Selves in Late Antiquity,” in Religion and the Self in
Antiquity, ed. David Brakke, Michael L. Satlow and Steven Weitzman (Bloomington:
Indiana University Press, 2005), 20–23; King, Origen on the Song of Songs, 49–50.
133 Origen, Homélies sur le Cantique, 74; cf. also Hom. Exod. II.1 (Origen, Homélies sur l’Exode,
70–72).
134 Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique, 1:138; cf.also Comm. Cant. I.3.12 (Origen. Commentaire
sur le Cantique, 1:214).
135 On reading as ascetical practice, see Layton, “Hearing Love’s Language,” 306; Harl, “Le
langage de l’expérience religieuse,” 23–26.
136 Cf. King, Origen on the Song of Songs, 189–90.
is, thus, a three-way relationship between Logos, prophet and text. But there
is a correlative three-way relationship between Logos/text, interpreter and
hearer/reader.137 This allows someone as focused on professional text study
as Origen to say on the one hand that Scripture itself teaches that we ought to
study dialectic, and on the other hand to believe that ultimately, philosophy
itself was inessential, that faith and love were enough.138 The untrained can
meet the Logos in the text through the mediation of Origen’s preaching.
And so, Origen is not simply a grammatikos or even a didaskalos. He is an
inspired interpreter leading catechumens and mature Christians alike into
the text, into the transforming encounter with the Logos embodied there. In
speaking autobiographically, however, Origen presents himself as an example
of one engaged in the quest. Reading his experience into the text of the Song,
he becomes an intertext that demonstrates to his people that if they “read” the
text of his experience, they will know how to interpret the text of the Song. The
“text” of Origen’s practice demonstrates an ascetical life, lived in the commu-
nity, and engaged in unremitting work in the study of the biblical text which is
Word and “body” of the Word. Articulated autobiographically ever so sparingly,
it shows the hearer/readers what it means to be the Bride of the Logos, filled
with longing, wounded by love, and seared with the pain of withdrawal and
absence. In writing himself into the text, Origen displays its erotic pull and the
demands of the quest for the Logos/Bridegroom.
9 Conclusions
What was at stake for Origen in displaying his relationship with text and Logos
and text/logos? What does it signify that he wrote himself into the text of the
Song of Songs? How did the autobiographical passages we have explored func-
tion in his broader project?
In order to think about this question three factors need to be considered: the
autobiography, allegory and social context. While the statements in Origen’s
first homily on the Song of Songs cannot be described as ‘autobiography’ in the
sense of an independent work, they are autobiographical in the broader sense
of texts “in which the author seems to express his life or feelings.”139 The ‘I’ in
137 Cf. Torjesen, Hermeneutical Procedure, 14.

138 Cf. Cels. VI.7–8 (Origen, Contre Celse V–VI, 192–99); Philoc. 13.1; cf. Rist, Eros and Psyche,
199–200.
139 Philippe Lejeune, On Autobiography, ed. Paul John Eakins, trans. Katherine Leary, Theory
and History of Literature 52 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1989), 123.
250 Deutsch
all its singularity conveys immediacy and intensity.140 The autobiographical,

moreover, enacts the narrator’s transformation, allowing the speaker/writer to
discover and construct what he was and the self she has become.141
In his first Homily on the Song of Songs, Origen speaks of present and past
in relation to the text so that both become present in his ‘I’ as he preaches to
the congregation at Caesarea. In speaking the ‘I’ Origen becomes the text and
the text is identified with himself as authoritative interpreter. He is the exem-
plar of the transformation undergone in the reading of the text.
The autobiographical is social, and not simply individual. In Origen’s first
Homily on the Song of Songs, it is deployed in the context of an allegorical
reading of the sacred text, to interpret it in the broader hermeneutical task in
relation to the culture and society in which the interpreter and his audience
find themselves:
Ancient allegorical compositions and interpretations constituted fields

on which struggles between competing proposals for thought and action
took place. The very tensions between literal and nonliteral readings
that characterized ancient allegory stemmed from efforts by readers to
secure for themselves and their communities social and cultural identity,
authority, and power.142
The context in which Origen and his hearers “read” the Song of Songs was that
of Caesarea, with its vibrant convergence of Jews, Christians, and pagans.143 The
140 Andrew Kaplan, “The Rhetoric of Circumstance in Autobiography,” Rhetorica 10 (1992): 97.
141 Cf. Jean Starobinski, “The Style of Autobiography,” trans. Seymour Chatman, in
Autobiography: Essays Theoretical and Critical, ed. James Olney (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1980), 78–79.
142 David Dawson, Allegorical Readers and Cultural Revision in Ancient Alexandria (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1992), 2. On Origen as exemplar for the congregation, see
Sheerin, “The Role of Prayer,” 206–213.
143 See, e.g., Lee I. Levine, Caesarea under Roman Rule, SJLA 7 (Leiden: Brill, 1975); McGuckin,
“Caesarea Maritima as Origen Knew It,” (n. 1 above); Hayim Lapin, “Jewish and Christian
Academies in Roman Palestine: Some Preliminary Observations,” in Caesarea Maritima:
A Retrospective after Two Millenia, ed. Avner Raban and Kenneth G. Holum (Leiden:
Brill, 1996), 496–512; P. M. Blowers, “Origen, the Rabbis and the Bible: Toward a Picture
of Judaism and Christianity in Third-Century Caesarea,” in Kannengiesser and Petersen,
Origen of Alexandria, 96–116; for a summary of positions on Origen’s relation to Judaism,
see Elizabeth Clark, “Origen, the Jews, and the Song of Songs: Allegory and Polemic in
Christian Antiquity,” in Hagedorn, Perspectives on the Song of Songs, 286–88. On the pres-
ence of Gnostics and Marcionites, as well as Jews and various groups of “heretics,” see
Elizabeth Clark, “The Uses of the Song of Songs: Origen and the Later Latin Fathers,”
Christian population included those groups Origen termed “heretics.” All com-
peted for “cultural identity, authority, and power,” and the battleground was
the biblical text. Some Christians were insufficiently instructed and still in the
“stage of infancy and childhood in their interior life” and might (mis)interpret
the Song by reading it literally.144 They needed the corrective of Origen’s alle-
gorical interpretation. Certain “heretics” believed the “Law and the Prophets”
to be inconsequential or inferior.145 Origen’s appropriation and explication of
those texts made clear the falsity of their position.
Origen does not refer explicitly to the presence of Valentinians in Caesarea.
However, his polemic against Heracleon so evident in Books I–V of the
Commentary on John, written in Alexandria, continues in the remaining books
of that work, written after his return to Caesarea.146 This suggests a preoccu-
pation driven not only by the Johannine text but also by the possibility that
Heracleon’s own commentary on John was influential in Caesarea as well as
Alexandria and Antioch.147 Traditions attributed to 3rd and 4th century rab-
bis suggest further evidence for debate with and influence of Valentinians in
Caesarea.148
Valentinian materials are striking for the place given the emotions, including
the erotic, in the myth of Sophia.149 Heracleon uses marriage as a metaphor for
the soul’s intimacy with the divine.150 Some traditions use the ‘bridal chamber’
in Ascetic Piety and Women’s Faith; Essays on Late Ancient Christianity, Studies in Women
and Religion 20 (Lewiston, N.Y. and Queenston, ON: Edwin Mellen, 1986), 391–396.
144 Comm. Cant. Prol. 1.4–6 (Lawson, 22–23; SC 375, pp. 82, 84); cf. Andrew S. Jacobs, “ ‘Solomon’s
Salacious Song’; Foucault’s Author Function and the Early Christian Interpretation of the
Canticum Canticorum,” Medieval Encounters 4 (1998), 7.
145 Comm. Cant. II. 8. 9 (SC 375, pp. 410, 412). See also Prin. IV. ii. 1 (Butterworth, p. 270); cf.
Clark, “Origen, the Jews and the Song of Songs,” 288–289.
146 On the dating and location of the Commentary on John, see Ronald E. Heine, introduction
to Origen: Commentary on the Gospel According to John, Books 1–10, FC 80 (Washington,
D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press, 1989), 4–5.
147 It is possible that Origen may have been influenced in his use of the commentary form,
at least in part, by his debates with Valentinians such as Heracleon; cf. David Brakke, The
Gnostics; Myth, Ritual, and Diversity in Early Christianity (Cambridge, Mass. and London,
England: Harvard University Press, 2010), 130.
148 Cf. Levine, Caesarea Under Roman Rule, 75–80. Although the terms “Gnostic” and
“Valentinian” do not occur in the rabbinic texts, the content of the midrashim suggests
that the rabbis were sometimes in debate with them.
149 Cf. Ismo Dunderberg, Beyond Gnosticism; Myth, Lifestyle, and Society in the School of
Valentinus (New York, N.Y.: Columbia University Press, 2008) 97–118.
150 Origen, Comm. Jo. 13. 67 (SC 222, p. 66); cf. Elaine H. Pagels, The Johannine Gospel in Gnostic
Exegesis: Heracleon’s Commentary on John (Nashville, Tenn. and New York: Abingdon
Press, 1973), 88; cited in Heine, “Introduction,” 5.
252 Deutsch
to refer to the conversion of Sophia and her re-entry into the Pleroma.151 The
Tripartite Tractate uses the image of the bridal chamber to refer to union of
the chosen soul with the Savior (122, 25–30). Other traditions seem to have
used ‘bridal chamber’ to refer to an initiation rite.152 The Gospel of Philip indi-
cates that some Valentinians interpreted Son 1:2–3 to refer to the ‘marriage of
purity,’ referring to sexual relations “governed by contemplation of the Lord.”153
In this context, the ‘marriage of purity’ is the referent for the ‘mystery’ of the
bridal chamber.154 Gos. Phil. 76:6–10 suggests that human, earthly marriage as
the ‘marriage of purity’ reflects the eschatological heaven marriage between
the transformed soul and his angel in the Holy of Holies.155
Origen claims the Song of Songs, with all its eroticism, for his community, to
be properly interpreted as signifying the encounter between God or Christ and
the community as well as with the individual person. Human emotion, includ-
ing love between wives and husbands, is ordered through wisdom and truth.156
Origen gives particular attention to the encounter as enacted in the meeting
with the Logos made flesh in the inspired text. That encounter governs and
orders other loves. The role of the interpreter safeguards both community
and individual from the false passion for the Word that might be caused by
misinterpretation. Union with the Logos, with God in the context of the inter-
pretive event provides a response to the emotional power represented in the
Valentinian program of myth and ritual with the place it gives to the emotions.
Jews believed the Song spoke of God’s relationship with the nation of Israel
and individual Jews. Moreover, third-century Caesarea was developing as a cen-
ter of rabbinic learning and mystical speculation and where the Song of Songs
151 E.g., Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. I.13.6; cf. Deirdre Good, “Sophia in Valentinianism,” Second
Century 4 (1984), 197–198. Good leaves it an “open question whether the reascended
Sophia is here addressed or whether it is simply preeminent Sophia” (198).
152 E.g., Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. XI.1–3.
153 Gos. Phil., NHC 77:35–36; cf. April D. DeConick, “The True Mysteries: Sacramentalism in
the ‘Gospel of Philip’,” VC 55 (2001), 248.
154 Cf. April D. DeConick, “The Great Mystery of Marriage; Sex and Conception in Ancient
Valentinian Traditions,” VC 57 ( 2003): 225–261. DeConick believes that the “bridal cham-
ber” and “redemption” might possibly “not be actual rituals, but instead holy ‘mysteries’
which . . . allow the human to connect to the divine source of life” (“Great Mystery,” 230).
155 Cf. DeConick, “True Mysteries,” 246–247.
156 I am grateful to Prof. Paula Fredriksen (Boston University) for raising the question of
the possibility of Origen’s response to Valentinian thought in his work on the Song of
Songs.
appears to have been a subject of esoteric study.157 It was a place where people
studied with sages as disciples to masters.158 A saying attributed to Rabbi Akiba
has him pronounce the Song as a text that ‘renders hands unclean’ and there-
fore a canonical book, with the exclamation that while “all the Writings are
holy, . . . the Song of Songs is the Holy of Holies” (m. Yad.) Origen refers to the
esoteric use of the Song of Songs among Jews and seems to know the Jewish
legal prohibition against its use by the uninstructed.159 He not only claims the
Song as part of the Old Testament, but claims it as referring to the relation-
ship, not between God and Israel or God and individual Jews. Rather the Song,
he taught and preached, represented the drama and wedding song between
Christ and the Church and Christ and the individual Christian.160 The Song,
furthermore, is not to be reserved to the educated elite. Instead, the interpreter
expounds it for the whole community.
There is another group in the background of Origen’s preaching. He is con-
cerned about the attraction of Greek philosophy for the educated among his
congregation. The Greeks, he acknowledges, have written many dialogues on
the significance of love, understanding that “the power of love is none other
than that which leads the soul from earth to the lofty heights of heaven”
(Comm. Cant. Prol 2.1; Lawson, p. 24).161 Plato taught the transformation of
desire and its object from the earthly to the heavenly. But, Origen tells us, some
have perverted the teaching in such dialogues “to foster vicious longings and
the secrets of sinful love” (Comm. Cant. Prol. 2.1; Lawson, p. 24).162 Origen’s use
of the image of the dart makes clear the identity of Christ as both Erōs and
object of desire, and distances himself and his hearers from the ‘Greeks.’163
Origen claims the Song as part of the Scriptures belonging to the Church.
He does so in his role as premier interpreter and teacher for the Christians of
Caesarea. The encomium attributed to his student Gregory suggests that the
pedagogical model in which he functioned was not only that of the congrega-
tional preacher and teacher, but—as was the case with the rabbis—that of a
157 Cf. Lapin, “Jewish and Christian Academies,” 504–11; Levine, Caesarea under Roman Rule,
77–80.
158 Cf. Lapin, 506–07.
159 Stern, “Ancient Jewish Interpretation,” 96. Comm. Cant. Prol. 1. 7–8; Lawson, 23; Origen,
Commentaire sur le Cantique, 1:84, 86; cf. m.Hag. 2:1.
160 Reuven Kimelman believes that third-century Caesarean Jewish interpretation of the
Song of Songs was influenced by Origen’s Christological interpretation; see “Rabbi
Yohanan and Origen on the Song of Songs,” HTR 73 (1980), 567–595.
163 Cf. Jacobs, “ ‘Solomon’s Salacious Song,’ ” 6.
254 Deutsch
master with his disciples.164 Origen’s role is thus not simply oral; it is relational
and performative. He enacts the role of the Bride in the drama of the wed-
ding song through speaking the autobiographical ‘I’ and so demonstrates to his
hearers/disciples how they too might seek the Bridegroom/Logos in the text/
Word of Solomon’s Song. In the intensity of Origen’s “I” the readers/hearers/
disciples are themselves drawn into the text of the Song. The intertextuality of
Origen’s autobiographical statements and the Song open way for the hearers
as well to become intertexts. The Homily makes it clear that the encounter to
which Origen urges his hearers is not reserved for the intellectual and spiri-
tual elite. It is for the whole congregation. His use of autobiographical utter-
ance serves as a spiritual pedagogy, enhancing the devotion of the hearers, and
provides the community a vehicle to further the work of identity construc-
tion in the face of opposition and competition. Origen’s interpretation of the
Song thus serves the community as a boundary between themselves and other
groups in third century Caesarea.
164 Cf. Lapin, “Jewish and Christian Academies,” 502–04.

CHAPTER 10
Translation and Transformation: The Coptic

Soundscapes of The Thunder: Perfect Mind
Jared C. Calaway
The rest is silence.

Shakespeare, Hamlet V.ii
⸪
In the penultimate paragraph of his opus on the afterlife, Alan Segal summa-
rizes decades of research:
Besides being intellectual adventurers, our ascending souls serving as

symbols of our lives’ journey, we are all also martyrs as mortality eventu-
ally defeats us. Shakespeare tells us what our religious imagery tells us:
the victories of our life outlive its difficulties. The effort to transcend our-
selves is all. “The rest is silence.”1
Hamlet’s final words haunt this dialectic of ascent and mortality, defeat and
victory, transcendence and silence. Pregnant stillness balances speech’s supple
shape. Spoken upon Hamlet’s death, it is a fitting frame for commiserations on
the undiscover’d country’s silence and rest of this life’s chaotic journey.
Alan’s research repeatedly traversed the socially, religiously, and psychologi-
cally fraught processes of crossing over, whether through conversion,2 ascents
to heaven,3 or that ultimate crossing to the afterlife,4 which he himself made all
Doubleday, 2004), 731.
Yale University Press, 1990).
3 Alan F. Segal, “Heavenly Ascent in Hellenistic Judaism, Early Christianity and Their
Environment,” ANRW 23.2:1333–94.
4 Life after Death.

256 Calaway
too soon. In this essay in memory of Alan, I suggest another form of crossing:
a literary conversion. It reflects social and religious changes, but it traces the
translation, and therefore transformation, of an ancient poem from Greek into
Coptic. Whether being taken to heaven or rewritten in a new language, transla-
tion is a form of immortalization and transformation; it allows one to live on,
but in renewed forms.5 It is one more “effort to transcend ourselves.”6 This is a
tale of the Egyptian poem, The Thunder: Perfect Mind (NHC VI 2).
While previous analyses of Thunder have correctly assumed or argued that
it, like every other document found in the Nag Hammadi Codices, was trans-
lated from a Greek Vorlage,7 such an assumption has unnecessarily precluded
an analysis of the particular Coptic features of the poem.8 While Thunder was
originally Greek, the current version does not appear to be entirely woodenly
translated, but represents a nearly thoroughly Copticized poem.
The ‘nearly’ is important: when the Coptic slips into awkward expressions
that would read more smoothly in Greek the translation exposes itself as
5 Walter Benjamin, “The Task of the Translator: An Introduction to the Translation of

Baudelaire’s Tableux Parisiens,” Illuminations: Essays and Reflections, ed. Hannah Arendt,
trans. Harry Zohn (New York: Schocken Books, 2007), 71–73; Octavio Paz, “Translation:
Literature and Letters,” trans. Irene del Corral, Theories of Translation: An Anthology of Essays
from Dryden to Derrida, ed. Rainer Schulte and John Biguenet (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1992), 154.
6 I have previously thought about some of the following issues, in embryonic form, in conver-
sation with Hal Taussig, Maia Kotrosits, Celene Lillie, and Justin Lasser in the volume, The
Thunder: Perfect Mind: A New Translation and Introduction (New York: Palgrave Macmillan,
2010), 70–74. That work, written for a non-specialist audience, contains some initial impres-
sions. While there is necessarily some overlap, this essay approaches this material anew,
with a different approach to the subject, different framing, more extensive examples and
explanations of the literary techniques of the poem, and directed toward a more specialized
audience.
7 E.g., James M. Robinson, introduction to The Nag Hammadi Library in English, ed. James M.
Robinson, rev. ed. (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1990), 12–13; Bentley Layton, Gnostic
Scriptures (New York: Doubleday, 1987), 77; Bentley Layton, “The Riddle of Thunder (NHC
VI, 2): The Function of Paradox in a Gnostic Text and Nag Hammadi,” in Nag Hammadi,
Gnosticism, and Early Christianity, ed. Charles W. Hedrick and Robert Hodgson Jr. (Peabody,
MA: Hendrickson, 1986), 38. Paul-Hubert Poirier (Le Tonnerre, Intellect Parfait [NH VI, 2]
[Québec: Les Presses de L’Université Laval, 1995], 6, 97, 172) has probably provided the most
extensive attempt to reconstruct the Greek Vorlage behind many of the Coptic passages in
Thunder.
8 Except for features of orthography and grammar; see, e.g., the extensive analysis of such
features by Wolf-Peter Funk in Paul-Hubert Poirier. Le Tonnerre, Intellect Parfait [NH VI, 2]
(Québec: Les Presses de L’Université Laval, 1995) 13–97.
Translation and Transformation 257
translation. Because the final Copticized form has preserved the sediments
of earlier stages within itself, different stages of the poem’s life can be par-
tially recovered by how they disrupt the final form. Such awkward moments,
moreover, provide a basis of comparison with other parts of the poem that not
only are r endered less clumsily, but also are positively stunning in their Coptic
expression. This analysis, therefore, starts with the evidence that survives: a
Coptic poem.
1 Contextualizing Thunder
Thunder has resisted literary categorization and historical contextualization.

The lone surviving manuscript is a fourth-century Coptic copy of an earlier
Coptic translation of an older Greek version.9 It partially resembles several
genres of ancient literature, including Isis aretologies, themselves popular-
ized in the Roman period, due to the series of “I am” statements (cf. Diadorus
Siculus 1.15; Apuleius, Metam. 11.47), Jewish wisdom literature due to the
mixture of divine self-disclosure and exhortation (e.g., Prov 1:18–22; 8:1–31;
Wis 7:23–30; Sir 24:1–21), and gnostic revelation discourses (e.g., Trimorphic
Protennoia NCH XIII 1).10
Its social location remains undetermined within the interstices of place,
people, and language. The text and its speaker appear to be liminality incar-
nate. Some scholars, based upon ambiguous evidence, have suggested a
Jewish background.11 More interesting are the verbal parallels between
Thunder 13,19–14,9 and the Origin of the World (II, 5) 114.7–15, and the less
9 We know it was copied from a previous Coptic MS due to a dittography found in 19.28–30;
see Poirier, Tonnerre, 97, 311–13.
10 Poirier, Tonnerre, 97–103, 153–61. Though, as Jorunn Jacobsen Buckley (“Two Female
Gnostic Revealers,” HR 19, no. 3 [February 1980]: 259), writes, “In fact, she seems to elude
most categories reserved for revealers and goddesses.” Buckley herself compares Thunder
to the “Book of Dinanukht” in the Mandean scripture of the Right Ginza 6.
11 Poirier (Tonnerre, 117, 245–47, 250–55) has argued a potential Jewish audience on the slim
evidence of the few lines that speak of Greeks and barbarians.
Whey then did you hate me, you Greeks?
Because I am a barbarian among barbarians?
I am the wisdom of the Greeks and the knowledge of the barbarians
I am the justice of both the Greeks and the barbarians
I am he whose image is multiple in Egypt
And she who is without an image among the barbarians.
(16,1–8; translation adapted from Taussig, et al., Thunder)
258 Calaway
recise parallels to the Reality of the Rulers (II, 4) 89.14–17, suggesting a

p
gnostic,12 specifically Sethian, provenance.13 While there must be some rela-
tionship between these works, the precise nature of this relationship is dif-
ficult to determine. It is just as likely that they all borrowed from a pre-existing
poetic fragment about a powerful, paradoxical mother goddess figure (e.g.,
Magna Mater, Isis, Inanna-Ishtar, etc.)14 and repurposed it in different ways
The one “without image” sounds like the aniconic worship of ancient Jews; and, ancient
Jews would definitely have been considered barbarians. If this were an Egyptian docu-
ment, then a Jewish population within Egypt would be “barbarians among barbarians.”
This evidence is pretty thin, since every positive utterance by the speaker is undermined
by its opposite. The speaker is not just without image, but is the one “whose image is
multiple/great in Egypt.” Even if this is a reference to Jews, it does not necessarily indi-
cate a greater identity with Jewish perspectives than Egyptian theriomorphic polytheism,
which is equally affirmed. The most one could say is that the author may have had general
familiarity with Jewish traditions, but this hardly translates to Jews being the addressees
of this work.
12 Notwithstanding the critique of the category not only of ‘Gnosticism,’ which nearly every-
one agrees is a modern second-order category, but even of the anciently derived ‘gnos-
tic’ by Michael Allen Williams, Rethinking “Gnosticism”: An Argument for Dismantling a
Dubious Category (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996); Karen L. King, What is
Gnosticism? (Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2003); cf. Morton
Smith, “The History of the Term ‘Gnostikos’,” in The Rediscovery of Gnosticism II: Sethian
Gnosticism: Proceedings of the International Conference on Gnosticism at Yale New Haven,
Connecticut, March 28–31, 1979, ed. Bentley Layton (Leiden: Brill, 1981), 796–807; for a
defense of the terminology, see Birger A. Pearson, Gnosticism and Christianity in Roman
and Coptic Egypt (New York: T&T Clark, 2004), 201–223. See further Pearson (Ancient
Gnosticism: Traditions and Literature [Minneapolis: Fortress, 2007], 235–237), where he
directly addresses Thunder. Buckley’s comments (“Two Female Gnostic Revealers,” 259)
reflect an ambivalence in calling Thunder gnostic or not: “The assumption that both
sources [“Book of Dinanukht” and “Thunder”] qualify as ‘Gnostic’ ought not to mislead
an inquirer into facile expectations about content. In fact, presuppositions regarding rec-
ognizable Gnostic ‘content’ might crumble as one addresses the task at hand.” That is,
Thunder is gnostic insofar as one does not hold any presuppositions about what ‘gnostic’
means, which ultimately makes the categorization of Thunder as gnostic meaningless.
13 The literary parallels were originally pointed out by M. Krause, “Der Stand der
Veröffentlichung der Nag Hammadi-Texte,” in Le Origini dello Gnosticismo: Colloquio di
Messina, 13–18 Aprile 1966, ed. Ugo Bianchi (Leiden, Brill, 1970), 82–3; for Thunder and
Sethian literature, see Poirier, Tonnerre, 149–153.
14 Much like the speaker in Thunder, Inanna-Ishtar “was a paradox; that is, she embodied
within herself polarities and contraries, and thereby she transcended them” (Rivkah
Harris, “Inanna-Isthar as Paradox and Coincidence of Opposites,” HR 30, no. 3 [February
1991]: 263). It is noteworthy that, except for Dionysus, paradox was primarily the preroga-
tive of goddesses rather than gods.
in their respective works, using it as a designation for Eve in Hypostasis of the

Archons and Origin of the World, and as one of the many expressions of the
powerful feminine speaker in Thunder, as it is that any of them borrowed from
one another.15 George MacRae has further noted that the language of this par-
ticular section does not recur in Thunder, while other self-proclamations do.16
Even if it does designate a “riddle” for Eve in this section,17 therefore, this motif
does not carry over into the rest of the work or characterize the work as a
whole. It would only mean that Eve is just one of the many expressions of the
female power represented by the speaker.18
Ultimately, George MacRae’s early evaluation stands: “It [Thunder] con-
tains no distinctively Christian, Jewish, or gnostic allusions and does not seem
clearly to presuppose any particular gnostic myth.”19 What we can know is that
there is a tendency toward Egyptian imagery, language, motifs, and genres.
While these had been popularized outside of Egypt in the Roman period, the
evidence nonetheless tentatively points us towards a generic Egyptian milieu,
one in which elements from multiple backgrounds and traditions eclectically
merged together in ways that our modern interest in ‘identity’ finds discomfit-
ing. Thunder is late-antique fluidity at its best.
15 See the discussion of multiple possibilities in Poirier, Tonnerre, 121–32, especially 130.
16 George W. MacRae, “The Thunder: Perfect Mind: VI, 2:13,1–21,32,” in Nag Hammadi
Codices V, 2–5 and VI with Papyrus Berolinensis 8501, 1 and 4, ed. Douglas M. Parrott
(Leiden: Brill, 1979), 232; see Poirier, Tonnerre, 128–29, 213–14. It does demonstrate at least
overlapping social networks for the composers of these three works, even if they do not
belong to the same exact background or communities. For some general reflections on
Thunder and gnosis, see Poirier, Tonnerre, 141–53.
17 Bentley Layton, “The Riddle of Thunder,” 37–54.
18 One might compare the various paradoxes and antitheses of Thunder with the description
of the “female androgyne” (as opposed to the “male androgyne” more typical of ancient
Jewish and Christian works), a powerful primordial feminine divine figure who precedes
all differentiations and therefore includes all potentialities, including oppositions, anti
theses and, therefore, paradoxes within herself, in Elliott R. Wolfson, Language, Eros,
Being: Kabbalistic Hermeneutics and Poetic Imagination (New York: Fordham University
Press, 2005), 67–68, 449–450 n. 153, and 46–110 more generally.
19 MacRae, “Thunder,” 232. Buckley (“Two Gnostic Revealers,” 267–8) expresses similar sen-
timents: “First and foremost, one ought not to try too hastily to secure a text (e.g., the Nag
Hammadi tractate) in a specific tradition or system. . . . In trying to find out what a given
text actually says, which may very well turn out to contradict one’s expectations of it, one
should resist quick and burning urges to give the source a home.” Thunder definitively
disrupts one’s expectations and preconceptions.
260 Calaway
2 Translation Literature: Taking Thunder Seriously as a Coptic Poem
What is often forgotten in the rush to reconstruct Thunder’s original rendering

is the document in front of us: a Coptic translation. Addressing this problem
more generally, Edith Grossman writes:
But what never should be forgotten or overlooked is the obvious fact that
what we read in a translation is the translator’s writing. The inspiration
is the original work, certainly, . . . but the execution of a book in another
language is the task of a translator, and that work should be judged and
evaluated on its own terms.20
When we read Thunder, we are not reading its original wording, phrasing, or
expressions; we are reading its translator’s. The work reflects both the work
of the original composer, author, or performer and the translator: “The unde-
niable reality is the work becomes the translator’s (while simultaneously and
mysteriously somehow remaining the work of an original author) as we trans-
mute it into a second language.”21 While this is not our normal mode of think-
ing about translation, when we stop to ponder it, it approaches common sense.
This is true of several great literary translations: Longfellow’s translation of
Dante’s Divine Comedy, Pope’s translation of the Iliad, or, more chronologically
appropriate, Jerome’s Latin translation of the Bible. These are the work of the
translator as well as of the original text. We read their words, expressions, and
the product of their labor to the point that they are the “speakers of a second
text.”22 As Jerome reflected on his translation of Samuel and Kings: “Read, then,
my Samuel and Kings; mine, I say, mine. For whatever by diligent translation
and careful emendation we have mastered and made our own, is ours.”23 The
devaluation of translation is largely a modern attitude; ancients—especially
those within the Roman Empire—approached translation differently.24
20 Edith Grossman, Why Translation Matters (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010), 31–32.
21 Grossman, Why Translation Matters, 8.
22 Grossman, Why Translation Matters, 10.
23 Quoted in William Arrowsmith, trans., “Jerome on Translation: A Breviary,” Arion 2, no. 3
(1975): 267.
24 One exception is the devaluation of translation among those who believed that words
not only had a semantic quality, but an ontic one; that is, reality could be constituted and
manipulated through speech. See the discussion by Steven T. Katz, “The ‘Convervative’
Nature of Mysticism,” in Mysticism and Religious Traditions, ed. Steven T. Katz (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1983), 24–28; Wolfson, Eros, Language, Being, 197–207. An inter-
esting question, therefore, would arise if the speech of Thunder is to be considered ‘ontic’
While literary translation was common in antiquity, reflections upon it—

that is, what ancient translators thought about translation—are harder to
find.25 Practically, there was a great variance of the liberties of translation,
even for sacred writ.26 There are, however, occasional accounts of translation
from Roman antiquity. Recognizing the existence of but seeking to avoid awk-
ward literalism in translations from Greek into Latin, Cicero writes:
I translate the ideas, their forms, or as one might say, their shapes; how-
ever, I translate them into a language that is in tune with our conventions
of usage. Therefore, I did not have to make a word-for-word translation
but rather a translation that reflects the general stylistic features and the
meaning of foreign words.27
While the earliest attempts by, for example, Ennius to translate from Greek
into Latin were “acts of submission that caused awkward lexical Graecisms
to enter into the translations,” for Cicero and later translators of the Roman
or ‘semantic’ and the ramifications of the difference for the fact that it was translated.
Are the speaker’s words supposed to constitute or manipulate reality, making transla-
tion more problematic? Or are the paradoxes supposed to transcend discursive realities,
which would invite translation?
25 There is, of course, the tale of the “Letter of Aristeas,” which seeks to justify the validity
of the Greek translation of the Bible through the story of seventy-two translators who
render an authoritative version through their collective wisdom (187–294), harmonious
agreement reached through comparing their translations, and that “a result was achieved
by some deliberate design” (307). There is little reflection, however, on the principles of
translation within it (302). The legend that all of the translators miraculously produced
the same translation without cooperation originates with Philo of Alexandria (Life of
Moses 2.25–44, esp. 2.37–40), who treats the translators as divinely-inspired prophets.
See R. J. H. Shutt, “Letter of Aristeas” OTP 2:7–34; Timothy Michael Law, When God Spoke
Greek: The Septuagint and the Making of the Christian Bible (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2013), 33–42, 128–132.
26 Compare, for example, the various renderings of Aramaic Targumim from late antiq-
uity and the early medieval period, from the wooden translations of Targum Onkelos to
the extensive free re-workings of Targum Pseudo-Jonathan. Ironically, although Jerome
would claim that sacred texts are the exception to the rule of rendering sense for sense
rather than word for word, he defends his more general attitude toward translation by
demonstrating how the Bible has often not been translated literally in Greek and Latin
(De optimo genere interpretandi 7–12).
27 De optimo genere oratorum 14; cf. 18 and 23; quoted in Hugo Friedrich, “On the Art of
Translation,” trans. Rainer Schulte and John Biguenet in Theories of Translation, 12.
Horace, in the Art of Poetry 133, agrees that one should avoid literal translation.
262 Calaway
Empire, “translation meant transformation in order to mold the foreign into

the linguistic structures of one’s own culture.”28 The “target language” (i.e.,
Latin) set the rules.
Jerome, defending his translation practices against Rufinus in a letter to
Pammachius (De optimo genere interpretandi), echoes Cicero’s sentiments,
but takes matters further: “The translator considers thought content a pris-
oner which he transplants into his own language with the prerogative of a
conqueror.”29 As these and his other comments indicate, translation is domina-
tion. Translation in the Roman Empire into Latin—in which, as Cicero, Horace,
Jerome, and others claimed,30 one should translate sense for sense rather than
word for word—was an act of conquest of the earlier language and literature;
translation was, itself, a form of imperialism.31 It was a contest with the origi-
nal text and the goal of the translator was to surpass the original. Failure to
do so—that is, by submitting to a literal, word-for-word translation—was at
best an “absurdity” that obscured the sense; at worst, it was to be “fettered” or
enslaved by the original.32 Nonetheless, the original became “a source of inspi-
ration for the creation of new expressions in one’s own language.”33 Translation
is conquering and enriching—much like how Romans collected statues, arts,
objects, and peoples from around their empire:34 “The original is brought over
in order to reveal the latent stylistic possibilities in one’s own language that are
different from the original.”35
28 Friedrich, “On the Art of Translation,” 12; Goethe referred to this as the “first” of three types
of translation, believing Martin Luther’s translation of the Bible to be a fine example of
this type; Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, “Translations,” trans. Sharon Sloane in Theories of
Translation, 60.
29 Quoted in Friedrich, “On the Art of Translation,” 12–13.
30 See further Jerome, De optimo, 5.
31 Cf. Jerome, De optimo 6; see the comments by Friedrich Nietzsche, “On the Problem of
Translation,” trans. Peter Mollenhauer, in Theories of Translation, 68–69; equivalent of The
Gay Science §83.
32 Jerome, De optimo 6.
33 Friedrich, “On the Art of Translation,” 13. Friedrich claims that this appropriative concept
of translation, which both conquers the original language and inspires the target lan-
guage, originated with Quintilian and Pliny.
34 See Catharine Edwards, “Incorporating the Alien: The Art of Conquest,” in Rome the
Cosmopolis, ed. Catharine Edwards and Greg Woolf (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2003), 44–70.
35 Friedrich, “On the Art of Translation,” 13. Schopenhauer (“On Language and Words,” trans.
Peter Mollenhauer in Theories of Translation, 34–35) also argues that it can increase the
flexibility of thinking.
While these Roman reflections indicate what they thought a translator

(especially into Latin) ought to do, these views of translation have impacted
theoretical discourse of what translation, as a mode of literary activity, actually
does: whether Latin, English, or Coptic, it both gives new life to the work being
translated and enriches and vivifies the target language. Translation infuses
the target language with new thoughts and forms that are otherwise foreign
to it, laying bare latent potentialities of that language.36 As Walter Benjamin
writes, “While a poet’s words endure in his own language, even the greatest
translation is destined to become part of the growth of its own language and
eventually to be absorbed by its renewal. Translation is so far removed from
being the sterile equation of two dead languages that of all literary forms it is
the one charged with the special mission of watching over the maturing pro-
cess of the original language and the birth pangs of its own.”37
The Copticization of Thunder—along with the major translation projects
occurring in late antique Egypt—has, therefore, both literary and historical
significance. Translation is not just a literary act; it is a social one. Translating
from Greek to Coptic has a different social significance from translating into
Greek or Latin. It has a different social context and significance from, for exam-
ple, the LXX or the Vulgate, which were translations from provincial languages
of Hebrew and Aramaic to the central languages of culture and politics. For
translations into Latin—and perhaps into Greek in an earlier period—it was
an act of conquest and appropriation. What does it mean, therefore, to trans-
late away from the culturally and politically dominant languages of Greek and
Latin to a localized or parochial language of a subject people? Does it represent
a broader late-antique localization? Or does it reflect a different perspective of
the imbalance of power between the readers and hearers of the two languages:
translation as a form of resistance to more dominant language expressions
in Greek and Latin? Translating Thunder from Greek to Coptic moves it from
languages of inter-regional accessibility to the political, social, and cultural
periphery of the empire; it makes it hidden from the social and political elite.
It makes Thunder not just in content, but also in its language of expression, a
“barbarian among barbarians” (16,2–3).
Secondly, these translations impacted ancient Coptic. While it is more dif-
ficult to detect ‘translationese’ in Coptic, since it already contains a hefty num-
ber of Greek loanwords within it, the enormous influx of translated literature
36 Grossman, Why Translation Matters, 16; Wilhelm von Humbolt, “From the Introduction to
His Translation of Agememnon,” trans. Sharon Sloan in Theories of Translation, 56; Walter
Benjamin, “Task of the Translator,” 73; Friedrich, “On the Art of Translation,” 13–14.
37 “Task of the Translator,” 73.
264 Calaway
into Coptic became a potential source for new forms of expression in a lan-
guage and a literature that had yet to come into its own. Translation was the
midwife that gave birth to Coptic expression in its earliest period of writing. It
demands to be taken seriously as a form of literature.
3 Coptic Soundscapes: Alliteration, Rhythm, Rhyme, and Wordplay
Because the Coptic manuscript is the sole surviving version and is a version
that people in antiquity engaged, recited, or heard, an analysis of its Coptic
sonority—what a native Coptic speaker would have heard in its performance—
is a scholarly desideratum. This section, therefore, illustrates Thunder’s vibrant
language and sonority, such as alliteration, assonance, wordplay, rhythm,
and even rhyme to demonstrate that it should be taken seriously as a form of
Coptic literature.
3.1 An Awkward Moment

While the repetition of sounds and rhyme through densely textured allitera-
tion and assonance and even wordplay will provide an index of the degree to
which Thunder has been Copticized, it is important first to establish a Greek
baseline; that is, acknowledge where the poem would sound better and flow
more smoothly in Greek than in its current Copticized version. One such can-
didate appears in 18,27–31.
I am being (ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲧⲉ ⲧⲟⲩⲥⲓⲁ)

And I am she who is nothing (ⲁⲩⲱ ⲧⲉⲧⲉ ⲙⲛ̄ ⲧⲉⲥⲟⲩⲥⲓⲁ)
Those who don’t participate in my presence (ⲧⲁⲥⲩⲛⲟⲩⲥⲓⲁ), don’t know me
Those who do share in my being (ⲧⲁⲥⲟⲩⲥⲓⲁ), know me38
This is a more philosophical section than found elsewhere in Thunder,39

and it is difficult to translate the wordplay between the Graeco-Coptic word,
ⲧⲟⲩⲥⲓⲁ (ousia), translated here as ‘being,’ and the related Graeco-Coptic word,
ⲧⲥⲩⲛⲟⲩⲥⲓⲁ (synousia), translated here as ‘presence,’ but more literally ‘being
with.’ The poem, therefore, sets up a relationship of ‘being’ and ‘presence/
being with’ with ‘knowledge’ and ‘ignorance’ through this play-on-words.
38 All translations are adapted from Taussig, et al., Thunder, 1–6, 102–53.
39 In general, Poirier (Tonnerre, 161–68, 295) notes that Thunder is not a philosophical trea-
tise, but reflects the philosophical language current in the second and third centuries CE.
Despite this shared vocabulary between Greek and Coptic, this place in the
Coptic text may make more sense in Greek than in Coptic, or even Graeco-
Coptic, strictly in terms of its wordplay and fluidity versus awkwardness of
style. In Greek there could have been at least three terms in play: οὐσία, ἀνούσια,
and συνουσία.40 The first and last terms are already fully transmitted in the
Coptic ⲧⲟⲩⲥⲓⲁ and ⲧⲥⲩⲛⲟⲩⲥⲓⲁ, while the middle term is rendered by the awk-
ward phrase, ⲁⲩⲱ ⲧⲉⲧⲉ ⲙⲛ̄ ⲧⲉⲥⲟⲩⲥⲓⲁ (“and she who has no being”). The Greek,
therefore, would more smoothly heighten the wordplay found in the passage
with terms roughly meaning ‘being,’ ‘non-being,’ and ‘being with,’41 while the
Coptic ⲧⲉⲧⲉ ⲙⲛ̄ interrupts the flow of the passage, disrupting the balance of
the phrasing.
The greater difficulty, however, is discerning why the Coptic translation
would have gone in this direction. Why not just fully borrow the term ⲁⲛⲟⲩⲥⲓⲁ
(anousia) as has been done with the other two terms? Alternatively, if such a
negation did not exist in Graeco-Coptic vocabulary, Coptic itself has a ready
means of negation, ⲁⲧ-, which is similar to the Greek alpha privative, and
so why not render the word ⲁⲧⲟⲩⲥⲓⲁ (atousia), again ‘not being’ rather than
ⲧⲉⲧⲉ ⲙⲛ̄ ⲧⲉⲥⲟⲩⲥⲓⲁ “she who has no being”? Indeed, ⲁⲧⲟⲩⲥⲓⲁ appears in other
Coptic works.42
One possible reason for creating its awkward phrasing is that the shift
increases alliteration in Coptic by adding an additional ‘n’ from the negation
and ‘s’ from the feminine possessive, increasing the balance of sounds and,
for a Coptic speaker, the wordplay between “she who has no being” (ⲧⲉⲧⲉ ⲙⲛ̄
ⲧⲉⲥⲟⲩⲥⲓⲁ) and “my presence” (ⲧⲁⲥⲩⲛⲟⲩⲥⲓⲁ). The adaptation increases Coptic
sonority for one line, but results in an overall imbalanced phrasing and, there-
fore, an ultimately awkward rendering.43
40 See Poirier, Tonnerre, 294–300.

41 See Poirier, Tonnerre, 109–10, 294–300.
42 Three Steles of Seth (VII 5) 121,25–32; 124,25–29. See Poirier, Tonnerre, 297. See further
Funk’s discussion of the prefix in orthographic terms throughout the entirety of Codex VI
in Poirier, Tonnerre, 18–19. Although his discussion is for different purposes, it illustrates
the degree to which these Coptic works use the ⲁⲧ- prefix form.
43 There are other occasions of such imbalance. See, for example, 16, 24–25:
ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲟⲩⲁⲧⲛⲟⲩⲧⲉ·
ⲁⲩⲱ ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲧⲉⲧⲉ ⲛⲁϣⲉ ⲡⲉⲥⲛⲟⲩⲧⲉ·
I, I am without God
And I am she whose God is multiple [alt. great]
Like the above example, this couplet begins with a short “I am” statement followed by a
longer line with the feminine relative ⲧⲉⲧⲉ. The lengthening of the first line by the double
ⲁⲛⲟⲕ, however, relieves much of the imbalance in this particular case. The only difference
266 Calaway
3.2 Examples of the Translator’s Artistry

Despite this example and other passages like it, much of the poem evinces a
sophisticated and sometimes subtle sonority of balanced sounds and phrasing
that can best be appreciated when recited aloud in Coptic. One reason such
discoveries have likely been precluded to this point is not only the bias against
translation literature in search of a Vorlage, but also the fact that most scholars
tend to read and discern silently and/or slowly. When read aloud at a proper
recitation speed, the rich interweaving of sounds becomes more readily heard.
Then one can enter into Thunder’s soundscapes.44
is in terms of content: this passage moves from a negation, “I, I am without God,” to an
affirmation, “and I am she whose God is great,” whereas the above passage moves from
the positive assertion to the negation. Nonetheless, Poirier’s (Tonnerre, 259–62) rendering
in his Greek retro-translation (ἄθεος and πολύθεος) would be far less clumsy if correct.
Another example can be found in 19,15–17:
ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲟⲩⲁⲧⲛⲟⲃⲉ·
ⲁⲩⲱ ⲧⲛⲟⲩⲛⲉ ⲙ̄ⲡⲛⲟⲃⲉ ⲟⲩⲉⲃⲟⲗ ⲛ̄ϩⲏⲧ ⲧⲉ·
I, I am sinless
And the root of sin is from within me
Again, a short assertion is followed by a lengthier negation, although this time without
using the relative form of ⲧⲉⲧⲉ, although these last two examples both include the rare
double-I (ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲁⲛⲟⲕ). While this may be just one of the translator’s ways of varying the
paradoxical patterns of statement and counterstatement, the resulting imbalance in
phrasing is again awkward in its execution.
44 One may object to some of what follows by questioning: how many of these literary
effects are unintentional, accidental, or the ‘natural’ consequence of translation? This
is definitely a possibility, though I do not see it entirely as an objection. If we bracket
the well-known difficulties in determining intention, whether of an author or a transla-
tor, and believe that some of these aural effects are unintentional, then it is all the more
noteworthy that the translator would naturally fall into such Coptic cadences. In such a
scenario, the translation of this poem would expose the latent potential of Coptic poetic
expression within its own inherent structures of grammar, syntax, vocabulary, and pho-
netics. One may be able to determine some degree of intention by comparing the transla-
tion of Thunder with other Coptic translations to see if they similarly create these effects
or if it is a more unique result of this particular translator. Moreover, one must further
admit that poetic effects even in their original language are often both intentional and
unintentional; see Yves Bonnefoy, “Translating Poetry,” trans. John Alexander and Clive
Wilmer in Theories of Translation, 187. I think that the recurrence of the following features
may speak to a higher level of intentionality on the translator’s part; nonetheless, the
primary point is to recover, as much as possible, the aural experience of a late-antique
Coptic hearer.
3.3 Rhythm and Alliteration

Thunder most prominently contains examples of alliteration and assonance
throughout. One passage (16,16–23) contains a particularly heightened play on
sounds alongside other poetic qualities:45
ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲧⲉⲛⲧⲁⲧⲉⲧⲛ̄ⲡⲱⲧ⳿ ⲛ̄ⲥⲱⲉⲓ·

ⲁⲩⲱ ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲧⲉⲛⲧⲁⲧⲉⲧⲛ̄ⲁⲙⲁϩⲧⲉ ⲙ̄ⲙⲟⲉⲓ·
ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲧⲉ ⲧⲉⲛⲧⲁⲧⲉⲧⲛ̄ϫⲟⲟⲣⲉⲧ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ·
ⲁⲩⲱ ⲁⲧⲉⲧⲛ̄ⲥⲟⲟⲩϩⲧ̄⳿ ⲉϩⲟⲩⲛ·
ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲧⲉⲛⲧⲁⲧⲛ̄ϣⲓⲡⲉ ϩⲏⲧⲥ̄·
ⲁⲩⲱ ⲁⲧⲉⲧⲛ̄ⲣ̄ ⲁⲧϣⲓⲡⲉ ⲛⲏⲉⲓ·
ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲧⲉⲧⲉ ⲙⲁⲥⲣ̄ ϣⲁ·
ⲁⲩⲱ ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲧⲉⲧⲉ ⲛⲁϣⲉ ⲛⲉⲥϣⲁ
I am she whom you pursued

And I am she whom you captured
I am she whom you scattered
And you have gathered together
I am she before whom you were ashamed
And you have been shameless to me
I am she who does not celebrate festivals
And I am she whose festivals are spectacular.
This is a highly organized stanza, the beginning of each line alternating between
ⲁⲛⲟⲕ and ⲁⲩⲱ. This repetition of words at the beginning of each line as well as
the relative uniformity of line length in this section creates rhythm—though
not any discernable meter—that partially survives translation (whether to
or from Coptic), though most fully heard in Coptic.46 But there are stylistic
elements that are untranslatable, whether back into Greek or from Coptic to
English.
45 Cf. Poirier, Tonnerre, 257–59.

46 Another rhythmic section of Thunder with a high incidence of alliteration can be found
in 20,18–26. Though not as robust an example as the material above, the repetition of
ⲡⲉⲧⲛ̄ (petn), ⲡⲉⲧ (pet), ⲡⲉⲧⲉⲧⲛ̄ (petetn), and ⲧⲉⲧⲛ̄ (tetn) combined with the roots of -ⲃⲟⲗ
(-bol) and –ϩⲟⲩⲛ (-houn) give this stanza its rhythmic quality in addition to the allitera-
tive density of ‘p,’ ‘t,’ and ‘n’ sounds. The final line, which is an expansion of the previ-
ous line, much like in the previous example, breaks the rhythm due to its much shorter
length, even though it retains the alliteration of ‘t’ and ‘n.’ This is a common element
in Thunder—generating a pattern or rhythm just to break it in its final line appears to
heighten the significance of that last turn of phrase.
268 Calaway
Firstly, there is rhyme. Both the first two lines and the last two lines form
rhyming couplets. The first two lines rhyme by both ending with ‘oei’ or, in
English, an ‘oi’ sound; the last two lines rhyme by both ending in ‘sha.’47 As
such, rhyming couplets frame the passage. Secondly, the most distinctive
Coptic element of this passage is its extremely heightened alliterative qualities.
This particular passage employs the feminine relative form of ⲧⲉⲛⲧⲁ (tenta)
or “she whom” and the second person plural perfect ⲁⲧⲉⲧⲛ̄ (atetn), creating
such a high density of ‘t’ and ‘n’ sounds that, when recited aloud, it sounds
like a tongue-twister with the repetition of the word form ⲧⲉⲛⲧⲁⲧⲉⲧⲛ̄- (tenta-
tetn-), alternating with ⲁⲧⲉⲧⲛ̄ (atetn). The very last line continues to develop
the sonority of the passage. The density of ‘t’ and ‘n’ sounds decreases, slightly
relieving the speaker, although the feminine relative form of ⲧⲉⲧⲉ (tete) allows
continuity with the previous ‘t’ sounds. Finally, the last line additionally audi-
bly plays upon ‘sh’ and ‘n’ sounds, punctuating the entire section with a Coptic
pun between ⲛⲁϣⲁ (nasha) (“many” or “great”) and ⲛⲉⲥϣⲁ (nessha) (“her
festivals”). Poirier suggests a retro-translation of πολυέορτος and ἀνέορτος.48 If
he is correct, and all reconstructions of the Vorlage have to remain tentative,
then the Coptic translation heightened the wordplay from the Greek original.
Column 16, therefore, is an exceptionally sonorous passage in Coptic with its
dense alliteration, rhyme, and even punning.49
3.4 From Rhythm to Rhyme: ‘End-Line Schemes’

To focus more closely on rhyme, Afro-Semitic poetry rarely employs it; none-
theless, it occasionally occurs, and Thunder produces some examples, mostly
concentrated in the first half of the work (columns 13–16). To offer a compara-
tive example, in Hebrew a rare rhyme is formed through suffixes, especially
the third-person feminine plural –nâ, the first-person plural –nû, and the first-
person singular ending –î (e.g., Jer 9:18 and 12:7).50 Likewise, Thunder employs
47 Poirier (Tonnerre, 259–60) places the last two lines at the beginning of the next section
rather than the ending of this section. The element of the double-I (ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲁⲛⲟⲕ) that
begins the following line, however, likely indicates a formal break, and, therefore, should
be considered the beginning of the next section.
48 Poirier, Tonnerre, 218, 259–60.
49 Cf. Taussig, et al., Thunder, 71–72.
50 S. E. Gillingham, The Poems and Psalms of the Hebrew Bible, Oxford Bible Series (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1994), 25–26, 191–92. There are other, even rarer forms of rhyme.
For example, in the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice from the Dead Sea Scrolls, one can find
the following couplet (4Q405 20 II-21–22, 8):
‫תבנית כסא מרקבה מבכרים‬
‫ממעל לרקיע הכרובים‬
the first-person singular, ⲙ̄ⲙⲟⲉⲓ (mmoei) and ⲉⲣⲟⲉⲓ (eroei), in order to create
rhyme. We have seen an example of this technique to form rhyme in the first
couplet of the first example. The following passage, however, offers a more
extensive illustration (14,15–25):51
ⲉⲧⲃⲉ ⲟⲩ ⲛⲉⲧ⳿ⲙⲟⲥⲧⲉ ⲙ̄ⲙⲟⲉⲓ ⲧⲉⲧⲛ̄ⲙⲉ ⲙ̄ⲙⲟⲉⲓ·

ⲁⲩⲱ ⲧⲉⲧⲛ̄ⲙⲟⲥⲧⲉ ⲛ̄ⲛⲉⲧⲙⲉ ⲙ̄ⲙⲟⲉⲓ·
ⲛⲉⲧⲣ̄ⲁⲣⲛⲁ ⲙ̄ⲙⲟⲉⲓ ⲉⲣⲓϩⲟⲙⲟⲗⲟⲅⲉⲓ ⲙ̄ⲙⲟⲉⲓ·
ⲁⲩⲱ ⲛⲉⲧⲣ̄ϩⲟⲙⲟⲗⲟⲅⲉⲓ ⲙ̄ⲙⲟⲉⲓ ⲉⲣⲓⲁⲣⲛⲁ ⲙ̄ⲙⲟⲉⲓ·
ⲛⲉⲧ⳿ϫⲉ ⲙⲉ ⲉⲣⲟⲓ ϫⲓ ϭⲟⲗ ⲉⲣⲟⲉⲓ·
ⲁⲩⲱ ⲛⲉⲧⲁⲩϫⲉ ϭⲟⲗ ⲉⲣⲟⲉⲓ ϫⲉ ⲧⲙⲉ ⲉⲣⲟⲉⲓ·
ⲛⲉⲧ⳿ⲥⲟⲟⲩⲛ ⲙ̄ⲙⲟⲉⲓ ⲉⲣⲓⲁⲧ⳿ⲥⲟⲟⲩⲛ ⲙ̄ⲙⲟⲉⲓ·
ⲁⲩⲱ ⲛⲉⲧⲉ ⲙ̄ⲡⲟⲩⲥⲟⲩⲱⲛⲧ̄⳿ ⲙⲁⲣⲟⲩⲥⲟⲩⲱⲛⲧ̄⳿·
Why do you who loathe me love me,

And loathe those who love me?
You who deny me, confess me,
And you who confess me, deny me.
You who speak the truth about me, lie about me,
And you who lie about me, speak the truth about me
You who know me, ignore me
And you who ignore me, notice me.
Many will hesitate to call the use of the same words ‘rhyme,’ and I partially
share these sentiments; therefore, I suggest calling these phenomena ‘end-line
schemes’ or ‘end-line patterns.’ While not rhyme in its traditional understand-
ing, ending these lines with basically the same words with a couple of varia-
tions and, therefore, the same sounds, does create an auditory effect when
recited aloud.
They are blessing a structure of a throne chariot

Above the firmament of the cherubim.
This is the twelfth out of thirteen songs. In what appears to be a liturgical and poetic
reenactment of Ezekiel’s vision from Ezekiel 1, these lines create rhyme by moving the
participle (‫ )מבכרים‬in the first line to the end of the phrase to mirror and rhyme with
“cherubim” (‫ )הכרובים‬at the end of the phrase in the second line. The poetic qualities of
the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice have, too, been generally underappreciated, though see
a technical discussion by Stanislav Segert, “Observations on Poetic Structures in the Songs
of the Sabbath Sacrifice,” RevQ 13 (1988): 215–223.
51 Cf. Poirier, Tonnerre, 232–36.
270 Calaway
The aural effect is not the same effect as English rhyme; instead, it is closer to
rhythm. It is much like reading Edgar Allen Poe, who created rhythms through
internal and ending repetitions.52 This effect is heightened by the repetition of
the first-person singular, ⲙ̄ⲙⲟⲉⲓ or “me” and its rhyming counterpart ⲉⲣⲟⲉⲓ or
“to me,” in the middle of and at the end of every line, except for the second and
final lines. This leads to an intense assonance of ‘o,’ and ‘oei’ or ‘oi’ sounds. The
repetition of each couplet alongside the internal and ending repetitions, more-
over, gives the stanza a stronger rhythm than most of Thunder, all of which
is subsequently broken in the last line, which contains no rhyming elements
whatsoever. The generation of a highly rhythmic stanza through internal and
ending rhymes that suddenly breaks tempo on the last line places the empha-
sis on the last line with an emphatic “notice me.”
Thunder, however, demonstrates more complex examples of end-line pat-
terns, including passages with the more traditional understanding of rhyme
and even rhyme schemes. For example, in the following passage there is a
clearly delineated rhyme in the more traditional understanding of the term
(13,30–14,1):53
ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲧⲉ ⲧⲙⲁⲁⲩ ⲛ̄ⲧⲉ ⲡⲁⲉⲓⲱⲧ

ⲁⲩⲱ ⲧⲥⲱⲛⲉ ⲙ̄ⲡⲁϩⲟⲟⲩⲧ
ⲁⲩⲱ ⲛ̄ⲧⲟϥ ⲡⲉ ⲡⲁϫⲟⲡⲟ·
ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲧⲉ ⲧ⳿ϭⲁⲟⲩⲟⲟⲛⲉ ⲙ̄ⲡⲉⲛⲧⲁϥⲥⲃ̄ⲧⲱⲧ·
ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲧⲉ ⲧ⳿ϫⲟⲉⲓⲥ ⲙ̄ⲡⲁϫⲡⲟ·
I am the mother of my father

And the sister of my husband
And he is my child.
I am the slavewoman of he who served me
I am the lord of my child.
While lost in translation, in Coptic this passage has a clear rhyme scheme of
AABAB. The first, second, and fourth lines all conclude with a long ‘o’ or ‘ou’
sound ending with a ‘t’ (-ⲱⲧ, -ⲟⲩⲧ, -ⲱⲧ) while the third and fifth lines end in
‘-po,’ being slightly different variations of the same word.54
52 See especially Poe’s poem, “Ulalame,” in which he creates ‘rhyme’ in much the same
manner as found here with the repetition of entire words at the end of each line.
53 See the discussion by Poirier, Tonnerre, 220–21.
54 Cf. 16,1–9 for another potential end-line scheme in the alternating repetition of ⲛ̄ϩⲉⲗⲗⲏⲛ
(“the Greeks”) and ⲛ̄ⲃⲁⲣⲃⲁⲣⲟⲥ (“the barbarians”) with the interjection of the nearly
One final example of rhyme employing some of these techniques is found

in 16,33–17,3:55
ϩⲟⲧⲁⲛ ⲇⲉ ⲉⲧⲉⲧⲛ̄ϣⲁⲛϩⲱⲡ⳿ ⲙ̄ⲙⲱⲧⲛ̄·

ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ϩⲱⲱⲧ⳿ ϯⲛⲁⲟⲩⲟⲛϩ⳿ [ⲉⲃⲟⲗ·
ϩⲟⲧⲁⲛ] ⲅⲁⲣ ⲉⲣ[ϣ]ⲁⲛⲧⲉⲧⲛ̄ [ⲟⲩⲟⲛϩⲧⲛ̄ ⲉ]ⲃⲟⲗ·
ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ϩⲱⲱⲧ⳿ [ϯⲛⲁϩⲱⲡ ⲉ]ⲣⲱⲧⲛ̄·
Whenever you hide yourselves from me

I myself will appear
Whenever you appear
I myself will hide myself from you
While short, in Coptic this is an especially skillfully rendered rhythmic set of

lines. Its rhythm is generated through alternating patterns. The first and third
lines both begin with ϩⲟⲧⲁⲛ (“whenever”) plus a postpositive conjunction or
disjunction (ⲇⲉ and ⲅⲁⲣ). The second and fourth lines both begin with ⲁⲛⲟⲕ
ϩⲱⲱⲧ ϯⲛⲁ- (“I myself will”). The lines, therefore, begin with an alternating
pattern (ABAB) that set the rhythm; they end, however, in a chiasmic scheme.
The first and the last lines end with -ⲱⲧⲛ̄, while the second and third lines end
with the preposition ⲉⲃⲟⲗ; thereby, the line endings create an ABBA pattern.
The double-pattern of beginning ABAB and ending ABBA produces a highly
rhythmic and sonorous passage in a broader context (Column 16) that already
has several other examples of the translator’s poetic art.56
3.5 Wordplay and Puns

In addition to dense alliteration and repeated returns to rhyming and line-
ending patterns, there are some examples of Coptic wordplay in Thunder.
Wordplay is common in the literatures throughout the ancient Mediterranean
and the ancient Near East, whether one is working in Latin, Greek, Hebrew,
Aramaic, Akkadian, or, as here, in Coptic.57 We have already discussed a case
rhyming ⲕⲏⲙⲉ in the penultimate line. For other considerations, see Poirier, Tonnerre,
245–47, 249–55.
55 For a further discussion of his passage, see Poirier, Tonnerre, 264–68.
56 Other examples where rhyme is present but not as prominent include, e.g., 13,2–15 or
16,24–25, and 16,1–9 for a potential end-line scheme.
57 To offer a well-known example, the first creation story in Gen 1:2 includes wordplay in
the phrase “and the earth then was welter (tohu) and waste (vabohu).” This translation is
from Robert Alter, Genesis: Translation and Commentary (New York: Norton, 1996), 3. Such
272 Calaway
where wordplay makes more sense in Greek than Coptic, but there are also
plays on words more resonant with Coptic sonority than Greek, demonstrat-
ing at least for these sections of the poem a more thoroughly Copticized style.
While we have already discussed some Coptic plays-on-words (e.g., ⲛⲁϣⲁ
ⲛⲉⲥϣⲁ), a more common Coptic pun recurs in the pairing of ‘seeking’ and
‘finding’:
[ⲛ̄]ⲧⲁⲩⲧⲁⲟⲩⲟⲉⲓ ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ ϩⲛ̄ ϭⲟⲙ·

ⲁⲩⲱ ⲛ̄ⲧⲁⲓⲉⲓ ϣⲁ ⲛⲉⲧ⳿ⲙⲉⲉⲩⲉ ⲉⲣⲟⲓ·
ⲁⲩⲱ ⲁⲩϭⲓⲛⲉ ⲙ̄ⲙⲟⲓ ϩⲛ̄ ⲛⲉⲧϣⲓⲛⲉ ⲛ̄ⲥⲟⲉⲓ·
ⲉ[ⲛ]ⲁⲩ ⲉⲣⲟⲉⲓ ⲛⲉⲧ⳿ⲙⲉⲉⲩⲉ ⲉⲣⲟⲓ·
ⲁⲩⲱ ⲛ̄ⲣⲉϥⲥⲱⲧⲙ̄ ⲥⲟⲧⲙ̄ ⲉⲣⲟⲓ·
I was sent from within power

And came to those pondering me
And I was found among those seeking me
Look at me, all you who contemplate me
And audience, hear me.
(13,2–7)
ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲡⲉ ⲡⲥⲟⲟⲩⲛ ⲙ̄ⲡⲁϣⲓⲛⲉ·

ⲁⲩⲱ ⲡϭⲓⲛⲉ ⲛ̄ⲛⲉⲧϣⲓⲛⲉ ⲛ̄ⲥⲱⲉⲓ
I am the learning from my search

And I am the discovery of those seeking me.
(18,10–12)
The first example, again, illustrates the repeated usage of the ⲉⲣⲟⲓ/ⲉⲣⲟⲉⲓ and
ⲙ̄ⲙⲟⲓ/ⲙ̄ⲙⲟⲉⲓ line-ending patterns, but both examples also include a pun
unning often impels the narrative in Hebrew literature. In the second creation story
p
set in Eden, ʾadam is made from ʾadamah, or, as Robert Alter has rendered the pun, the
“human” from the “humus” (Alter, Genesis, 8). Moreover, in Gen 2:25, the first humans
were “naked” and “unashamed.” The next verse (Gen 3:1) reads that the serpent was the
most “cunning” of all the beasts. The word for “cunning” (‘arum) plays upon the word
for “naked” (‘arumim), providing the link in the story from one scene of action to the
next, moving the story forward. As this example from Genesis further illustrates, some-
times such wordplay can be transposed onto the new language; sometimes it cannot.
Sometimes, moreover, the new language creates new connotations and plays-on-words
not in the original.
between seeking and finding, between ϣⲓⲛⲉ (shiné) and ϭⲓⲛⲉ (kyiné). Seeking
is designated by ϣⲓⲛⲉ (ⲛⲉⲧϣⲓⲛⲉ, ⲙ̄ⲡⲁϣⲓⲛⲉ, ⲛ̄ⲛⲉⲧϣⲓⲛⲉ), and finding is desig-
nated by term ϭⲓⲛⲉ (ⲁⲩϭⲓⲛⲉ, ⲡϭⲓⲛⲉ).58 The sounds are nearly identical, mark-
ing one of the more surprising felicities of the Coptic translation, where, in this
case, related meaning mirrors similar sounds.
Aside from this more common punning pair, there are more subtle exam-
ples in Thunder. Note, for example, the delicate balancing of alliteration and
wordplay in 15,32–33:
ϫⲉ ϯⲛⲁⲕⲁⲣⲱⲉⲓ ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ϩⲛ̄ ⲛ̄ⲉⲧ⳿ⲕⲁⲣⲱⲟⲩ·
I shall shut my mouth among those whose mouths are shut.59
While short, this one line demonstrates poetic artistry. The play-on-words
occurs in the transposition of consonantal sounds in this line in ϯⲛⲁⲕⲁ (t, n, k)
and ⲛⲉⲧ⳿ⲕⲁ (n, t, k), while the ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ϩⲛ̄ (anok hn) half way between the two
both balances and intensifies the alliteration of ‘n’ and ‘k’ sounds.
Another section of the poem, which topically presents and poetically chal-
lenges the ancient Mediterranean value of shame, similarly presents a play on
words within a chiasmic structure (17,15–18):
ⲉⲃⲟⲗ ϩⲛ̄ ⲟⲩϣⲓⲡⲉ ϣⲟⲡⲧ̄⳿ ⲉⲣⲱⲧⲛ̄ ϩⲛ̄ ⲟⲩⲙⲛ̄ⲧ⳿ⲁⲧϣⲓⲡⲉ·

ⲁⲩⲱ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ ϩⲛ̄ ⲟⲩⲙⲛ̄ⲧ⳿ⲁⲧϣⲓⲡⲉ ⲙⲛ̄ ⲟⲩϣⲓⲡⲉ·
From shame bring me to yourselves shamelessly

From shamelessness with shame.
This section balances its phrasing through the chiasm of shame and shame-
lessness / shamelessness and shame.60 In the midst of this, the only verb used
in this entire chiasm is ϣⲟⲡⲧ̄ (shopt), which means ‘take’ or ‘receive.’ This verb
puns on the terminology for ‘shame,’ having the same consonantal base as the
word for ‘shame,’ ϣⲓⲡⲉ (shipé), both using ‘sh’ and ‘p’ sounds. The juxtaposi-
tion of these two words, furthermore, gives the line a rhythmic quality, itself
58 Cf. 21,29; see further Poirier, Tonnerre, 210, 281–83.

59 Alternatively, “I will be silent among those who are silent.”
60 Poirier (Tonnerre, 272) calls it “un parfait équilibre des termes, arranges en chiasme.”
274 Calaway
heightened by the repetition of the same word-base in the chiasmic structure,

as in the examples given above.61
4 Conclusion: From a Coptic Poem to the Poetics of the Imagination
In its current state, Thunder is the result of a series of conversions, unappreci-

ated transformations in the life of a poem. This essay explored one of these—
its Copticization.62 While Thunder most likely originated as a Greek poem,
its translation into Coptic was transformational. Whether intended results or
unintended consequences of translation, taking the translation of Thunder
seriously as literature itself exposes the hidden potentialities of Coptic at an
early stage in the language’s written development. When read aloud in Coptic
Thunder provides a rich tapestry of sounds. The translator Copticized this
poem with dexterity, employing heightened alliteration and assonance, some-
times intensifying repeated sounds and other times skillfully balancing and
distributing consonantal sounds, having a penchant for rhyming or creating
end-line patterns through repetition of sounds and entire words, and finally
wordplay and punning.
This leads to a few potential areas of exploration. Firstly, since the full impact
of the poem occurs only when recited aloud, there is work to be done inves-
tigating the poem’s oral/aural dimensions as a performance in its late antique
Egyptian context.63 A second avenue would further discern how Copticized
Thunder is by placing it in its literary context of late antique Egyptian litera-
ture. Such research would involve a thorough comparative analysis between
the sonority of Thunder and other poetic passages in Nag Hammadi and other
Coptic poetic texts (Trimorphic Protennoia, Three Steles of Seth, etc.), Coptic
texts for which Greek texts are extant (such as translations of the Psalms),
and later works originally composed in Coptic to determine the tendencies
of translation and how those tendencies compare to Thunder. Such contin-
ued reflection upon Thunder’s poetic qualities could ultimately lead to a new
understanding of the emergence of early Coptic poetics.
Finally, while this essay has investigated the poetics of Thunder in the strict
sense of the term, there remains the more difficult analysis of the poiesis of the
61 Cf. Taussig, et al., Thunder, 70–71.

62 Another is its ‘Christianization,’ which I think occurred through the later addition of most
of Column 21.
63 Some tentative steps have been taken in Taussig, et al., Thunder, 83–91, but a thorough
analysis is lacking.
late-antique religious imagination for this and related works along the lines of
what Elliott Wolfson has done for Kabbalah. That is, how do their linguistic,
liturgical, and poetical expressions correlate to their theological, cosmological,
and epistemological contemplations?64 As Thunder and other early Copticized
literature released new poetic and imaginative energies through translation,
invigorating them with new life, how else did these works draw upon their
creative resources to address the shifting social circumstances of late antiquity
in this “effort to transcend ourselves”?
64 See Wolfson, Language, Eros, Being, 4–7.

Part 4
Life after Death
(Death and Treatment of the Dead)
⸪
CHAPTER 11
Maccabees, Martyrs, Murders, and Masada:

Noble Deaths and Suicides in 1 and 2 Maccabees
and Josephus1
Jonathan Klawans
I had the good fortune to enroll in Alan’s seminar on life after death at Columbia
in the mid-90s. Among the works we read and discussed in class—at length
and with pleasure—was A Noble Death, by Arthur Droge and James Tabor.2 I
have been mulling these issues in the back of my head, on and off, ever since—
my faded, vague and imprecise memories of the weekly seminar later shored
up by Alan’s own Life after Death.3 By the time I was ready and willing to tread
these waters in the hopes of contributing something of my own, Alan was
already quite ill. I wish I could have worked faster, for the essay would be better
if only I had the chance to discuss it with him. But I really wish Alan were still
here; our lives would be richer for that.
Most boundaries should be crossed, and perhaps many shouldn’t exist at
all. But some boundaries should remain, perhaps with open gates. This essay
argues that the categories of ‘noble death’ and ‘martyrdom’ are frequently
used too widely and imprecisely in the study of ancient Judaism. Some stud-
ies associate martyrdom with noble death and find examples aplenty among
late Second Temple sources.4 Other studies have defined martyrdom more nar-
rowly so as to begin the conversation in the post-Second Temple era.5 But this
1 The material in this chapter has now appeared, in fuller form, in Jonathan Klawans, Josephus
and the Theologies of Ancient Judaism (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), esp.
pp. 92–136, and appears also by permission of Oxford University Press.
2 Arthur J. Droge, and James D. Tabor, A Noble Death: Suicide and Martyrdom among Christians
and Jews in Antiquity (New York: HarperSanFrancisco, 1992).
Doubleday, 2004).
4 So, e.g., Droge and Tabor, Noble Death.
5 So e.g., Glen W. Bowersock, Martyrdom and Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1995), 7–13; Daniel Boyarin, Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and
Judaism (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), 93–95, 187–89, nn. 6, 11; and Shmuel
Shepkaru, Jewish Martyrs in the Pagan and Christian Worlds (New York: Cambridge University
Press, 2006), 19–33.

280 Klawans
decision too leaves the Second Temple period evidence as a largely undifferen-
tiated mass of (non-martyrological) noble deaths. A related problem concerns
the ways definitions of our terms are constructed. Studies of noble death and
martyrdom often focus on the structural components of the sub-narratives,
such as the trial or death scene—surely an essential step—without as much
regard for the equally important place these disparate sub-narratives take
within the broader works (e.g., 2 Maccabees or Jewish War).6 One unfortunate
result of all this is that important aspects of Josephus’s approach in particular
have been missed or misconstrued.
In order to bring some sense to the disparate forms of noble death and
their multifarious motivations and aftermaths, we present here a preliminary
typology of noble death in ancient Judaism, under the headings “Maccabees,”
“Martyrs,” and “Murders.” The first two of these models are each developed most
fully, respectively, in 1 Maccabees (“Maccabees”) and 2 Maccabees (“Martyrs”).
All three of these models are at least echoed in Josephus’s works, though only
two of them (the first and the third) are developed fully. The third (“Murders”)
is developed more fully in Josephus than anywhere else—and, as we will see,
it is the antithesis, or inversion, of the “Martyrs” mode that seems to move
Josephus the least. After reviewing these three models we will consider, briefly,
Josephus’s Masada story. Alas, we will not be able to place the Masada suicides
clearly within any one of the three categories. Perhaps this will weaken the
proposed typology. But hopefully, it will help demonstrate that the deaths at
Masada were much less noble than some accounts would have us believe.
1 Maccabees
In a nutshell, we intend with this term to refer to the non-martyrological

death-stories of Maccabean heroes, especially as told in 1 Maccabees. While
1 Maccabees remains the paradigmatic expression, the model is also echoed
in Antiquities, and not just in those cases where Josephus paraphrases his
Maccabean source. Key elements of this mode of noble-death narrative
include: (1) a decision by the heroes to risk or accept premature violent death
at the hands of foreign enemies, in order to (2) live by the law or defeat an
enemy, (3) comforted by the knowledge that their deaths are noble. However,
(4) the lesson drawn is typically a negative one. While the nobility of the death
remains revered, the message to the reader is not to imitate the deceased, but
6 So, e.g., Droge and Tabor, Noble Death.

Maccabees, Martyrs, Murders, and Masada 281
rather to be more moderate regarding the law (less sinful or less extreme) and
more careful regarding one’s military exploits.
In 1 Maccabees, the first and paradigmatic example of this kind of noble
death concerns those who refuse to fight on the Sabbath (1 Macc 2:29–41).7
The heroes in this story choose to die rather than fight, lest they profane the
Sabbath day (2:34–36). Assuring themselves that they die in innocence, the
enemy easily dispenses of them, such that thousands of men, women and live-
stock are killed (2:37–38). But their nobility and heroism lead Mattathias and
his friends—the real heroes—to make a startling decision: rather than die like
that, they declare (2:41): “Let us fight against anyone who comes to attack us on
the Sabbath day; let us not all die as our kindred died in their hiding places.”
A number of other stories in 1 Maccabees are in more or less the same vein,
including the deaths of the Maccabees Eleazar Avaran (6:40–47) and Judas
(9:1–22). In each of these cases, although the death in question is revered as
noble, the praise is qualified, and balanced with a critical evaluation of the
hero. In the case of Judas’s death, the narrator makes it clear—through the
advice given by his subordinates (9.9)—that escape is possible, leading per-
haps to other victories. Judas, however, chooses death with glory (9:10). Though
his wish is fulfilled—and he is indeed praised for his heroism (9:20–22)—it is
his brother Jonathan who lives to achieve the full victory (9:73). In the case of
Eleazar too the criticism is oblique, but discernable nonetheless. His desire is
to save his people and seek an everlasting name (6:44). Although some of the
enemy fighters are killed, the result of Eleazar’s decision is his death, his army’s
flight, and his enemy’s victory (6:45–47). Far from achieving glory and an ever-
lasting name, his narrative merits all of four verses. In short, this mode of noble
death is ultimately an unfortunate and avoidable one. The heroes should be
revered, but their deaths should not be emulated or imitated.
Josephus’s narratives also contain examples of this model. Of course,
his own accounts of the Maccabean era closely follow 1 Maccabees,8 so
Josephus too presents the noble, but still somewhat mistaken, deaths of the
strict Sabbath keepers ( J.W. 1.274–77; Ant. 12.274–77) as well as the heroic but
unsuccessful battles led by Eleazar Avaran ( J.W. 1.43–44; Ant. 12.373–74), and
Judas ( J.W. 1.45–47; Ant. 12.420–34). Other examples of the warrior-death
model include Josephus’s elaborations of deaths of Samson (Ant. 5.317) and
7 See Droge and Tabor, Noble Death, 72–73.

8 On Josephus’s use of 1 Maccabees, see Shaye J. D. Cohen, Josephus in Galilee and Rome (Leiden:
Brill, 1979), 44–47.
282 Klawans
Saul (6.344–50, 370–72).9 On the one hand, it is clear that these premature
violent deaths are in one sense noble: these figures fight to the end, making
the most of the final moments, taking some of the enemy down with them
(Samson: 5.317; Saul: 6.344–45; Judas: J.W. 1.47, Ant. 12.434). Josephus, charac-
teristically for a general, has praise for those who died heroic deaths. Yet in
the cases of Samson and Saul, Josephus also makes clear that the premature
violent deaths bring conclusions to lives led poorly, characterized by passions
and violence (Ant. 5.301–2, 317; 6.262–68, 378). Certainly these figures do not
present role models to be followed, whether in life or death. Even in the paral-
lels to 1 Maccabees, Josephus allows the reader to discern, beneath the valor,
that the deceased could have decided things differently. With regard to Jewish
War’s account of Eleazar’s Avaran’s death in particular, Josephus is even more
emphatic than 1 Maccabees that martial derring-do is simply another way of
courting death ( J.W. 1.44).10 The takeaway for the reader in all these cases is to
lead a different life—characterized by greater virtue or better decisions—and
to hope for a longer life. It may be good to die a death of valor. But it’s better to
live and experience the victory.
2 Martyrs
Martyrdom is quite different from the noble deaths described above. Although
the term ‘martyr’ rarely appears in Jewish sources, we retain the term here—as
has become scholarly custom—to refer to the self-chosen premature violent
death of those heroes whose reverence for God and divine law is placed far
above their love of life.11 The Jewish martyrdom narratives from the Second
Temple period—principally 2 and 4 Maccabees—exhibit distinct features that
9 See Louis H. Feldman. Josephus’s Interpretation of the Bible (Berkeley: University of

California Press, 1998), 461–89 (on Samson) and 509–36 (on Saul).
10 So, e.g., Jan Willem van Henten, “Noble Death in Josephus: Just Rhetoric?” in Making
History: Josephus and Historical Method, ed. Zuleika Rodgers (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 195–218
(esp. 207). Note also the view Josephus attributes to Titus: “valor is only deserving of the
name when coupled with forethought and a regard for one’s security” ( J.W. 5.316).
11 See discussion of the value of the term, despite its lack of appearance in Jewish sources,
in Tessa Rajak, “Dying for the Law,” in The Jewish Dialogue with Greece and Rome: Studies
in Cultural and Social Interaction (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 99–103; Rajak cites 4 Macc 16:16
(diamartyrias) as one possible anticipation of the later Christian usage. Rajak’s approach,
in my view, is more persuasive (and more helpful for our purposes) than Bowersock,
Martyrdom and Rome, 7–13.
allow us to differentiate the deaths of the martyrs described here from those of
the warriors described above and the murders to be described below.12
For our purposes, the key elements of martyrdom include: (1) a decision by
a righteous person to risk or accept premature violent death at the hands of a
foreign power (typically off the battlefield), in order to (2) die nobly rather than
break the law, (3) comforted by a hope for a better future life, with the result
that (4) God’s mercy is swayed by the innocence of the martyrs, so that the
enemies of the Jewish people are defeated. After the martyrdoms, oppression
ends, and victory soon results, not so much from the might or valor of warriors,
but from God’s mercy, as swayed by the martyrs. In both 2 and 4 Maccabees,
Eleazar, the mother, and her seven sons die the martyr’s death, refusing to wor-
ship idols or eat forbidden foods. In both texts, as we have seen above, the mar-
tyrs comfort themselves with hopes for a better life (resurrection in 2 Macc;
immortality in 4 Macc). And in both texts, it is the deaths of the martyrs that
sway God’s mercy, and bring about the subsequent victories (2 Macc 6:12–17,
7:32–38, 8:1–4; 4 Macc 1:11, 6:28–29, 9:24, 12:17, 17:19–24, 18:4; cf. also Assumption
of Moses 9:1–10:10). Indeed, in 4 Maccabees in particular, the martyrs’ deaths
serve quasi-sacrificial functions, expiating the people’s sins (1:11, 6:29, 17:21–22).13
An interesting additional example in 2 Maccabees involves the suicidal death
of Razis (14:37–46). In this case, the setting is a battlefield, not a religious
persecution—though the text implies that Razis had already risked his life in
earlier persecutions (14:38). Facing overwhelming forces, Razis chooses sui-
cide over surrender, by falling on his own sword (14:39–42). The hero, however,
does not succeed in killing himself immediately. He then throws himself off
of a wall, finally tearing out his own entrails (14:43–46). Unlike the deaths of
Eleazar or Judas as described in 1 Maccabees, but just like the deaths of the
martyrs described in 2 Maccabees 6 and 7, the death of Razis is followed by a
dramatic Jewish victory, and the death of the enemy Nicanor who had insti-
gated Razis’s arrest (2 Macc 17:1–36). In short, martyr-heroes are models in both
their lives and their deaths. Their lives are ones of virtue, and their apparently
unjust earthly deaths bring better afterlives to themselves but also—and per-
haps more importantly—better earthly fortunes to the Jewish people.
12 Studies of martyrdom frequently focus on the internal structure of the trial or confronta-
tion; particularly helpful among such analyses are Jan Willem van Henten, The Maccabean
Martyrs as Saviours of the Jewish People: A Study of 2 & 4 Maccabees (Leiden: Brill, 1997),
and Rajak, “Dying for the Law.” Others, focusing on later rabbinic and patristic material,
may highlight other structures or criteria (e.g., Boyarin, Dying for God, esp. 95–96).
13 Moses Hadas, ed. and trans., The Third and Fourth Books of Maccabees: Edited and
Translated (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1953), 121–22, 181.
284 Klawans
As we have already noted, Josephus’s accounts of the Maccabean era follow

1 Maccabees, and his account of the Antiochene persecution is no exception.
While 1 Maccabees is aware of the persecution and the steadfastness of the
many suffering righteous Jews (1 Macc 1:54–64), it is the zealous heroism of
Mattathais, his sons and their followers that turns the tide (2:1–28). Similarly,
in Jewish War and Antiquities, the persecution is remembered, briefly, as an
anonymous tragedy ( J.W. 1.34–35; Ant. 12.253–56). The victims are not prom-
ised an afterlife, and their deaths are not said to achieve anything in this world
either. The agonies of those persecuted in the days of Antiochus only impact
history insofar as their sufferings encourage the Maccabees to rebel ( J.W. 1.35).
Indeed, no single narrative anywhere in Jewish War or Antiquities shares all
of the criteria for a full-blown martyrdom as described above, whether relat-
ing to the Maccabean era, the war against Rome or any other period of Jewish
history. Even Josephus’s description of religiously-oriented persecution of Jews
in Antioch lacks all the key characteristics of full-blown martyrdom: there are
no named righteous victims to remember fondly, no accounts of heroic endur-
ance, no appeals to immortality, and no earthly good comes out of the suffer-
ings ( J.W. 7.50–53).
But Josephus seems aware of the kinds of martyrdoms described in 2 and
4 Maccabees, as demonstrated not only by the brief acknowledgments of the
Antiochene persecutions, but also by his description of Essene martyrdom
( J.W. 2.152–53):14
The war with the Romans tried their souls through and through by
every variety of test. Racked and twisted, burnt and broken, and made
to pass through every instrument of torture, in order to induce them to
blaspheme their lawgiver or to eat some forbidden thing, they refused
to yield to either demand, nor ever once did they cringe to their perse-
cutors or shed a tear. Smiling in their agonies and mildly deriding their
14 On this passage, see Steve Mason with Honora Chapman, trans., Judean War 2: Translation
and Commentary, ed. Steve Mason, Flavius Josephus Translation and Commentary
1B (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 121–23; compare (with greater emphasis on comparison to
Qumran), Todd S. Beall, Josephus’ Description of the Essenes Illustrated by the Dead Sea
Scrolls (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 102–4. Without regard to the
Essenes in particular, Tacitus described the Jews in general as willing to submit to tor-
tures or risk death on the battlefield, believing a better life awaits them elsewhere (Hist.
5.5.3). See Menahem Stern, ed., Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism: Edited with
Introductions, Translations, and Commentary, 3 vols. (Jerusalem: The Israel Academy of
Sciences and Humanities, 1976–1984), 2.41–43, and C. D. Elledge, Life after Death in Early
Judaism: The Evidence of Josephus (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 56.
t ormentors, they cheerfully resigned their souls, as if15 they would receive
them back again.
The account is strange, if for no other reason than the fact that we don’t else-
where hear that Romans forced Jews to commit blasphemy or eat forbidden
foods.16 But this is precisely what we hear of in 2 Maccabees and, especially,
4 Maccabees. Indeed, as the notes to the recent Brill commentary point out,
this passage is rife with allusions to 4 Maccabees in particular, where we also
find depictions of submission to cruel tortures,17 as well as a motivating belief
in immortality (7:19–20, 13:17, 16:25, 17:5).
Like the Maccabean martyrs, the Essenes are depicted by Josephus as choos-
ing to die rather than eat forbidden foods. Presumably off the battlefield—and
offering no physical resistance in this context—the Essenes heroically with-
stand cruel tortures. Indeed, going a step further than 2 or 4 Maccabees, the
Essenes even suffer happily (2.153; cf. 3.321; Ag. Ap. 1.42).18 And just like the
martyrdoms of 2 and 4 Maccabees, the Essenes are remembered as comfort-
ing themselves with hopes for a better afterlife. Moreover, Josephus’s descrip-
tion of Essene martyrdom unmistakably echoes 4 Maccabees in its particular
descriptions of tortures and endurance.19 But there is one essential difference
between the ways these stories are developed in 2 and 4 Maccabees on the one
hand and the way they are echoed by Josephus on the other. There is no trans-
formative earthly aftermath to the Essenes’ deaths. They die nobly, to be sure.
15 L CL reads “confidently” for “as if,” but see Elledge, Life after Death, 58.
16 Beall, Josephus’ Description, 104; but note Josephus’s report of a post-70 CE persecution in
Antioch: J.W. 7.50–53.
17 Commenting on the words translated above as “twisted,” “tormented,” and “endure,”
Mason points out ( Judean War, 122 n. 931): “These same words are concentrated, along
with others graphically depicting endurance under torture, in 4 Maccabees . . . a fact that
seems to highlight Josephus’ debt to this work.” Cf. e.g., 4 Macc 1:11; 5:23; 7:4, 9, 14, 22, and
further instances cited by Mason.
18 The disciples of the two teachers are also remembered as facing death happily: J.W. 1.653.
Josephus too asserts that he would have faced death happily, had that proven necessary
(3.382). For further examples—usually related to warrior deaths—see Mason, Judean
War, 123 n.940. According to some rabbinic traditions, Rabbi Akiba endured his martyr-
dom with a smile; see, e.g., y. Ber. 9.5, 14b/75 (cf., without the smile, b. Ber. 61b). For a brief
discussion of this motif with Christian parallels, see Boyarin, Dying for God, 107–8.
19 So Mason, Judean War, 122 n. 931, cited previously; this has important ramifications for
questions concerning the date of 4 Maccabees, suggesting that the book would have been
completed before Josephus authored Antiquities (cf. Hadas, Third and Fourth Books, 95).
Mason’s observations counter Shepkaru’s argument that Josephus was entirely unfamiliar
with the Maccabean martyrs ( Jewish Martyrs, 41–52, esp. 43).
286 Klawans
And perhaps they even achieve some post-mortem reward for their righteous-
ness. But their deaths don’t achieve anything on earth, other than, perhaps,
making a point. Their post-mortem fame is at best anonymous, and reserved
by the historian to a mere few lines. God’s mercy was not swayed, and subse-
quent Jewish victories did not come about.
Perhaps the clearest example of somewhat successful martyrdom in
Josephus’s works appears when Josephus relates the efforts of some hot-
headed youths to remove the golden eagle Herod placed on the temple gate
( J.W. 1.648–55; cf. Ant. 17.149–67).20 The insurgents were, the historian relates,
inspired by two “sophists”—popular experts in the nation’s laws—who per-
suaded their disciples to take action ( J.W. 1.650):
Telling them that, even if the action proved hazardous, it was a noble
deed to die for the law of one’s country; for the souls of those who come to
such an end attained immortality and an eternally abiding sense of felic-
ity; it was only the ignoble, uninitiated in their philosophy, who clung in
their ignorance to life and preferred death on a sick-bed to that of a hero.
So persuaded—and believing that Herod was dying—the teachers’ disciples

took action, daringly (and acrobatically) hacking at the eagle with hatchets.
Not surprisingly, they were quickly arrested and brought before Herod. The
king wonders at their joy when facing death; they respond affirming their
confidence that greater happiness will follow their deaths (1.653). Aroused
by anger, Herod gets up from his own sick-bed (1.654, cf. 1.651) to ensure that
the rebels receive the deaths they seek. The popularity of the teachers now
evaporates, and the people—fearing Herod’s wrath—agree that the rebels and
teachers should die for their crimes. Herod burns them alive. The eagle was
removed, but was this the way to go about it?
Indeed, the subsequent deaths of the teachers and their students leaves
one wondering whether the achievement was worth the cost.21 An interesting
20 On this passage generally, see Elledge, Life after Death, 64–67; more generally (and
with a focus on the version in Antiquities), see Christopher T. Begg, “Ruler or God? The
Demolition of Herod’s Eagle,” in The New Testament and Early Christian Literature in
Greco-Roman Context: Studies in Honor of David E. Aune, ed. John Fotopoulos (Leiden:
Brill, 2006), 257–86.
21 In the Antiquities account, the teachers encourage their disciples to action not with an
appeal to immortality, but a more classic promise of everlasting fame (Ant. 17.152–54; cf.
1 Macc 9:10)—but while the teachers’ names are recorded by the historian, the names of
the disciples, ironically, are not.
contrast is provided by two subsequent stories: Pilate’s bringing standards to

Jerusalem ( J.W. 2.169–74; cf. Ant. 18.55–59), and Caligula’s plan to have his own
statue installed in the temple ( J.W. 2.184–203; cf. Ant. 18.257–309).22 In both
cases, masses gather to declare their willingness to risk death. But the Roman
overlords in these two cases are unwilling to engage in such mass slaughter,
and back down. In these two cases, the goal is achieved without bloodshed—
could the teachers have achieved the removal of the eagle in a similar way?
Since Herod was on his deathbed, would it have been more prudent to wait
until after his death to seek the eagle’s removal?
In Against Apion, Josephus boasts of a Jewish readiness to submit to death
in order to demonstrate fidelity to the law (1.42–43, 2.232–35). The martyrs he
has in mind are motivated not just by a hope for immortality, but eventual
re-embodiment as well (2.218, cf. J.W. 3.374). Moreover, in this particular pas-
sage Josephus clearly differentiates between willing submission to torture and
martyrdom by small numbers of righteous Jews, when matters of Jewish law
are at stake, and the easier deaths—including suicides?—of many on battle-
fields (Ag. Ap. 2.232–35). In this passage—surely Josephus’s highest praise of
martyrdom—we find that the historian praises the martyrs’ endurance, high-
lighting the impact their heroism has on the Jews’ enemies. But even here we
do not find what is characteristic of the ancient Jewish martyrologies we do
have—the belief that martyrdom sways God and changes the course of human
history for the betterment of the Jewish people.
It is worth recalling at this juncture, for the sake of comparison, the well-
known rabbinic ambivalence toward martyrdom.23 On the one hand, certain
rabbinic heroes—Rabbi Akiba prominent among them—are remembered
for having risked death in order to teach Torah, suffering until death as a
result (e.g., Akiba: b. Ber. 61b; Hananya ben Teradyon: b. ʿAbod. Zar. 8a).24 The
martyrdom stories at the heart of 2 and 4 Maccabees are also echoed in rab-
binic literature, though the timeframe is transferred from the Seleucid to the
Roman era (b. Giṭ. 57b; Lam Rab. 1.16).25 And we even find instances of children
choosing suicide (by drowning) over being sexually abused by the Romans,
and the traditions assure doubters that even the drowned will be resurrected
22 On these stories, see Shepkaru, Jewish Martyrdom, 48–50.

23 On martyrdom in rabbinic literature see Shepkaru, Jewish Martyrs, 66–106; cf. Boyarin,
Dying for God.
24 On the traditions concerning the martyrdoms of rabbinic sages, see Shepkaru, Jewish
Martyrs, 73–90; cf. 107–40 for the medieval elaborations of these rabbinic tales.
25 On the disparate versions of this legend in rabbinic literature, see Shepkaru, Jewish
Martyrs, 69–73.
288 Klawans
(b. Giṭ. 57b; Lam Rab. 1.16).26 On the other hand, rabbinic literature limits
the legitimate causes for martyrdom to three grave sins (idolatry, sexual sins
and murder). In all other instances—including notably, the food laws27—
rabbinic law requires Jews to figure out some way to live by the laws (cf. Lev
18:5) as opposed to die for them (b. Sanh. 74a).28 At the same time, the tan-
naitic promise of resurrection for (practically) all Israel (m. Sanh. 10.1) under-
cuts the particular guarantees assumed in some martyr traditions, as echoed
by the hopes expressed by certain would-be martyrs in the works of Josephus
(e.g., J.W. 1.650, 653). Finally, it is imperative to appreciate the significance of
the fact that the rabbis date these martyrdoms—including the stories of the
mother and her seven sons—to the post-70 CE, Roman era. For the rabbis,
as for Josephus before them, martyrdom is not a prelude to victory, as in 2 or
4 Maccabees. Martyrdom, rather, is the aftermath of defeat, and a divinely-
ordained defeat at that.29
3 Murders in the Sanctuary
If full-blown, transformative martyrdom is largely absent from Josephus’s

works, there is another form of transformative noble death that plays, roughly,
the same role in Jewish War as the martyrdoms play in 2 and 4 Maccabees.
But these events differ from martyrdoms in a number of important respects.
Martyrdoms are quasi-sacrificial deaths, after which the innocence and purity
of the victims sway God’s mercy. The deaths that will concern us here are sac-
rilegious killings, after which the guilt of the murderers kindles God’s wrath.
Although formal similarities with martyrdoms could also be identified, the dif-
ferences we are interested in here warrant distinguishing between the martyr-
doms discussed in the previous section and the murders that will occupy our
attention here. The pattern looks something like this: the heroes in question
(1) make a decision to risk or accept premature violent death at the hands of
fellow Jews, (2) in order to publicly condemn wickedness among the Jewish
people, (3) but then suffer sacrilegious deaths at the hands of the wicked Jews,
26 On these traditions, see Shepkaru, Jewish Martyrs, 70.

27 The food laws, of course, are a cause célèbre for martyrdom in 2 and 4 Maccabees as well
as (for the Essenes) in J.W. 2.152.
28 See also b. Pesaḥ. 25a–b, b. Yoma 85b, and discussion in Shepkaru, Jewish Martyrs, 97–104.
29 For further comparisons between Josephus and the rabbis vis-à-vis the second revolt and
its aftermath, see Jonathan Klawans, “Josephus, the Rabbis, and Responses to Catastrophes
Ancient and Modern,” JQR 100, no. 2 (2010): 278–309.
(4) with the result that God’s anger is inflamed, and the Jewish people suffer
national catastrophe.
Alone among the three forms of noble death in the present typology, this one
has a clear scriptural precedent in the brief story of the murder of the prophet
Zechariah (son of the priest Jehoiada; 2 Chr 24:17–24).30 Late in the reign of
King Joash of Judah, the king leads the people astray, abandoning the house
of God, and worshiping sacred poles and idols (24:17–18). Then the prophet
Zechariah bravely confronts the people, condemning them for their transgres-
sion (24:20). Far from listening to the prophet, they stone him to death—at the
command of the king—in the court of the temple (24:21). As he lies dying, the
prophet calls for his revenge (24:22). Indeed, in short order a small contingent
of Aramean soldiers arrives, and God delivers Judah’s more numerous army
into their hands, so as to execute judgment on Joash (24:23–24). The king is
subsequently murdered for his crimes (including the killing of the prophet),
and not even buried in the royal tomb (24:25).
It would appear that this brief biblical story had a profound effect on
Josephus. Of course, he retells the story (Ant. 9.168–72), and he includes in
his paraphrase each of the key elements as we have identified them: a brave
prophet is killed by the people, in the temple, bringing about God’s wrath and
a national catastrophe. But the powerful influence that this kind of tale has on
Josephus can be seen by subsequent examples in Antiquities, as well as (espe-
cially) Jewish War.
The very first post-biblical episode related by Josephus fits this pattern very
closely, though not quite perfectly (Ant. 11.297–301). Immediately upon con-
cluding his paraphrase of the book of Esther, Josephus seeks to explain why the
Persian king succeeded in defiling the sanctuary. Although there is no prophetic
confrontation in this story, there is a murder in the sanctuary—a priestly frat-
ricide, no less (298–99). This sacrilege provokes God, with the result that the
people are defeated and the temple is defiled by the Persians (300). The pattern
recurs with the murder of the rain-maker Onias (Ant. 14.22–28).31 Once again a
prophetic figure is murdered by his own people, this time for refusing to place a
curse on Aristobulus and his forces (22–24). Sure enough, the people soon suf-
fer mightily (25–28). Somewhat similar is Josephus’s treatment of the murder
30 On this passage, see Isaac Kalimi, “Murder in Jerusalem Temple, The Chronicler’s Story of
Zechariah: Literary and Theological Features, Historical Credibility, and Impact,” RB 117,
no. 2 (2010): 200–09.
31 On Onias as a prophet (but without reference to the pattern we are discussing) see Rebecca
Gray, Prophetic Figures in Late Second Temple Palestine: The Evidence from Josephus (New
York: Oxford University Press, 1993), 145–47.
290 Klawans
of John the Baptist (18.116–19)—the execution of a virtuous figure is followed

by the defeat of a Jewish army.32 The pattern clearly recurs once again, and this
time at a particularly key moment. In Ant. 20.160–66, Josephus relates the con-
spiracy to kill the priest Jonathan, during the reign of Felix. Although Jonathan
was no prophet, he is described as admonishing Felix to improve his adminis-
tration; and “incessant rebukes are annoying to those who choose to do wrong”
(162). So Felix arranges for Jonathan’s murder at the hands of the Sicarii (164).
Although it is not explicit that the priest was killed at the temple, that may be
implied since the killers’ cover was their intent to worship God. Regardless,
Josephus is quick to point out that the Sicarii carried out other murders in the
temple (165). And divine judgment is the result:
This is the reason why, in my opinion, even God Himself, for loathing
of their impiety, turned away from our city and, because He deemed
the temple to be no longer a clean dwelling place for Him, brought the
Romans upon us and purification by fire upon the city, while He inflicted
slavery upon us together with our wives and children; for He wished to
chasten us by these calamities. (Ant. 20.166)
In Antiquities, the scriptural story of the sacrilegious murder of Zechariah

serves as a model for explaining subsequent traumas, including, in Ant. 20, the
destruction of the Second Temple.33
If this pattern peppers Antiquities, it plays an even more central role in Jewish
War. The most elaborate examples of this form appear about halfway through
Jewish War—at what Steve Mason identifies as a central turning point of the
narrative34—when two former high priests, Ananus and Jesus, are depicted as
bravely delivering speeches encouraging the people to turn against the Zealots
and abandon their rebellion.35 Condemning the people for their internecine
strife and for committing bloodshed in the temple (4.162–92; 238–69), each
of these figures is, in turn, killed along with their followers; the temple is left
32 Josephus is somewhat equivocal in this case, allowing that Herod Antipas had practical
reasons to fear sedition.
33 We should also note here the subsequent narrative on the unjust execution of James
(Ant. 20.197–203), though fewer elements of the pattern are in evidence in Josephus’s tell-
ing of this tale.
34 See Steve Mason, Josephus and the New Testament, 2nd ed. (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson,
2003), 66–68.
35 These priestly figures are treated much less positively in Josephus’s later work, Antiquities
(e.g., 20.197–203). See Cohen, Josephus, esp. 150–51, 156–58, 184–87.
defiled by blood, the priests’ corpses are left unburied, to be devoured by beasts
(312–316, 324). As Josephus’s encomium on their deaths makes clear, these fig-
ures were heroes whose sacrilegious murders swayed God to abandon the Jews
and deliver the temple to the Romans (318–25).36
To my knowledge, the fullest development of this scripturally-inspired
pattern is to be found in the works of Josephus. But we can find examples
and echoes elsewhere, including rabbinic sources.37 A particularly striking
instance appears is the book of Acts, which elaborates on the story of Stephen’s
execution (often called a martyrdom; 6:8–7.60). True to the form as we have
described it, Stephen prophetically condemns his compatriots for sinful-
ness (6:8–10), leading to a conspiracy against him (6:11–15). Using his trial as
an opportunity to maintain his innocence, Stephen delivers one last oration
(7:2–53). Dragged from the city, Stephen meets his death by stoning. On the
one hand, the fact that the killing is completed outside of the city deviates from
the model. On the other hand, it is rather clear that the memory of Zechariah’s
murder hovers over the incident. Zechariah is, it appears, mentioned earlier
in Luke 11:50–51 (//Matt 23:35), and Stephen himself speaks of the killing of
prophets (Acts 7:52). Quite clearly, the murder of Zechariah lurks in the back-
ground of Acts 6–7.38 But even more important for our purposes is the simi-
lar role this murder plays in Acts compared to the murders of the priests in
Jewish War: in Acts too, the lynching of Stephen is a pivotal moment, heralding
God’s rejection of the temple, and introducing a young man named Saul (7:58),
whose conversion and teaching will occupy much of the rest of Acts.
It is important to admit that we could, if we wish, call all these deaths mar-
tyrdoms. And since all depends on how we define our terms, it would not nec-
essarily be incorrect to do so. But the distinction we have drawn here allows
us to appreciate the way that these particular murder narratives constitute
virtual inversions of the paradigmatic martyrdom stories as related in 2 and
4 Maccabees. In 2 and (especially) 4 Maccabees, the noble, quasi-sacrificial
deaths of the innocent martyrs at the hands of foreign enemies secure God’s
mercy, eventually leading to Jewish victories. In the instances we have seen in
36 Josephus has more to say about the relationship between the Jews’ sacrilegious crimes—
including the defilement of the temple—and the destruction of the temple; see Klawans,
“Josephus, the Rabbis,” and Josephus and the Theologies, 186–201.
37 For echoes of the Zechariah tale in rabbinic literature, see, e.g., y. Ta’an. 4.6, 69a/735; see
also Lives of the Prophets 23.1–2.
38 See further Isaac Kalimi, “The Murder of the Prophet Zechariah in the Gospels,” RB 116,
no. 2 (2009): 246–61, and “The Murders of the Messengers: Stephen versus Zechariah and
the Ethical Values of the ‘New’ versus ‘Old’ Testament,” ABR 56 (2008): 67–73.
292 Klawans
this section, shameful, sacrilegious murders of prophets and priests are com-
mitted by the Jewish people. This in turn conjures God’s wrath, bringing about
Jewish military defeat and the destruction of the temple.
4 Suicide, Masada and Murder-Suicide
We can now turn to the Masada narrative. The articulate, emotional speeches,
the appeal to immortality, and the defenders’ rugged determination to deny
Rome the spoils of their victory lead some to view this account as a martyrdom.39
But the typology we have laid out above suggests otherwise. The Masada nar-
rative lacks the key element of the fully worked out martyrdoms of 2 and
4 Maccabees: God’s anger is not assuaged, and salvation—whether in heaven
or on earth—is not forthcoming.40 To the contrary, Masada seals the Jewish
defeat. The greater differences between the Masada narrative and martyrdoms
concern, however, not the aftermath, but the preliminaries. The defenders of
Masada were the sinful Sicarii—the first to put into deadly action the danger-
ously mistaken beliefs attributed to Judas the Galilean ( J.W. 2.117–18):41 they
refused to accept any political authority other than God, and they were will-
ing to kill their own kin in order to further their political program (2.254–57,
7.254–62), or, simply, to secure supplies (4.398–405).42 Josephus imagines
that Eleazar recognized his faction’s sins (e.g., 7.329), and Josephus himself
minces no words condemning their murderous behavior (7.259–62). So it is
39 So, e.g., Mark Andrew Brighton, The Sicarii in Josephus’s Judean War: Rhetorical Analysis
and Historical Observations (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2009), 118, 128, 133, 135;
Droge and Tabor, Noble Death, 3, cf. 91–94; David Goodblatt, “Suicide in the Sanctuary:
Traditions on Priestly Martyrdom,” JJS 46, nos. 1–2 (1995): 10–29 (esp. 28–29); see also
Segal, Life after Death, 383–84.
40 Contrast the results of the martyrdoms of 2 and 4 Maccabees—these martyrs become,
as van Henten puts it, “Saviors of Jewish People” (the appropriate subtitle of his volume,
Maccabean Martyrs).
41 On this passage, see Brighton, Sicarii, 50–53; as Brighton observes, Josephus does not
explicitly credit Judas with founding the Sicarii, and Judas does not introduce the dagger-
wielding tactic for which they became known. But Josephus does claim that Eleazar of
Masada was descended from Judas ( J.W. 7.253).
42 On these passages see Brighton, Sicarii, 53–64, 84–87, and 96–104. Nachman Ben-Yehuda
laments that the Passover massacre of women and children at Ein Gedi ( J.W. 4.398–405)
receives less attention than it should in popular and scholarly treatments of Masada; see
Nachman Ben-Yehuda, The Masada Myth: Collective Memory and Mythmaking in Israel
(Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1995), (e.g.) 13, 57, 79, 204.
unwise even to compare the deaths at Masada to the suicidal death of Razis in
2 Macc 14.43 Razis’s suicide brings an unjust end to a life led by virtue, but at
least a Jewish victory will quickly ensue. The suicides (and murders) at Masada
bring a just end to lives lived sinfully (7.271–74), and nothing but Jewish defeats
are in store for the Sicarii or anyone else who continues to fight (7.437–42).
The contrasts just noted between the stories of Razis in 2 Maccabees and
Masada in Jewish War highlight the vast range of sentiments that are expressed
in Second Temple period stories of suicide and voluntary death. On occasion,
the suicidal death of a military leader on the battlefield is seen as paradigmatic
of military valor. This is clearly the case in 2 Maccabees’ tale of Razis; this is
also the case in Josephus’s treatment of the deaths of Samson and Saul. But
even here there is a key difference, since Josephus’s evaluations of Samson and
Saul follow scripture on the one hand—and Josephus’s general proclivity on
the other—in depicting these characters as demonstrating both heroic and
sinful qualities.44 Even as he praises Samson’s heroic death, Josephus notes his
shortcomings (Ant. 5.317). Similarly, Josephus does not hide Saul’s murderous
deeds, elaborating on the king’s guilt for the massacre at Nob (Ant. 6.242–70
[esp. 262–68], recasting and expanding 1 Sam 21:1–22:1; see also Ant. 6.379).
In other cases, Josephus follows scriptural precedents, describing semi-
suicidal deaths on the battlefield as a clear sign of divine punishment (e.g.,
Abimelech: Ant. 5.251–53, following Judg 9:50–57; Zimri: Ant. 8.309–11, follow-
ing 1 Kgs 16:18–19 [cf. Ant. 8.314–15]).45
Most of Josephus’s other accounts of suicidal death—and there are a great
deal of these stories—fall clearly into one of two other categories. In a number
of cases, suicidal deaths are one of many tragic or pathetic events involved in
Josephus’s descriptions of military defeats. When fighters realize their situa-
tion is hopeless and that death is certain, Josephus frequently relates that the
soon-to-be vanquished throw themselves off precipices, into rivers, or onto
43 For this comparison, see Brighton, Sicarii, 128; Brighton does, however, point out levels of
irony in this comparison, for the sinful suicides of Masada were wholly unlike the righ-
teous Razis. True martyrdoms are not ironic.
44 On Josephus’s tendency to display balance in his moral assessments of heroic figures,
see Steve Mason, “Introduction to the Judean Antiquities,” in Judean Antiquities 1–4, trans.
Louis Feldman, ed. Steve Mason, Flavius Josephus Translation and Commentary 3 (Leiden:
Brill, 2000), xii–xxxvi (esp. xxxii–xxxiv). See also Feldman, Josephus’s Interpretation, 461–
89 (on Samson) and 509–36 (on Saul).
45 See further examples and discussion in Droge and Tabor, Noble Death, 86–90 and van
Henten, “Noble Death,” 203–7. Van Henten is correct to be less certain than Droge and
Tabor that Josephus views these deaths as noble or heroic. See also Elledge, Life after
Death, 117–27.
294 Klawans
raging fires (curiously, suicides by sword are relatively rare in these cases).46
Not dissimilar are the narratives of priests who choose to die as their temple
burns.47 The frequency with which such suicide notices appear suggests that
the motif has become a stock one for the historian, likely inspired by Greco-
Roman models.48 Indeed, a number of the accounts are rather formulaic: the
reasons preventing escape or surrender are presented, the decision is made,
and the deed is described in gory detail.49 Even so, the historical possibility that
despondent Jews resorted to suicide in such situations cannot be excluded,
perhaps encouraged by the same Hellenistic influences that have permeated
the literary accounts.50 Either way, these stories fit into Josephus’s general
message: the rebellion against Rome was a tragic mistake, with deadly conse-
quences; but when all military hope is lost, there can be a modicum of valor in
suicide. Typically, however, the suicides that Josephus explicitly respects take
place only after fighting to the end (cf. Ant. 5.317, 6.344–50). This important
element is lacking in Josephus’s account of Masada.51
But there are a few instances where Josephus makes abundantly clear
that things can go too far. One such story appears when Josephus describes
Herod’s campaign against the cave-dwelling brigands of Arbel ( J.W. 1.304–13;
46 Examples include the defeats at Gamala ( J.W. 4.78–80) and Jericho (4.435–36). For a
fuller accounting see Raymond R. Newell, “The Forms and Historical Value of Josephus’
Suicide Accounts,” in Josephus, The Bible, and History, ed. Louis H. Feldman and Gohei
Hata (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1989), 278–94, esp. 280–83, and 292n.15 for a
list of cases.
47 See, e.g., J.W. 1.150–51 (//Ant. 14.69–70) and J.W. 2.49–50 (//Ant. 17.261–64) see fuller discus-
sion, along with Greco-Roman parallels, in Goodblatt, “Suicide in the Sanctuary.”
48 On mass suicides in Greco-Roman historiography in general, see Shaye J. D. Cohen,
“Masada: Literary Tradition, Archaeological Remains, and the Credibility of Josephus,”
JJS 33, nos. 1–2 (1982): 385–405 (esp. 386–92), who is also rather dubious as to Josephus’s
credibility regarding such narratives; cf. David J. Ladouceur, “Josephus and Masada,” in
Josephus, Judaism and Christianity, ed. Louis H. Feldman and Gohei Hata (Detroit: Wayne
State University Press, 1987), 95–113 (esp. 106–109).
49 See Droge and Tabor, Noble Death, 89–91, following Newell, “The Forms and Historical
Value,” 280–81.
50 In favor of the historicity of ancient Jewish suicidal behavior in general, see Newell, “The
Forms and Historical Value,” 281–82.
51 Yadin, for example, famously emphasized the heroism of Masada’s “defenders,” despite
the fact that Josephus does not depict them as actively resisting against the Romans
during the siege—let alone fighting courageously to the very end. See, e.g., Yigael Yadin,
Masada: Herod’s Fortress and the Zealots’ Last Stand, trans. Moshe Pearlman (New York:
Random House, 1966), 11–17, 193–201, 209–231; cf. Ben-Yehuda, Masada Myth, 41–42, 57–58,
155–58, 190.
Ant. 14.415–30). These robbers are, we are told, guilty of “evils no less than war”
( J.W. 1.304). Herod attacks the brigands in their high-cliff caves by lowering
troops with ropes (310–11). Although Herod offers to take prisoners, most fight
to the death (311). But when a mother wishes to save her seven children, the
patriarch of the family refuses, slaughtering each one by the sword, finally cast-
ing the corpses from the heights. Herod, we are told, looks on with awe, beg-
ging the man to stop. Finally, the murderous father throws himself off the cliff,
upon the dead bodies of his murdered family. Surely it is notable that even
Herod—the brutal despot who will himself later murder adult members of his
own family—is depicted as being horrified by the father’s slaughter of his wife
and children. This brief narrative—the first mass murder-suicide recorded in
J.W. (for another, see 2.469–76)—is an important clue for how we are to read
the Masada episode. Self-slaughter by fighters after losing a battle is one thing;
killing your own family members is quite another matter, one that makes even
a murderous despot quaver.
Some interpreters have suggested that the deaths at Masada are in some
way redemptive—as if the “defenders” atoned for their sins by their suicidal
deaths.52 But even if the death of a criminal can atone for grievous sins (so, e.g.,
m. Sanh. 9.5, m. Yoma 8.8), how does killing innocent women and children fig-
ure into this picture? Not only should we stop speaking of ‘martyrs’ at Masada;
we should stop speaking of ‘suicides’ at Masada, and insist on speaking, more
accurately, of ‘murder-suicides.’53 While the heroic suicide of warriors on a los-
ing battlefield is a stock element of Josephus’s stories, mass murder-suicides,
including the slaughter of women and children, are rarer, and not something
one can say the historian sympathized with in any particular way.
At Masada, the take away message is a negative one. Perhaps the Romans
will be amazed and impressed, drawn in by these figures’ philosophizing, and
less troubled by the deaths of women and children (cf. Tacitus, Hist. 5.5.3).54
But if so, then Josephus’s Masada narrative is rife with irony, double meanings
that would be read differently by Jews and Romans.55 For every praise, there
52 So David Flusser, “The Martyrs of Masada,” in Judaism of the Second Temple Period,
Volume 2: The Jewish Sages and Their Literature, ed. Serge Ruzer, trans. Azzan Yadin (Grand
Rapids.: Eerdmans; Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2009), 76–110.
53 See, e.g., Ben-Yehuda, Masada Myth, 9, 45–46, cf. 201–204.
54 On Tacitus’s surprise at the Jewish reluctance to expose children, see Stern, Greek and
Latin Authors, 2:41.
55 On irony in the works of Josephus in general, see Steve Mason, Josephus, Judea, and
Christian Origins: Methods and Categories (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2009), 69–102;
on irony in Jewish War in general and the Masada narrative in particular, see Brighton,
Sicarii, 15, 21, 23–29, 112, 125–29. Brighton correctly identifies levels of irony in the Masada
296 Klawans
is also a condemnation; the suicides’ philosophizing is offset by their mad-

ness ( J.W. 7.389). For his Jewish readers, if not for his Greco-Roman readers as
well, the message is not to emulate these figures, whether in life or death. The
story is a cautionary tale, whose messages are not difficult to discern: refusal
to accept the sovereignty of Rome is suicide; the killing of one’s own is a crime
that will not go unpunished.56
Whatever nobility the rebels manage to eke out of their suicidal last moments,
their deaths are simply reflections of their guilt. As they were the first to rise up
in revolt by adopting the practice of killing their own kin, so too at the end, do
they suffer the just punishment for their misdeeds (7.259–62, 271–74).57 These
crimes include not only the murders they enacted themselves (2.254–57),
but also the sacrilegious murders of Ananus and Jesus—for the perpetration
of these killings involved enacting lessons the Sicarii themselves taught the
nation (7.262, 329). Josephus has also not forgotten here the Passover massa-
cre at Ein Gedi (4.398–405), and Jewish readers would certainly not miss the
powerful irony that the murder-suicides occurred on the 15th of Xanthicus—
Passover (7.401, cf. 5.98–99, Ant. 2.308). Living to witness the destruction of
their sacred shrine, they are doomed to kill themselves, murdering their wives
and children, in madness (7.389–97), desecrating once again the holy day they
besmirched years before. Even their final wish—that all the defenders would
die this way (7.398)—is thwarted by some sagacious women who hide with
some children, and survive—presumably to tell the tale (7.399, 404).
story, suggesting that Josephus intends Jews and Romans to read the story differently (cf.
Brighton, Sicarii, 41–47 on the question of a Jewish and Gentile audience for Jewish War).
But unlike Brighton, I don’t believe that Josephus intended his Jewish readers to under-
stand the Masada narrative as a martyrdom (cf. 137). For an alternative interpretation of
the Masada episode’s meanings to Jewish and Roman audiences, see Nicole Kelley, “The
Cosmopolitan Expression of Josephus’s Prophetic Perspective in the ‘Jewish War’,” HTR
97, no. 3 (2004): 257–74.
56 That rebellion is suicide: Honora Howell Chapman, “Masada in the 1st and 21st Centuries,”
in Making History: Josephus and Historical Method, ed. Zuleika Rodgers (Leiden: Brill,
2007), 82–102 (esp. 100); that suicide is a fitting punishment for killing kin: see Kelley,
“Cosmopolitan Expression,” 261–73; Ladouceur, “Josephus and Masada,” 95–113 and also
“Masada: A Consideration of the Literary Evidence,” GRBS 21, no. 3 (1980): 245–60.
57 See further Ladouceur, “Josephus and Masada.” The guilt of the Masada rebels in
Josephus’s eyes is not usually overlooked, but it is frequently underplayed; so, e.g., Droge
and Tabor, Noble Death, 95–96. For a fuller discussion of the artificially-cleansed reputa-
tion of the Zealots/Sicarii in popular and scholarly works on Masada, see Ben-Yehuda,
Masada Myth.
So what then of Eleazar’s eloquent description of an incorporeal immor-

tality? Indeed, Eleazar’s second speech constitutes the longest oration on
life after death in Josephus ( J.W. 7.341–88). A full treatment of this speech—
especially in comparison to Josephus’s account of the Essene belief in immor-
tality (2.154–58)58 and Josephus’s own oration against suicide (3.355–91)59—is
not possible here. But a few observations are in order. Josephus imagines the
rebel leader drawing explicit comparisons with foreign ideas, all the while
clearly alluding to well-known passages from various Greek philosophical and
dramatic classics.60 The freedom-loving rebel leader is depicted as describing
the soul as imprisoned in the body, such that death is a liberation (7.344–48;
cf. 2.154–55). “Life, not death, is humanity’s misfortune” (7.344). So the hope
for beatific immortality combines with disdain for bodily life to yield suicidal
behavior. But the Essene hope for a beatific immortality is balanced by a fear
of post-mortem retribution (2.156–57). Josephus’s own oration against suicide
similarly tempers its hope in immortality with a fear of post-mortem punish-
ments for those who sin (3.374–75). Eleazar’s appeal to immortality, however,
lacks any concern with punishments for wicked souls.
Other variables have been adduced to explain the difference between
Josephus’s speech against suicide and Eleazar’s speech in favor of it.61 But I
would suggest that the difference just described may well be the most impor-
tant one. Josephus wants his readers (at least the careful Jewish ones among
them) to understand that Eleazar’s life-negating, other-worldly afterlife—
58 On this passage, see Beall, Josephus’ Description, 105–108; Elledge, Life after Death, 57–59,
and Mason, Judean War 2, 123–28.
59 Again, the historicity of these events need not detain us. On Josephus’s speech against
suicide in relation to the Masada story, see Elledge, Life after Death, 67–69; Gray, Prophetic
Figures, 44–52; Kelley, “Cosmopolitan Expression,” 271–73, and Ladouceur, “Masada: A
Consideration.”
60 In addition to the notes in LCL ad loc., see Ladouceur, “Masada: A Consideration,”
Menahem Luz, “Eleazar’s Second Speech on Masada and its Literary Precedents,”
Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 126 (1983): 25–43, and Menahem Stern, “The Suicide of
Eleazar ben Jair and his Men at Masada, and the ‘Fourth Philosophy’ ” [Hebrew], Zion 47,
no. 4 (1982): 367–98 (esp. 376–78). Stern notes, among other texts, Philo’s discussions of
Indian suicidal behavior: Abraham 182–83 and Good Person 96.
61 In particular, a number of scholars focus on the variable of “necessity”: in Josephus’s
speech, suicide at Jotapata was not necessary (3.365), while in Eleazar’s, suicide at Masada
has become so (7.358–60, 370). Elledge, Life after Death, 73; cf. also Brighton, The Sicarii,
119–29; Droge and Tabor, Noble Death, 94–96, and Kelley, “Cosmopolitan Expression,” 272;
for a fuller discussion of the concept (and its Platonic background) see Droge and Tabor,
Noble Death, 21–22, 31–35.
298 Klawans
unbalanced by a fear of post-mortem retribution—is a dangerous component

of his fratricidal refusal to submit to Rome. Those who view life as misfortune
(7.343, cf. 358), pinning their hopes on a seemingly ensured other-worldly incor-
poreal afterlife, will be all too quick to risk leaving it, forcing others, including
women and children, to quit this world prematurely as well. Josephus made
other decisions in his life, and it may be no accident that his doing so coincides
with his agreement with the Essenes and Pharisees about the punishments
that await the wicked after death.
5 Conclusions
It is hoped that the typology presented here can facilitate a broader compar-
ison (and contrast) among various types of noble deaths in Second Temple
literature in general, and in Josephus in particular.
For Josephus, the moderate, priestly victims of sacrilegious murder merit
eulogies of the highest praise. Jews—like the Maccabees—willing to fight
heroically until death are also worthy of praise, though Josephus makes no
effort to hide these figures’ strategic miscalculations or previous shortcomings.
Josephus appears to be even more equivocal regarding martyrdom. The will-
ingness of the Essenes in particular to submit to and endure tortures certainly
impresses the historian, and he expects it to impact his readers as well. And
certainly he expects that there are situations when Jews should submit to
death rather than betray their laws or freedom. But there is no full-blown mar-
tyrdom in Josephus’s works: there is simply no case where a virtuous Jewish
person submits to death at the hands of foreign oppressors that in turn leads
to a positive outcome for the Jewish people. In Josephus—quite unlike 2 and
4 Maccabees—God is not swayed to compassion by the worldly, sacrificial suf-
fering of righteous heroes. It is the inversion of this pattern that is operative
in Josephus: the sacrilegious murders of worthy priests and prophets conjures
God’s wrath, bringing on doom for the Jewish people. If 2 and 4 Maccabees can
be called Jewish ‘martyrologies,’ we can perhaps capture the similarities and
differences by referring to Jewish War as a ‘murderology.’
The murder-suicides of Masada don’t quite fit any of these patterns, but
seem to be a hybrid of two other motifs. In general, mass suicide is a stock
element of a decisive defeat, and so it makes sense that the final defeat of the
Jews will include suicide as well. Murder-suicide though is a special case for
Josephus. The case will not fit into any typology of ‘noble deaths,’ for there is
nothing noble about the murder-suicides. They are, rather, the ignoble end of
lives unjustly lived, with the additional suffering of innocent (or less guilty)
women and children thrown in. The murderer-suicides lose their lives and
their progeny all at once, thus ensuring one of the punishments promised to
all who choose suicide—the visitation of the crime upon the future generation
( J.W. 3.375). Those who do so will also surely be denied the beatific immortal-
ity they hope for. Ironically, they suffer instead the post-mortem punishments
they don’t even acknowledge.
CHAPTER 12
The Lament of the Martyrs and the Literature

of Destruction (Rev 6:10)
William Morrow
Sovereign Lord, holy and true, how long will it be before you judge and
avenge our blood on the inhabitants of the earth?
Rev 6:101
⸪
It is a pleasure to honor Alan Segal, with whom I have enjoyed many a conver-
sation at meetings of the Canadian Society of Biblical Studies and the Society
of Biblical Literature. Segal’s work has described a wide range of developments
in Judaism and Christianity during the Second Temple period and beyond.
One of the virtues of his treatment of Revelation 6:10 was to situate it in evolv-
ing and contested concepts of the afterlife that characterized early Judaism.2
My aim is to follow Segal’s lead and locate the martyred saints’ prayer within
an extensive context of Jewish discourse. This will entail describing its connec-
tions with two different categories. One of these is the rhetoric of lament. A
study of the closest parallels to this prayer will underscore its unique charac-
teristics. It stands out among laments found in late Second Temple literature
because of the vehemence of its protest against God. This feature requires an
explanation that can be found by situating it in a second category of Jewish
rhetoric that David Roskies calls “the literature of destruction.”3
The Jewish background of motifs and images found in Rev 6:9–11 has been
described by a number of scholars besides Segal. In fact, there is extensive
documentation of parallels to these verses including the concept of a heavenly
1 N RSV.
2 Alan F. Segal, Life after Death: A History of the Afterlife in the Religions of the West (New York:
Doubleday, 2004), 484–85.
3 David G. Roskies, The Literature of Destruction: Jewish Responses to Catastrophe (Philadelphia:
Jewish Publication Society of America, 1988).

Lament of the Martyrs and the Literature of Destruction 301
temple,4 the presence of the souls of martyrs under its altar,5 and the prayer
for justice.6 I am offering this study, however, because there are additional
dimensions to the Jewish background of the scene portrayed when the fifth
seal is opened besides those that have been observed. This is the only prayer
of collective protest found in the New Testament.7 It is also the only prayer
of supplication found in the book of Revelation.8 Although connections with
the rhetoric of biblical lament have been noted,9 the cry of the martyrs in 6:10
has not been fully contextualized within the Jewish tradition of arguing with
God. Moreover, while this prayer is a call for justice, it should also be seen as
a response to the breakdown of a theological paradigm which has analogies
elsewhere in Jewish literature.
One feature of the religious background to this text needs to be addressed
before proceeding. Should one assume that those who were killed were wit-
nesses for Jesus, the Christ? While a majority of commentators would identify
the slaughtered saints of Revelation 6 as early Christians, this identification
has not gone unchallenged.10 In 2001, John Marshall published a strong defense
for the thesis that a number of problems involved in interpreting the book of
Revelation could be solved by assuming that the community that generated
4 For example, R. H. Charles, The Revelation of St. John, ICC 44, 2 vols. (New York: Scribner’s
Sons, 1910), 1:172; David E. Aune, Revelation 6–16, WBC 52B (Nashville: Nelson, 1998),
405–406.
5 Most extensively in Christian Grappe, “L’Immolation terrestre comme gage de la com-
munion céleste,” RHPR 79 (1999): 72–78.
6 For example, J. Massyngberde Ford, Revelation, AB 38 (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1975),
110–111; Aune. Revelation 6–16, 407–09.
7 For a study of allusions to collective lament in the New Testament, see William S. Morrow,
Protest against God: The Eclipse of a Biblical Tradition, Hebrew Bible Monographs 4
(Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2006), 173–75.
8 John Paul Heil, “The Fifth Seal (Rev 6,9–11) as a Key to the Book of Revelation,” Bib 74
(1993): 242.
9 For example, Édouard Cothenet, “La prière des Saints dans l’Apocalypse,” in Saints et
sainteté dans la liturgie, ed. Achille M. Triacca and Alessandro Pistoria, Bibliotheca
Ephemerides Liturgicae 40 (Rome: CLV-Edizioni Liturgiche, 1987), 47; A. Feuillet, “Les
martyrs de l’humanité et l’Agneau égorgé,” NRTh 99, no. 2 (1977): 198; Grant R. Osborne,
Revelation, BECNT (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2002), 286; Rainer Schwindt, “Der
Klageruf der Märtyer: Exegetische und theologische Überlegungen zu Offb 6,9–11. Teil 1,”
BN 141 (2009): 125.
10 See, e.g., Massyngberde Ford, Revelation, 110–11 (the martyrs may only be Jewish not
Christian) and A. Feuillet, “Les martyrs de l’humanité et L’Agneau egorgé,” 194 (all pre-
Christian martyrs without exception).
302 Morrow
the text was Jewish, not Christian.11 I take seriously the implication that one
may do damage to the interpretation of John’s Apocalypse by anachronistic
assumptions about divisions between Judaism and Christianity in the first
century CE. On the other hand, Édouard Cothenet is correct to point out the
cardinal role given to the messianic figure in Revelation in comparison with
other Jewish apocalypses.12 With regard to the origins of the book, I adopt the
conception that Revelation reflects the thought of a group centered on the
Christ-event, but which was not necessarily aware of itself as deviating from
a Jewish matrix. For that reason, it is appropriate to evoke Jewish patterns of
thought while continuing to read the central figure of the Apocalypse, the
lamb that was slain, as Jesus.
1 Revelation 6:10 as a Lament
The cry of the martyrs in Rev 6:10 belongs to a genre of biblical discourse vari-
ously called lament, prayers of complaint,13 the arguing with God tradition,14
and protest prayer.15 For the sake of variety, I will use these terms somewhat
interchangeably. The arguing with God tradition has various manifestations in
the Hebrew Bible and later developments. Prayers of lament are marked by a
number of stereotypical elements including address, complaint, (expressions
of) trust, and petition.16 These elements are common in psalms of individual
and communal lament composed for liturgical usage. The prayer of the mur-
dered saints in Rev 6:10, however, is missing a key element from the typical
lament psalm paradigm. While there is address to God reinforced by a motif
of trust (“Sovereign Lord, holy and true”) and a complaining question (“how
long will it be before you judge and avenge our blood on the inhabitants of the
earth”), petition is absent. The form of Rev 6:10 can be explained, however, by
the recognition that there exists in early Jewish literature a well attested rheto-
ric of complaint in which the petition is not explicit. To distinguish this form of
11 John W. Marshall, Parables of War: Reading John’s Jewish Apocalypse, SSEJC 10 (Waterloo:
Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2001), 6–9.
12 Cothenet, “La prière des Saints dans l’Apocalypse,” 53.
13 John Day, Psalms, OTG (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992), 20.
14 Anson Laytner, Arguing with God: A Jewish Tradition (Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson, 1990),
xvii–xviii.
15 Craig C. Broyles, The Conflict of Faith and Experience in the Psalms: A Form-Critical and
Theological Study, JSOTSup 52 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1989), 52; David R. Blumenthal,
Facing the Abusing God: A Theology of Protest (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1993),
249–52.
16 Morrow, Protest against God, 8–11.
the arguing with God tradition from those with petitions, I will refer to prayers
such as Rev 6:10 as examples of ‘informal lament.’17
Writers in both the Hebrew Bible and in intertestamental literature consid-
ered the communication of a request, motivated by complaint, to be a com-
mon form of speech and suitable for various kinds of social interchanges. In
human interactions, lament is used especially in petitions or requests when
the person addressed is connected to the cause of the petitioner’s distress.18
There is a tendency for a request to remain unstated when the solution to the
dilemma is implied by the element of complaint.19 The same form also appears
in prayers in a number of early Jewish texts; there are examples in the Hebrew
Bible, intertestamental literature, and in rabbinic sources.20
Equally important for a consideration of form is the type of complaint itself.
The complaints expressed in protest prayers can be classified into one of three
categories: laments about personal suffering, enemies, or complaints against
God. It is typical to find God-complaint in both statements (e.g., Pss 44:10–15;
102:11, 24; Lam 3:43–44) and questions predicated of God (e.g., Pss 13:2; 74:11).21
Following Claus Westermann, questions in laments using the words ‘How
long?’ and ‘Why?’ (or complaints that imply a why-question) may be analyzed
as expressions of protest about divine actions or inactivity.22 The ‘how long’
question marks the prayer in Rev 6:10 as a form of complaint against God.23
But where are the closest parallels to Rev 6:10 in late Second Temple
sources? David Aune suggests that the martyrs’ lament in Rev 6:10 presup-
poses a type-scene in which subjects appeal to a king for satisfaction. He notes
17 Morrow, Protest against God, 13.

18 Erhard Gerstenberger, Der bittende Mensch: Bittritual und Klagelied des Einzelnen im Alten
Testament, WMANT 51 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1980), 47–48.
19 For example, Exod 5:15–16; Num 22:28; Josh 17:14; 2 Sam 20:18–19; 1 Kgs 1:24–27; 17:18; 2 Kgs
2:19; 4:1, 28, 40; 6:5, 15; Mark 4:38.
20 Biblical examples: Josh 7:7–9; Judg 6:13; Isa 6:11a; Jer 4:10; Ezek 11:13; Hab 1:2–4, 12–17.
Examples in the Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha: 2 Esd 5:23–30; 6:38–59; 1 Macc 2:7–13;
3:50–53; Sus 42–43. Rabbinic examples are found in the “law-court” patterns of prayer
identified by Joseph Heinemann (Prayer in the Talmud: Forms and Patterns, SJ 9 [Berlin:
de Gruyter, 1977], 191–217), e.g., b. Taʿan. 24b, 25a.
21 Broyles, Conflict of Faith and Experience, 37–39; Walter Gross, “Trifft ein Unglück die Stadt,
und der Herr war nicht am Werk? Amos 3,6,” in Angesichts des Leids an Gott glauben? Zur
Theologie der Klage, ed. G. Fuchs (Frankfurt am Main: Knecht, 1996), 97–98.
22 Claus Westermann, Praise and Lament in the Psalms (Atlanta: John Knox, 1981), 176–78,
183–84; see also Broyles, Conflict of Faith and Experience, 37–39.
23 Morrow, Protest against God, 9. Informal laments using “how long” include Isa 6:11 and
Hab 1:2. “How long” protests are common in lament psalms: Pss 6:4; 13:2–3; 35:17; 74:10;
79:5; 80:5; 89:47; 90:13; 94:3.
304 Morrow
arallels both in 1 Macc 6:22, in which subjects of king Eupator demand inter-
p
vention in the Maccabees’ siege on the citadel in Jerusalem, and prayers for
vengeance on contemporary Jewish tombstones.24 The prayers for revenge
on the gravestones are not framed as complaint against God, however; and it
is not axiomatic that rhetoric used against a human king would be applied
without modification to the God of Israel in the late Second Temple period.
Elsewhere I have discussed at length the disappearance of the complaint
against God in later Second Temple literature (including the New Testament).
A study of Jewish literature from the time of Daniel through to the end of the
Second Temple period will show that no formal complaint prayers of the type
known from the lament psalms were being composed for worship. Even liter-
ary imitations of biblical laments do not usually engage in complaint against
God. Motifs of God-complaint typically occur only in apocalyptic literature
(the exceptions from 1 Maccabees will be discussed below).25
Revelation 6:10 stands out from many informal prayers of complaint in bib-
lical and extra-biblical literature not only because of its generic context but
also because of where the argument with God is located. This is not a lament
uttered on earth but in some transcendent locale, as the souls of the murdered
saints cry out for justice from under a heavenly altar. There are biblical paral-
lels in Zech 1:12; Dan 8:13; 12:6; but the extra-biblical parallels in 2 Esd 4:35 and
1 Enoch 9; 22; and 47 are closer due to the type of petitioner involved.
The three biblical examples all involve angelic petitioners. In these cases the
narrator relates a vision in which a celestial being is heard to complain about
the delay in salvation for Israel. The ‘how long’ lament is answered by a divine
voice (in the case of Zechariah) or another heavenly personage who provides
an indication of when the end of Israel’s affliction will be at hand (Daniel).
Examples from the Pseudepigrapha involve not only a lament in an unearthly
locale but one that arises from a quest for divine justice on the part of the dead.
As in Rev 6:10, there is a record of a lament from the righteous dead in 2 Esdras
4:35. It is introduced in 2 Esdras 4:33 when Ezra protests to the angel who is
counseling him to wait for the harvest at the end of time: “How long? When
will these things be? Why are our years few and evil?” (NRSV) The angelic reply
admonishes Ezra by reminding him of an earlier response to the petition of
the souls of the righteous, “How long are we to remain here? And when will the
harvest of our reward come?” (2 Esd 4:35): they are told by an archangel that
24 Aune, Revelation, 408. The tombstones are from Delos and date from the 2nd or 1st cent.
BCE; see Adolf Deissmann, Light from the Ancient East, 2nd ed. (London: Hodder &
Stoughton, 1911), 423–435.
they must wait until their allotted number had been reached, a theme paral-
leled in Rev 6:11. Second Esdras depicts a kind of intermediate condition of the
afterlife, in which souls rest while awaiting the final consummation of the age.
The angel’s reference to the prayer of the souls of the righteous suggests that
the writer of 2 Esd 4:35–36 was drawing on a pre-existing source, but this refer-
ence can no longer be identified.26
First Enoch 22 reports a vision of the after-life. Shown the repositories
where the souls of the dead wait for the final judgment, the visionary narrator
hears a human voice complaining to heaven. The content of this lament is not
given directly. The angelic interlocutor reveals that this is the (collective) voice
of Abel, crying for justice until Cain and his descendents are destroyed. The
experience prompts the visionary to ask his angelic guide for further informa-
tion regarding the divisions between souls in their intermediate state and the
coming judgment of human beings.
First Enoch 9 combines the motifs of human and angelic complaint. A
voice pleading for deliverance from the supernaturally begotten giants who
are wreaking destruction on the earth in the pre-deluge era is heard in heaven;
but it is mediated by angelic beings who bring the human lament to the divine
throne. As in the case of 1 Enoch 22, this complaint comes from the souls of the
dead.27 First Enoch 9 alludes to this lament by quoting their petition, “Bring
our judgment before the Most High” (v. 3).28 The angels’ request for divine
action, however, employs a rather full form of informal lament. After a lengthy
address (vv. 4–5), complaint is made with no explicit petition. The angels’ argu-
mentative prayer reflects the three-fold division of laments in the psalms. A
description of the predations of the rebel angels (vv. 6–9, enemy complaint)
and a statement about the sufferings of human beings (v. 10) ends with God-
lament (v. 11): “And you know everything (even) before it came to existence and
you see (this thing) (but) you do not tell us what is proper for us that we may
do regarding it.”29 As the divine response in 1 Enoch 10 shows, the complaint is
both about the delay of judgment and the fact that the manner in which it will
be executed has not been revealed.
First Enoch 47 shows a number of affinities with Rev 6:9–11, including a
vision of a community around the throne that mediates the prayer for justice
26 Michael E. Stone, Fourth Ezra (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), 96.

27 A POT and OTP agree that lament in 1 Enoch 9:3 comes from the “souls of men/the people.”
While there is a textual problem in 1 Enoch 9:10, both translations concur that the com-
plaint mediated by the angels is from those who have died.
28 O TP 1:16–17.
29 O TP 1:17.
306 Morrow
(v. 2), an allusion to the plea of the righteous for justice in the near future (v. 2),
a throne of judgment (v. 3), and opened books (v. 3). This chapter constitutes
a middle section in a portion of the book that extends from 1 Enoch 46–48.
Throughout these chapters the focus is on a Son of Man figure who will judge
the rulers of the world, vindicate the righteous, and become a light to the
Gentiles. As with 2 Esdras 4 and Revelation 6, this passage conveys the idea
that the final judgment remains in abeyance until a set number of the righ-
teous have been killed.30
Scholars debate the nuances of the saints’ prayer in Rev 6:10, but there is
general agreement that it should be understood as an appeal for the exercise of
divine justice.31 The same can be said for its parallels in both biblical and extra-
biblical apocalyptic literature. Where the lament in Rev 6:10 distinguishes itself,
however, is with its forceful call for vengeance in the form of God-complaint.
The demand that God “judge and avenge our blood” is far more direct than in
the other apocalyptic texts that have been surveyed. A comparison with those
which contain the most similar demands underscores the difference, as the
corresponding complaints about indiscriminate slaughter are only described
(instead of being cited) in 1 Enoch 22 or obliquely mentioned in 1 Enoch 9
and 47. How is one to explain the stark nature of the appeal for divine retribu-
tion in Rev 6:10, an appeal that is either only alluded to or muted in its closest
parallels?
2 Revelation 6:10 and the Literature of Destruction
A key to answering the question posed above may be found in the recogni-
tion of an allusion between Rev 6:10 and a petition found in the communal
lament of Psalm 79:10, “Let the avenging of the outpoured blood of your ser-
vants be known among the nations before our eyes” (NRSV).32 This petition
appears in the context of a communal lament protesting the destruction of
the First Temple.33 Desecration and destruction of the temple also emerges
as the occasion in which reticence against using God-lament in extra-biblical
Jewish literature of the Second Temple era was overcome. The reemergence of
30 Schwindt, “Der Klagruf der Märtyer. Teil I,” 128.

31 Feuillet, “Les martyrs de l’humanité,” 198; Osborne, Revelation, 286–88.
32 The significance of this parallel is also noted by Osborne, Revelation, 287; Schwindt, “Der
Klageruf der Märtyrer. Teil 1,” 125.
33 Morrow, Protest against God, 95.
protest against God in such circumstances can be illustrated by considering

two prayers of informal lament found in 1 Maccabees.
First Maccabees 3:49–53 contains a fragment of community lament. It is
difficult to determine who utters this prayer, although the priestly family of the
Maccabees appears to be in a prominent position of leadership. The lament is
framed with questions directed towards God (vv. 50, 53). In between the frame
of questions to God, there is complaint about the desolation of the sanctuary
(v. 51) and the threats of the enemy (v. 52). The circumstances suggest deliber-
ate ritual action. The text reads,
They also brought the vestments of the priesthood and the first fruits
and the tithes, and they stirred up the nazirites who had completed their
days; and they cried aloud to Heaven saying, “What shall we do with
these? Where shall we take them? Your sanctuary is trampled down and
profaned, and your priests mourn in humiliation. Here the Gentiles are
assembled against us to destroy us; you know what they plot against us.
How will we be able to withstand them, if you do not help us? (NRSV)
This prayer for help is motivated by questions directed at God, a classic tactic
of the lament genre.
Another example of the self-contained lament form in a prayer occurs in
1 Macc 2.7–13. There is no address to God, but the speech is bracketed by two
why-questions (marks of the complaint against God):
Alas! Why was I born to see this, the ruin of my people, the ruin of the holy
city, and to dwell there when it was given over to the enemy, the sanctu-
ary given over to aliens? (v. 7) . . . Why should we live any longer? (v. 13)
The speaker is the priest Matthias, father of the Maccabees. The prayer is spo-
ken in the presence of Matthias’s sons who, together with their father, tear their
clothes and don sackcloth in mourning after Matthias has uttered his lament.
In view of its collective reference in v. 13 and the fact that the chief object of
sorrow is the temple, this complaint can be viewed as a lament of the covenant
mediator. The narrative in 1 Maccabees 2 indicates a spontaneous act of prayer,
which accords with the circumstances under which informal lament often is
uttered in biblical contexts.34
The God-lament in 1 Maccabees reveals that restraints imposed on pro-
test against God in later Second Temple times were weakened in situations

308 Morrow
of extreme national catastrophe. In the case of 1 Maccabees, this catastrophe

was related to the desecration of the institution that symbolized the divine
presence in the midst of Israel: the temple. Second Temple literature preferred
to explain the misfortunes of Israel through the lens of a penitential theology.
Through generations of exile, Jews assumed that God remained committed
to being present to the world and to Israel.35 Penitential prayer may mourn
the loss of land and temple, but it continued to assume that there was a deity
to pray to, a God who somehow remained present to the community. This
assumption was undermined, however, when the very institution that medi-
ated the divine presence was devastated. At that point, penitence gave way
to protest.
Such protests are to be understood in terms of the basic conditions under
which the God-Israel relationship was thought to operate. Ancient Jews
believed that God had authored Israel’s history and created all of its funda-
mental structures. It was a contradiction in terms that Israel should disappear,
or that the institutions that mediated or gave access to the divine presence
should be destroyed. By the very virtue of creating them, Israel’s deity had a
responsibility to ensure their continuity.36 This logic underlies not only the
protests against God in collective complaint prayers in the Bible, but also those
in extra-biblical texts.
It is no wonder, therefore, that late Second Temple complaint motifs tended
to coalesce in apocalyptic literature. The ‘how long’ laments listed above have
a point of convergence in the destruction or desecration of the Jerusalem tem-
ple. While Daniel registered horror at the desecration of the Second Temple
and persecution under the Seleucids, 2 Esdras stemmed from the aftermath of
the destruction of the Jerusalem temple in 70 CE. These observations raise a
question with respect to Rev 6:10 which, to the best of my knowledge, has not
been addressed in the secondary literature. Should one not locate the context
of the protest prayer of its slaughtered saints in a similar fashion? The strong
language of this prayer suggests that a significant crisis had overtaken the wor-
shipping community. Was it only a question of justice delayed?
In my opinion, the lament of the murdered saints in Revelation 6 registers a
deep concern for the absence of a vital means by which God was made present
to the world, just as the ‘how long’ questions in Daniel and 2 Esdras are con-
nected to the loss of the temple. In the case of Revelation, however, the loss is
connected with the massacre of the saints themselves. My thesis requires the
assumption, therefore, that the readers of Revelation conceived of the com-
munity of faith as a kind of metaphorical temple. If so, then the destruction of
35 Max Kadushin, The Rabbinic Mind, 3rd ed. (New York: Bloch, 1972), 223–24.
the faithful community could be understood as analogous to the destruction

of the temple.
The first claim is not difficult to prove. Metaphorical equations between the
temple and the community of faith are present both in the New Testament
and at Qumran. According to the Manual of Discipline, the community is ana-
logically conceived as a temple wherein divine truth reposes; in place of the
sacrificial cult stands correct interpretation and observance of the divine law,
and prayer (1QS 8:4–10; 9:3–6). Paul’s Corinthian correspondence also under-
scores the equivalency of the community of believers and the temple of God
(1 Cor 3:16; 2 Cor 6:14–16).37
But would Jews (or early Christians identified with a Jewish matrix) envis-
age the annihilation of a worshipping community as tantamount to the
destruction of the temple itself, and would that destruction in turn lead to
lament? These questions can also be answered affirmatively, but to do so one
has to look at a body of Jewish poetry considerably removed from the book of
Revelation in time and place.
After Second Temple times, complaint prayer was by and large absent in
standard Jewish liturgies and prayer.38 The first significant exception to this
situation occurred during the Crusades. I have described the revival of lament
in Jewish worship during this period in a recent article.39 Various elements of
complaint rhetoric can be found in liturgical poems (piyyuṭîm) composed in
response to the devastations of the Crusades. As in the case of biblical laments,
some of these poems contain accusatory questions directed at God. For exam-
ple, towards the end of the piyyuṭ, “I said, ‘Look away from me,’ ” a complaint
against God appears using a ‘how long’ question: “How long will you be like a
warrior powerless to save?”40
Another liturgical poem that registers protest against God is Isaac bar
Shalom’s, “There is no one like you among the dumb.”41 The events it records
reflect a common pattern of the times. During the Crusades many Jewish
37 Neil S. Fujita, A Crack in the Jar: What Ancient Jewish Documents Tell Us about the New
Testament (New York: Paulist Press, 1986), 140–45.
38 David Kraemer, Responses to Suffering in Classical Rabbinic Literature (New York: Oxford
University Press, 1995), 216–19.
39 William Morrow, “The Revival of Lament in Medieval Piyyuṭîm,” in Lamentations in
Ancient and Contemporary Contexts, ed. Nancy Lee and Carleen Mandolfo, SBL SymS 43
(Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2008), 139–50.
40 Abraham Rosenfeld, ed., The Authorised Kinot for the Ninth of Av (London: Labworth &
Co., 1965), 141.
41 Translations appear in Jakob J. Petuchowski, Theology and Poetry: Studies in the Medieval
Piyyut, Littman Library of Jewish Civilization (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1978),
74–77; Roskies, Literature of Destruction, 83–85; and Morrow, “Revival of Lament,” 146–50.
310 Morrow
c ommunities in France and Germany were destroyed, with German Jews being
especially hard hit. Usually the Christian mob offered Jews a choice between
conversion and death. Faced with these alternatives, Jews, for the most part,
opted for death, connoted by the term for martyrdom: “sanctification of the
name.” Jewish men would kill their women and children and then kill them-
selves if they did not first fall victim to the mob, which would then proceed to
destroy copies of the Torah and Talmud.42
The phrase, “There is no one like you among the dumb,” is a paraphrase of
Ps 86:8 that served to protest the rape of the Second Temple in rabbinic exege-
sis (b. Giṭ 56b). Divine absence during the atrocities of the Romans was thereby
obliquely criticized. But the medieval Jewish poem that begins with this line is
far more explicit. Generous citations from the biblical lament genre are used
to motivate the poem’s criticism of God, its description of the suffering of the
people, and concluding petitions for salvation and revenge.
The revival of lament at this time is related to the fact that the Crusaders
destroyed Jewish communities in northern Europe known for their piety and
Torah scholarship. The explanation of this violence as due to divine judgment
strained credibility. One consequence of the failure of an appeal to divine judg-
ment was the revival of the image of the Aqedah, the binding of Isaac, as a way
of understanding the devastation of Jewish communities by the Crusades.43
But the other association made was with the destruction of the Temple itself.
Of course, the temple was a powerful symbol of the presence of God in the
midst of the people. Rabbinic Judaism believed that the same presence was
guaranteed by the study of Torah and Talmud.44 For these collective institu-
tions to be violently eliminated was to threaten the very foundation of the God-
Israel relationship. With Torah scrolls and Talmuds destroyed and no learned
scholars to expound them, God’s presence was not simply attenuated—it was
decisively removed. Hence, there was a breakdown in the assumptive world
of medieval Judaism as devastating as the loss of the Temple. It could be met,
however, by reviving symbols in the tradition which responded to such a loss
in earlier times: community lament.
According to Roskies, “There is none like you among the dumb” is an expres-
sion of the literature of destruction, which reflects a patterned response to
experiences of communal annihilation in Jewish history. This pattern contains
four components:
42 Petuchowski, Theology and Poetry, 81.

43 Yosef H. Yerushalmi, Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory (Seattle: University of
Washington, 1982), 38–39.
44 Kadushin, The Rabbinic Mind, 213–14.
. . . a founding document, the Hebrew Bible, in which the covenantal

scheme was laid out for all times to come; a set of historical archetypes,
some biblical, some post-biblical, that could be reapplied to all future
events; sanctioned vehicles for expressing one’s rage both against God
and the gentiles; and an evolving set of rituals designed to rehearse all
catastrophes and persecutions.45
Roskies’s reasons for anthologizing “There is none like you among the dumb”
follow from his typology. Isacc bar Shalom’s poem is clearly grounded on the
covenantal thought of the Hebrew Bible; it appeals to a well-known biblical
archetype, the motif of temple destruction; it uses a well-attested vehicle of
protest, the genre of communal complaint; and is expressed in a liturgical form
that was used through time.46 Other complaining poetry from the same era
remains read to this day in the liturgies of the Ninth of Av.
Roskies does not include early Jewish apocalyptic literature in his anthol-
ogy with the exception of the battle against Gog and Magog in Ezekiel 38. It
is possible, however, to apply his typology of the literature of destruction to a
text such as Rev 6:9–11. In the first place, this is a book which clearly reflects
the influence of the Hebrew Bible as a founding document. For example, the
breaking of the first four seals which sets loose the four horsemen of the apoc-
alypse in Rev 6:1–8 inaugurates a series of plagues which reflect the results of
broken covenants in biblical imagery.47
Secondly, Revelations also draws on an analogy between the temple and
the community of faith.48 In other words, this prayer relies on an historical
archetype grounded in biblical thought. This is reinforced by the placement
of the murdered saints under the altar of the heavenly temple (Rev 6:9). There
are a number of parallels in Jewish literature to the idea that martyrdom rep-
resents a kind of sacrifice.49
45 Roskies, Literature of Destruction, 3–4.

46 According to Petuchowski (Theology and Poetry, 81), the poem was preserved in Ashkenazi
liturgies that commemorated the destruction of Jewish communities in the Rhineland.
This commemoration took place in services between Passover and the Festival of Weeks.
47 Gordon Campbell, “Findings, Seals, Trumpets, and Bowls: Variations upon the Theme of
Covenant Rupture and Restoration in the Book of Revelation,” WTJ 66 (2004): 83.
48 Cf., e.g., George E. Ladd, A Commentary on the Book of Revelation (Grand Rapids:
Eerdmans, 1972), 103 and Edmondo F. Lupieri, A Commentary on the Apocalypse of John
(Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006), 145.
49 Grappe, “L’Immolation terrestre,” 72–77.
312 Morrow
Thirdly, as I have shown, Rev 6:10 reflects a sanctioned vehicle for expressing
rage against both God and the enemies of the community by using the rhetoric
of lament.
At first glance, an association of the cry of the martyrs with Roskies’s fourth
characteristic of the literature of destruction seems rather weak. On what basis
can one hold that it was contained in a form that was liturgically rehearsed or
remembered? One should recall, however, that apocalyptic texts were widely
copied and circulated in Jewish and Christian contexts in the late Second
Temple period and beyond.50 In fact, the book of Revelation was disseminated
in both Asia and the West during the 2nd century CE.51
It may seem far-reaching to relate the background of the complaint
prayer in Rev 6:10 to Jewish prayers written more than a thousand years later.
Nevertheless, I suggest that there is a similar logic at work. The destruction of
the worshipping community represents not only an injustice but also a crisis in
the divine economy in both cases. One of the functions of the cry of the mar-
tyrs in Rev 6:10 is to protest that the violence permitted in the earth through
the opening of the first four seals effectively eliminates God’s presence from
the world.52
This observation raises the question as to whether one should imagine the
prayer was written against a background of real persecution or not. The ques-
tion has become more complicated now that the assumption of a persecution
under Diocletian is doubtful.53 On the one hand, the sharpness of the protest
in Rev 6:10 suggests an experience of collective slaughter quite fresh in the
minds of the writers. On the other hand, there are substantial indications that
Revelation was written in anticipation of a coming persecution of Christians.54
If so, then the memory of past experiences of community devastation (e.g.,
associated with the Neronian persecution and/or the Jewish Wars) remained
acute enough to inform a future anticipation of mass slaughter. In that case, it
was probably the intensity of the persecution rather than its extent that was
the operative factor in preserving its memory. The lament poetry of Jewish
communities from the medieval Rhineland is instructive in this regard. It
50 See D. S. Russell, The Method and Message of Jewish Apocalyptic (Philadelphia:
Westminster, 1964), 29.
51 Adela Yarbro Collins, “Revelation, Book of,” ABD 5:695.
52 For a logical connection between the first five seals, see Heil, “The Fifth Seal,” 222–23.
53 Ian Boxall, Revelation: Vision and Insight. An Introduction to the Apocalypse (London:
SPCK, 2002), 98.
54 Richard Bauckham, The Theology of the Book of Revelation (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1993), 93.
was not the fact that many Jews were eliminated from Europe but that cer-
tain communities were totally eliminated that called forth the protest against
divine absence.
Of course, many commentators on this passage are aware of a connection
between the delay in the exercise of divine justice and the perceived absence
of God. But I wish to sharpen this connection by suggesting that the form of
the prayer used to motivate divine action assumes that God not only has an
obligation to vindicate the community but also to preserve it. In other words,
there is an implied criticism of divine providence in Rev 6:10 that is stronger
than many commentators recognize.55 When the very community that embod-
ies God’s presence on earth is slaughtered indiscriminately by the state, divine
absence becomes reified. There is a place in such experiences for outrage as
well as acquiescence to the fate of the Lamb.
There are other indications of implied critique in the book. Elsewhere
Revelation shows itself aware of the question of divine absence, as can be seen
in repeated references to the soon expected parousia.56 I am also struck by the
repeated visions of divine presence in the heavenly realm. References to the
divine temple are common, as are visions of angelic beings and other worship-
pers around the heavenly throne. Such strong imagery of transcendent pres-
ence implicitly contrasts with the lot of God’s people on earth, which was likely
anything but heavenly. The lament of the martyrs in Rev 6:10 also implies that
there is awareness of a profound gap between earthly and heavenly reality.57
In summary, my interpretation of the prayer in Rev 6:10 as an expression
of outrage by a worshipping community mourning its own destruction rests
on the perception of a crisis in the divine economy. No less than the medi-
eval Jewish communities in the Rhineland or those who cherished the Second
Temple in Jerusalem, the grieving saints of Revelation assumed that God was
obliged to remain present to the community of faith. Conceived as a meta-
phorical temple, their annihilation represented a breakdown in the ways in
which God was present to his people. A protest of this breakdown is implied
in the complaint of the murdered saints of Revelation 6. This prayer, therefore,
participates in two well-attested genres of Jewish literature: lament and the
literature of destruction.
55 Cf., e.g., Schwindt, “Der Klageruf der Märtyrer,” 123–25.

56 Cothenet, “Prière des saints,” 48; cf. Rev 1:3, 7; 2:16; 10:7; 22:17–20.
57 Cothenet, “Prière des saints,” 48.
CHAPTER 13
A Rabbinic Translation of Relics

Jeffrey L. Rubenstein*
Alan Segal’s rich scholarship has contributed a great deal to our under-
standing of the relationship between Judaism and Christianity in
antiquity. The present article, a modest contribution to these efforts, is
dedicated to his honor.
∵
Peter Brown’s work on Christianity in late antiquity, especially his studies
of the “holy man” and the “cult of relics,” revolutionized the understanding
of late antique spirituality and religion.1 Although Brown himself gave com-
paratively little attention to Judaism,2 other scholars applied Brown’s insights
to shed light on late antique Jewish sources in general and on rabbinic texts
in particular.3 More recently, a few scholars have noted impressive affinities
between the primary Christian texts themselves and rabbinic traditions, and
a great deal has been learned from the comparative study of the two bodies
* I am grateful to Michael Satlow and Adam Becker for reading drafts of this paper and provid-
ing many helpful comments, and to Serge Minov for his insightful observations and com-
ments and for providing copious bibliographical references. This paper was submitted in
2010, so the bibliography may not be up to date due to the long delay before publication.
1 Peter Brown, The Cult of Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity (Chicago: University
of Chicago Press, 1998); Brown, “The Rise and Function of the Holy Man in Late Antiquity,” in
Society and the Holy in Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982), 103–53.
2 See below, n. 21 and text thereto.
3 Marc Hirschman, “Moqdei qedusha mishtanim: honi unekhadav,” Tura 1 (1989): 113–16;
Richard Kalmin, “Holy Men, Sages, and Demonic Rabbis in Late Antiquity,” in Jewish Culture
and Society under the Christian Roman Empire, ed. Richard Kalmin and Seth Schwartz
(Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 211–49; David Levine, “Holy Men and Rabbis in Talmudic Antiquity,”
and Chana Safrai and Zeev Safrai, “Rabbinic Holy Men,” both in Saints and Role Models in
Judaism and Christianity, ed. Marcel Poorthuis and Joshua Schwartz (Leiden: Brill, 2004),
45–58 and 69–78.

A Rabbinic Translation Of Relics 315
of literature.4 In this essay I continue such scholarly efforts by analyzing two

rabbinic accounts of the death and burial of the sage R. Eleazar b. R. Shimon.
These accounts contain unusual, if not unprecedented, narrative elements and
motifs when assessed against the background of rabbinic sources. However,
the unusual elements can be understood in light of hagiographic accounts of
the death and burial of Christian holy men and martyrs. In particular, aspects
of the cult of relics and the practice of translation of the bones of martyrs and
holy men illuminate these anomalous rabbinic narratives.
Accounts of the death and burial of R. Eleazar b. R. Shimon appear in
Pesiqta de Rab Kahana 11:23 (henceforth, PRK) and Bavli Baba Meṣiʿa (hereaf-
ter abbreviated as b. B. Meṣ.) 84b.5 Shamma Friedman has shown that the Bavli
represents a secondary development of the PRK tradition.6 The Bavli redactors
possessed a series of stories of the life of R. Eleazar b. R. Shimon in substan-
tially the same order and form as currently found in the PRK, and then glossed,
reworked and changed the accounts for their own purposes. However, here I
am not interested as much in the genesis and development of the traditions
as in understanding both texts as redacted and transmitted, and therefore I
will discuss the two stories as independent versions. Let me emphasize that
we are not dealing with reliable historical accounts of the death of the real
R. Eleazar b. R. Shimon, who lived in the second century CE, but with later
(fictional) stories that should be dated to the period of the redaction of the
PRK and Bavli, the sixth or seventh century CE. The text of PRK, presented first,
is cited according to Mandelbaum’s critical edition; that of the Bavli is cited
according to the first printing (Venice, 1520.)7 Relevant manuscript variants of
the Bavli will be noted in the discussion below.
.‫ר׳ לעזר בר׳ שמעון אתשש ואתגליית אדרעה וחמא לאינתתיה דהות דחכא ובכייא‬
‫ דחכת דאמרת טוביי מה הוה‬.‫אמר לה חייך דאנא ידע למה דחכת וידע למה דבכיית‬
‫ ובכיית דאמרת ווי דהדין‬.‫ טוביי דאידבקית להדין גופא צדיקא‬,‫חלקי בהדין עלמא‬
‫ מדמוך אנא ברם רימה חס ושלום לית הוא מישלוט‬,‫ וכן הוא‬.‫גופא אזל לרימה‬
‫ דחד זמן הוינא עליל לכנשתא‬,‫ אלא חדא תולעת׳ דעתידא דנקרא אחורי אודני‬,‫בי‬
4 See, e.g., Eliezer Diamond, “Lions, Snakes, and Asses: Palestinian Jewish Holy Men as Masters
of the Animal Kingdom,” in Kalmin and Schwartz, Jewish Culture and Society, 254–83.
5 Pesiqta deRav Kahana, ed. Bernard Mandelbaum (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of
America, 1987), 198–200.
6 Shamma Friedman, “La’aggada hahistorit batalmud habavli,” in Saul Lieberman Memorial
Volume, ed. Shamma Friedman (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1993),
119–45.
7 I have filled out the abbreviations.
316 Rubenstein
‫ וכיון‬.‫ושמעת קלא דחד בר נש מחרף והווה ספיקא גבי למעבד ביה דינא ולא עבדית‬
‫ והוה ר׳ שמעון בן יוחי מתגלה על מרוניא ואמר להון‬.‫דדמך איתיהב בהדה גוש חלב‬
‫ והוון מרוניא אזלין בעיי למייתיה‬.‫הדה עין דימין דהוה אית לי לא זכית תתיהב גבי‬
‫ חד זמן בפניא דצומא רבא‬.‫ וגוש חלבאי נפקין בתריהון בחוטרייא ובמורנייתא‬.‫יתיה‬
‫ וכיון דנפקון לבר מן קרתא אתון תרין‬.‫אמרין הא עינתא דנייתיניה עד דאינון נקיים‬
‫ וכיון דמטון‬.‫ אמרין חכימא היא שעתא דאנן מייתי יתיה‬.‫חיוון דנורא מהלכין קדמיהון‬
‫ אמרה‬,‫ אמרין מן עליל מייתי ליה‬.‫למערתא קמון לון תרין חיוותא דנורא לשטר‬
‫ עלת בעת למייתיה יתיה ואשכחת‬.‫איתתיה אנא עלה ומייתי ליה דאית לי סימן בגויה‬
‫ בעי למירמתה ושמעת ברת קלא אמרה אירפיה‬.‫ההיא תולעתא דנקרא חורי אודנא‬
‫ אמרין מן ההיא שעתא לא‬.‫ אייתוניה ויהבוניה גב אבוי‬.‫למרי חובה דייגביה חוביה‬
.‫אתגלי ר׳ שמע׳ בן יוחי על מרונייא‬
As Eleazar bar R. Shimon was wasting away [in his last illness], his arm
once happened to get exposed and he saw his wife both laughing and
weeping. He said to her: “As you live, I know why you are laughing and
why you are weeping. You laugh because you said to yourself, ‘How happy
am I with what has been my lot in this world! How happy am I that I have
been able to cleave to the body of so righteous a man!’ And you weep
because you said, ‘Alas that such a body is going to the worms!’ True, I am
about to die, but worms, God forbid, will have no power over me, except
for one worm that will nibble behind my ear. For once, as I entered a
synagogue, I heard a man uttering blasphemy and I should have taken
legal action against him, but I kept silent.”
After he died he was buried in Gush Halav. Thereupon R. Shimon bar
Yohai began revealing himself [in dreams] to the people of Meron, say-
ing, “My [son, who was my] right eye, I was not privileged to have put
next to me.” Thereupon the people of Meron went out to try to bring him
[to bury beside his father.] But the people of Gush Halav came out [and
fought them off] with sticks and spears.
Some time later, on the eve of the great fast, the people of Meron said:
“This is the time, while they of Gush Halav are stuffing themselves.” As
soon as they got outside of the town, two snakes of fire came to walk
before them. They said, “This is the right time for us to fetch him.” When
they got to the cave, the two snakes of fire stationed themselves on the
side. They said, “Who will go into the cave to bring him out?” His wife
said, “I will go in and bring him out, as I have a way of recognizing him.”
She went in and was about to bring him out and found that worm nib-
bling behind his ear. She wanted to remove it, but she heard a bat qol say,
“Let the Creditor collect the debt due him.” They brought him and put
him beside his father. It was said: Thereafter R. Shimon bar Yohai did not
reveal himself to the people of Meron (PRK, 11:23).8
‫ ידענא בדרבנן דרתיחי עלי ולא מיעסקי‬:‫כי הוה קא ניחא נפשיה אמר לה לדביתהו‬
‫ אישתעיא‬:‫ אמר רבי שמואל בר נחמני‬.‫ אוגנין בעיליתא ולא תדחלין מינאי‬,‫בי שפיר‬
‫ לא פחות‬:‫ דאישתעיא לה דביתהו דרבי אלעזר ברבי שמעון‬,‫לי אימיה דרבי יונתן‬
‫ כי הוה סליקנא מעיננא‬.‫ ולא טפי מעשרין ותרין שנין אוגינתיה בעילתא‬,‫מתמני סרי‬
‫יומא חד חזאי ריחשא‬.‫ כי הוה מישתמטא ביניתא מיניה הוה אתי דמא‬,‫ליה במיזיה‬
‫ יומא חד‬,‫ לא מידי הוא‬:‫ אמר לי‬,‫ איתחזי לי בחלמא‬.‫ חלש דעתאי‬,‫דקא נפיק מאוניה‬
‫ כי הוו אתו בי תרי לדינא הוו‬.‫שמעי בזילותא דצורבא מרבנן ולא מחאי כדאבעי לי‬
‫ איש פלוני‬:‫ נפיק קלא מעילתיה ואמר‬,‫ ומר מלתיה‬,‫ אמר מר מלתיה‬,‫קיימי אבבא‬
,‫ יומא חד הוה קא מינציא דביתהו בהדי שיבבתא‬.‫ איש פלוני אתה זכאי‬,‫אתה חייב‬
‫ כולי האי ודאי לאו אורח‬:‫ תהא כבעלה שלא ניתן לקבורה! אמרי רבנן‬:‫אמרה לה‬
‫ פרידה‬:‫ אמר להו‬,‫ רבי שמעון בן יוחאי איתחזאי להו בחילמא‬,‫ארעא! איכא דאמרי‬
‫ לא שבקו‬,‫ אזול רבנן לאיעסוקי ביה‬.‫אחת יש לי ביניכם ואי אתם רוצים להביאה אצלי‬
‫ דכל שני דהוה ניים רבי אלעזר ברבי שמעון בעיליתיה לא סליק חיה רעה‬.‫בני עכבריא‬
‫ שדרו רבנן לבני בירי ואסקוהו‬,‫ הוו טרידי‬,‫ יומא חד מעלי יומא דכיפורי הוה‬.‫למתיהו‬
‫ אמרו‬,‫ אשכחוה לעכנא דהדירא לה למערתא‬.‫ ואמטיוה למערתא דאבוה‬,‫לערסיה‬
.‫ עכנא עכנא פתחי פיך ויכנס בן אצל אביו; פתח להו‬:‫לה‬
When he was dying, he said to his wife, “I know that the rabbis are furious
with me and will not take proper care of me. Let me lie in the attic and do
not be afraid of me.” R. Shmuel b. R. Nahman said, “R. Yohanan’s mother
told me that the wife of R. Eleazar b. R. Shimon told her that ‘not less than
eighteen and not more than twenty-two [years] that he was in the attic,
every day I went up and looked at his hair, when a hair was pulled out,
blood would flow. One day I saw a worm coming out of his ear. I became
very upset, and I had a dream in which he said to me that it is nothing,
for one day he had heard a rabbinic student being slandered and had not
protested as he should have.’ ”
When a pair would come for judgment, they would stand at the door.
One would say his piece and then the other would say his piece. A voice
would come out of the attic and say, “So-and-so you are liable; So-and-so,
you are blameless.”
One day his wife was arguing with a neighbor. She said to her, “May you
be like your husband, who is not buried.” The rabbis said, “That things
8 Translation from Pesikta de-Rab Kahana, trans. William G. Braude and Israel J. Kapstein
(Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1975), 220–21, with slight modifications.
318 Rubenstein
have gone this far is certainly not proper.” Some say that R. Shimon b.
Yohai appeared to them [the rabbis] in a dream and said, “I have one
chick that is with you, and you do not want to bring it to me.”
The rabbis went to take care of his burial, but the people of Akhbaria
would not let them, because all of the time that R. Eleazar b. R. Shimon
was lying in the attic, no wild animal [var: no demon] came to their town.
One day, it was the eve of Yom Kippur, and the people [of the town of
Akhbaria] were busy. The rabbis sent to the people of Biri, and they
attended to his bier, and brought him to the cave of his father. They found
a snake that was surrounding the opening of his cave. They said to it,
“Snake, snake, open your mouth and the son will come in unto his father.”
It opened for him (b. B. Meṣ. 84b).9
Both of these accounts are quite strange, even according to the standards
of rabbinic narratives, and both appear in lengthier narrative compilations
that contain bizarre features, and that deserve comprehensive treatment.10
Particularly problematic is the anxiety surrounding the burial of R. Eleazar b.
R. Shimon’s corpse, including the reinterment (or in the Bavli’s version, inter-
ment after sojourn in the attic), and more specifically, the conflict over its con-
trol. In both accounts the residents of the town11 where the body is buried (or
placed in the attic) initially refuse to let other townsmen move the body—in
the PRK version they fight off their rivals with sticks and spears. Where else in
all of rabbinic literature do we find conflict and armed combat over a corpse?
And while rabbinic stories are replete with miracles and other supernatural
events, how do these function within the two burial narratives?
Let me start with potentially relevant rabbinic traditions, then turn to extra-
rabbinic Jewish sources, and finally to Christian sources that I believe shed light
on this issue. There are of course certain precedents for reburial in rabbinic
tradition. Well-known from both the Mishna and archaeology is the practice of
secondary burial or “ossilegium.”12 The body was initially buried for a year or so
9 Translation from Daniel Boyarin, Carnal Israel: Reading Sex in Talmudic Culture (Berkeley:
University of Califronia Press, 1993), 219–25, with slight modifications.
10 For discussion of this passage, see Boyarin, Carnal Israel, 197–225; Friedman, “La’aggada
hahistorit batalmud habavli,” 119–45. And see (on the earlier portion of the narrative)
Daniel Boyarin, Socrates and the Fat Rabbis (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009),
177–82.
11 All four towns mentioned are found in close proximity in the Galilee. See S. Y. Rappaport,
Erekh milin (Prague, 1852), 167–69; Adolphe Neubauer, La Géographie du Talmud
(Hildesheim: Olms, 1967), 226–31.
12 m. Moʿed Qaṭ. 1:5; see Eric M. Meyers and James F. Strange, Archaeology, the Rabbis, and
Early Christianity (Nashville: Abingdon, 1981), 92–124; Eric M. Meyers, Jewish Ossuaries:
in a grave or temporary tomb until the flesh decayed, at which point the bones
were placed in an ossuary and the ossuary in the burial cave or vault. Most
scholars, based on archeological evidence, argue that this practice was aban-
doned in Jerusalem by the mid-second century CE, and elsewhere in Roman
Palestine by the third century CE, although some more recent scholars have
disputed this dating and suggested the practice continued for some centuries.13
In any event, secondary burial does not seem to be what is going on in the PRK,
as there is no indication that the initial burial was meant to be temporary. (And
in the Bavli there was no initial burial.) Also well-known are sources about
reburial of corpses in the Land of Israel, presumably after temporary burial in
the diaspora, until the flesh rotted and the bones could be transported.14 But
this too is not what is described in the stories of R. Eleazar b. R. Shimon, which
are located within the Land of Israel.
Somewhat more satisfying is the principle of reburial in an ancestral or fam-
ily tomb. Burial is generally seen as the obligation of the family and comprises
a deep expression of kinship, hence the biblical expression, “He slept with his
ancestors.”15 Continuing biblical and post-biblical precedents,16 many rabbinic
sources express the importance of being buried in the family tomb. We find in
the Yerushalmi (y. Moʿed Qaṭ. 2:2 81b):
Neither a corpse nor the bones of a corpse may be transferred from a

wretched place to an honored place, nor, needless to say, from an hon-
ored place to a wretched place; but if to his own (or ‘within his own’; ‫ובתוך‬
‫)שלו‬, even from an honored to a wretched place, it is permitted, for by this
he is honored, for it is pleasant for a man to be placed near his ancestors.
Reburial and Rebirth (Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1971). However, sometimes the bones
were placed directly in a niche (koch) in the burial cave.
13 Meyers, Jewish Ossuaries, 40–43, 91–96; Rachel Hachlili, Jewish Funerary Customs, Practices
and Rites in the Second Temple Period (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 520–22.
14 I. Gafni, “Reinterment in the Land of Israel: Notes on the Origin and Development of the
Custom,” (Hebrew), The Jerusalem Cathedra 1 (1981): 96–104. Here we could include the
biblical precedent of the reburial of the bones of Joseph, taken by the Israelites out of
Egypt (Exod 13:19), and eventually buried in Schechem (Josh 24:37).
15 2 Sam 7:12, 1 Kgs 2:10, 2 Kgs 15:7, etc.
16 See Brian R. Schmidt, Israel’s Beneficent Dead: Ancestor Cult and Necromancy in Ancient
Israelite Religion and Tradition (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1994); Elizabeth Bloch-Smith,
Judahite Burial Practices and Beliefs about the Dead (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1992).
On the Second Temple period, see Hachlili, Jewish Funerary Customs; Allen Kerkeslager,
“Jewish Pilgrimage and Jewish Identity in Hellenistic and Early Roman Egypt,” Pilgrimage
and Holy Space in Late Antique Egypt, ed. David Frankfurter (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 131–46.
320 Rubenstein
A parallel to this source, without the last phrase, appears in Semaḥot 13:7.17
Zlotnick even translates ‫ובתוך שלו‬, “within his own,” as “if to a family tomb.”
This is indeed what R. Shimon b. Yohai complains about in the two stories—
that his son is not buried with him. Several medieval commentators are
perplexed by the accounts of the removal and reinterment of the body, since
it violates the general Jewish tenet that bodies should not be disturbed after
death, and explain them on the basis of this Yerushalmi tradition, that it was
to R. Eleazar’s honor, not degradation, to be exhumed and reburied in his fam-
ily tomb. Nevertheless, I do not believe this tradition fully explains our story,
though I think it is relevant in certain respects. If reburial in a family burial
cave were a standard Jewish value, we would not expect opposition to those
trying to carry out such a meritorious deed.
Veneration of the dead is more elusive in rabbinic sources. The catacombs
at Bet Shearim (to the extent we can stretch the concept of “rabbinic sources”
to include archeology), where members of the family of R. Yehuda HaNasi
were buried, may have been frequented by those who wished to venerate the
graves of the patriarchs. The archaeological reports describe benches within
the burial vaults upon which visitors may have sat while contemplating and
honoring the dead.18 Yet it is always hard to infer practices from archaeol-
ogy, and the absence of mention in the rabbinic sources themselves cautions
against jumping to such a conclusion. An enigmatic story in the Bavli reports
that R. Banaah “used to mark out [burial] caves” and eventually came upon
the caves where Abraham and Adam were buried; though not explicitly stated,
presumably the setting is the Cave of Machpelah near Hebron (b. B. Bat. 58a).
Exactly what this story means and what contemporary reality it engages are
obscure. Other rabbinic sources mention the recitation of prayers in cemeter-
ies (b. Taʿan. 16a) and a sage who “prostrated himself upon the grave of his
father” (b. Taʿan. 23b).19 Such traditions simply attest to the belief in a connec-
tion between the living and the departed souls of their kinsman in the next
world, and the power of the latter to intercede on behalf of the former.
Indeed, Peter Brown noted the absence of veneration of the dead among
the rabbis:
17 The Tractate ‘Mourning’ (Semahot), ed. Dov Zlotnick (New Haven: Yale University Press,
1966), 86.
18 Nahman Avigad, Catacombs 12–23, vol. 3 of Beth She’arim, Report on the Excavations during
1953–1958, (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1976), 42–65.
19 Cf. the exegetical narrative in b. Soṭah 34b, which relates that Caleb “prostrated himself
on the graves of the patriarchs” or “of his forefathers” (avot). See too b. Sanh 47b, where
people are said to have collected earth from Rav’s grave for medicinal purposes.
In Judaism the holy graves and the rabbinate drifted apart. . . . There was
no denying the existence of so many tombs of the saints nor of their
importance to Jewish communities. But the leaders of Jewish learning
and spirituality did not choose to lean upon tombs, as Christian bishops
did, with the result that these maintained a low profile.20
Rabbinic sources are accordingly almost nowhere to be found throughout

Brown’s The Cult of Saints.21
Evidence of cults of the dead and veneration of tombs from non-rabbinic
Jewish sources presents severe interpretive difficulties due to the problematic
nature of the sources and scholarly controversies surrounding them.22 Some
scholars have claimed that the Christian cult of Maccabean martyrs that blos-
somed in Antioch in the fourth century CE originated with a Jewish synagogue
housing the graves of the seven brothers and mother whose martyrdom is
related in 2 Maccabees 6–7.23 The Antiochean Jews supposedly venerated the
bones of these martyrs, and the monument and cult were later Christianized.
20 Brown, Cult of Saints, 10. See too James Bentley, Restless Bones: The Story of Relics (London:
Constable, 1985), 35–36: “Christians learned from the Jews only to revere the memories
and occasionally the graves of pious men and women, not to revere their corpses.”
21 Ironically, the only sustained discussion of Jews in this book concerns the Jewish commu-
nity of Minorca that was forcibly converted to Christianity (Brown describes these events
as “violent and highly unpleasant”) following the arrival of the relics of Saint Stephen in
417 (103–05). Brown also quotes a saying attributed to R. Pinhas concerning the graves of
the patriarchs, but this tradition appears only in the late compilation Midrash Tehillim,
and is therefore indicative of medieval, rather than late antique, rabbinic ideas. See too
Kerkeslager, “Jewish Pilgrimage,” 140–41 on the differing Jewish and Christian conceptions
of the relationship between dead and living.
22 Antecedents of the Christian cult of relics is an enormous topic, and I make no attempt
at comprehensive discussion here. For a maximalist view of a developed cult of ancestor
worship in Second Temple Judaism, see Jack N. Lightstone, The Commerce of the Sacred
(Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1984), 57–77, and Lionel Rothkruv, “The ‘Odour of Sanctity,’
and the Hebrew Origins of Christian Relic Veneration,” Historical Reflections/Réflexions
Historiques 8, no. 2 (1981): 95–142.
23 See Elias Bickerman, “Les Maccabées de Malalas,” Byzantion 21 (1951): 63–83; Marcel
Simon, “Les Saints d’Israel dans la devotion de l’Eglise ancienne,” RHPR 34 (1954): 98–127;
Margaret Schatkin, “The Maccabean Martyrs,” VC 28 (1974): 97–113; Raphaëlle Ziadé, Les
martyrs Maccabées: de l’histoire juive au culte chrétien: Les homélies de Grégoire de Nazianze
et de Jean Chrysostome (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 55–65; Shaye J. D. Cohen, “Pagan and Christian
Evidence on the Ancient Synagogue,” The Synagogue in Late Antiquity, ed. Lee Levine
(New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America; Philadelphia: American Schools
of Oriental Research, 1987), 168–69. Yet even Bickerman noted: “En effet, le Judaïsme ne
322 Rubenstein
However, evidence of the existence of a Jewish synagogue is sketchy, and some

scholars reject the hypothesis of Jewish antecedents to the Christian cult.24 An
influential monograph by Joachim Jeremias, seeking the background of Jesus’s
accusation that the Pharisees “build the tombs of the prophets and decorate
the graves of the righteous” (Matt 23:29; Luke 11:47), attempted to show that
Jews made pilgrimages to, and venerated the tombs of, numerous biblical fig-
ures (and a few post-biblical heroes) throughout the Second Temple period.25
Much of Jeremias’s evidence derived from later Christian sources, especially
the pseudepigraphic work, The Lives of the Prophets, and his claims have been
called into question.26 At the same time, if we take Jeremias’s sources as indic-
ative of the fourth and fifth centuries, whence they mostly derive, rather than
the Second Temple period, to which he applied them anachronistically, we do
find tantalizing evidence of what seems to be Jewish cults connected to tombs.
Already Josephus reports that Herod rebuilt the tombs of the Patriachs in
Hebron and constructed a monument to adorn King David’s tomb in Jerusalem,
so there is reason to believe these and other such tombs were cult sites of some
sort.27 Exactly what rituals and practices took place is hard to know, and we are
dealing with outstanding biblical figures in any case.
In sum, I would submit that the Jewish sources, both rabbinic and non-
rabbinic, despite some intriguing hints, do not prepare us for the description
connait ni un état élu des martyrs ni la fête de leur deposition, ne le culte sur leur tom-
beau” (Studies, p. 203).
24 Theodor Klauser, Christlicher Märtyrerkult, heidnischer Heroenkult und spätjüdische
Heiligenverehrung (Köln: Westdeutscher, 1960); Leonard V. Rutgers, “The Importance of
Scripture in the Conflict between Jews and Christians: The Example of Antioch,” The Use
of Sacred Books in the Ancient World, ed. L. Rutgers et al. (Leuven: Peeters, 1998), 287–
303. Gerard Rouwhorst, “The Cult of the Seven Maccabean Brothers and their Mother
in Christian Tradition,” in Poorthuis and Schwartz, Saints and Role Models, 183–93, sur-
veys the scholarly literature and evidence. See too Simon’s cautions, “Les Saints d’Israel,”
113–27. Klauser and others have pointed to pagan cults of the dead as potential sources
for the Christian cult of relics; see Friedrich Pfister, Der Reliquienkult im Altertum I–II
(Giessen: Alfred Töpelmann, 1909–1912).
25 Joachim Jeremias, Heilengräber in Jesu Umwelt (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht,
1958). See too Simon, “Les Saints d’Israel.”
26 Kerkeslager, “Jewish Pilgrimage,” 131–69; David Satran, Biblical Prophets in Byzantine
Palestine: Reassessing the Lives of the Prophets (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 47–67. While most
contemporary scholars treat The Lives of the Prophets as a Christian work, some, like
Jeremias, believe it is a Jewish composition. See, e.g., J. Wilkinson, “Visits to Jewish Tombs
by Early Christians,” Akten des XII. Internationalen Kongresses für Christliche Archäologies,
Bonn 22.–28. September 1991 (Münster: Aschendorff, 1995), 1:452–65.
27 Josephus, J.W., 4.530–33; Ant. 16.182; See Lightstone, Commerce of the Sacred, 71–73.
of exhumation, reburial and conflict over the corpse of a rabbinic sage found
in PRK 11:23 and, with some variations, in b. B. Meṣ. 84b.
I would therefore propose that we should understand this episode, at least
in part, in light of the cult of relics of Christian martyrs and holy men in late
antiquity, so brilliantly explicated by Peter Brown as indicative of a distinct
form of late antique piety. Beginning in the late fourth century and becom-
ing increasingly common in the fifth and sixth centuries (and then into the
middle ages), there arose the practice of the “translation of relics,” the transfer
or relocation of bones of a martyr or saint to a shrine, church or other such cult
site. Translations took place in both the Eastern and Western Roman Empire
and also among Christian communities within the Sasanian empire.28 In some
cases relics were moved from their initial place of burial or a minor shrine to
a location more suited for popular devotion; in other cases bones were discov-
ered (the technical term is inventio) anew; their location had been unknown
until their revelation and discovery, often by means of a dream or other super-
natural occurrence.29 Translations were often carried out in a procession
modeled on the imperial adventus with great celebration and fanfare. Most
significant for my purposes, in some translation accounts conflict takes place
between local townsmen who object to the removal of the body and those
attempting the translation. There are also accounts of the death and initial
burial of Christian holy men in which different towns fight over the body, each
faction wishing to bury it in their area because of the supernatural protection
conferred by the relics. So we have certain affinities to the stories of the burial
of R. Eleazar b. R. Shimon, which should also be dated to the sixth or seventh
century, the time of the redaction of the PRK and the Bavli.
Let me turn to some of the Christian sources that provide parallels to the
“translation,” conflict, and other elements of the rabbinic accounts.
The “Passion of Sergius and Bacchus,” composed between 450 and 500 CE in
Greek and translated into Syriac, vividly depicts conflict over Sergius’s corpse.
28 When the fifth century bishop Marutha sought to amass a prodigious collection of relics
for Martyropolis (Mayperqat) on the Iranian frontier, he collected 80,000 from the Iranian
empire. See Andrew Palmer, Monk and Mason on the Tigris Frontier: The Early History of
Tur Abdin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 55. And see pp. 45–59, 120–41
on the Iranian cult of martyrs.
29 See J. Leemans, “General Introduction,” in ‘Let Us Die That We May Live’: Greek Homilies
on Christian Martyrs from Asia Minor, Palestine and Syria (c. AD 350–AD 450), ed. Johan
Leemans et al. (London: Routledge, 2003), 10–11; Andrew S. Jacobs, “The Remains of the
Jew: Imperial Christian Identity in the Late Ancient Holy Land,” Journal of Medieval and
Early Modern Studies 33 (2003): 29–34. And see Thomas Pratsch, Der Hagiographische
Topos (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2005), 335–39.
324 Rubenstein
(29) Some of those who had come to witness the death of the holy mar-
tyr, seeing that they shared a common nature [with him], gathered up
his remains and buried them handsomely where the holy one had died.
After a great while some religious men from the castle of Souros (= Sura),
prompted by zeal for the service of Christ, but pious in a somewhat pirati-
cal way, tried to steal the body from the spot, as if it were some precious
treasure. The saint would not suffer his body, which had been dragged
around, whipped, and triumphed so publicly in the faith of Christ, to be
moved in secret, so he asked of God that a fire be set in the spot, not to
seek revenge on those attempting the theft or to burn them, but so that
by lighting the gloom of night he would reveal the robbery to those in the
castle of Rosafae, which is just what happened. Once the fire was burning
in the place where the saint lay, some of the soldiers living there saw the
flames reaching to the sky, and thought that the great blaze had been set
by some enemy, so they came out armed and pursued those attempting to
steal the saint’s body. They prevailed on them to remain there a few days
and to build from stones and clay a tomb where he lay. Once they had
honorably covered the body of the saint, they went away.
(30) After a time, when the religion of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ
had begun to flourish, some very holy bishops—fifteen in number—
gathered together and constructed near the castle of Rosafae a shrine
worthy of [Sergius’s] confession, and moved his remains there, installing
them in the shrine on the very day he was martyred.30
Here an attempt to remove the relics of the martyr from their place of burial
sparks armed conflict in which the thieves are persuaded not to take the body
but rather to construct a more elaborate shrine. Somewhat later the bones
are translated, this time apparently uncontested, to Rosafae, i.e., Rusafa, a city
in western Syria on the frontier between the Roman and Sasanian empires,
a major center of the cult of St. Sergius.31 Note also the appearance of a
miraculous fire, reminiscent of the supernatural fiery snakes that accompany
the burial procession in the PRK.32
30 “Passio antiquior SS. Sergii et Bacchi Graeca nunc primum edita,” AB 14 (1895): 374–95.
Translation from John Boswell, Same Sex Unions in Premodern Europe (New York:
Villard Books, 1994), 389–90. For comprehensive discussion of the cult of St. Sergius, see
Elizabeth K. Fowden, The Barbarian Plain: Saint Sergius between Rome and Iran (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1999).
31 Fowden, The Barbarian Plain, 45–100.
32 The cult of St. Sergius was well known in both the Roman and Sasanian empires—
according to Theophylact (ca. 630), Sergius was “the most efficacious saint in Persia”—so
The Syriac version is slightly different. After the martyr sends forth the fiery
signal, the author reports:
They thought that the enemies had come against them to destroy them
with burning fire. Whereupon they raised their voices in shouts, and the sol-
diers of the castle armed themselves and went out with swords and spears,
and they pursued those who wished to steal the bones of the martyr.33
In this version the soldiers fight against the robbers of the body with swords
and spears, though one manuscript reads “sticks (hutrei) and spears (romhei),”
the same phrase found in the PRK.
Evagrius Scholasticus (534–600 CE, Constantinople), in his “Life of Simeon
the Stylite,” relates that similar conflicts surrounded the body of St. Simeon:
After his (Simeon’s) departure, his holy body was conveyed to Antioch . . .,
on which occasion the troops, with a concourse of their followers and
others, proceeded to the Mandra,34 and escorted the venerable body of
the blessed Simeon, lest the inhabitants of the neighbouring cities should
muster and carry it off. In this manner, it was conveyed to Antioch, and
attended during its progress by extraordinary prodigies. The emperor also
demanded possession of the body; and the people of Antioch addressed to
him a petition in deprecation of his purpose, in these terms: “Forasmuch
as our city is without walls, for we have been visited in wrath by their fall,
we brought hither the sacred body to be our wall and bulwark.” Moved by
these considerations, the emperor yielded to their prayer, and left them
in possession of the venerable body. It has been preserved nearly entire
to my time: and, in company with many priests, I enjoyed the sight of his
sacred head, in the episcopate of the famous Gregory, when Philippicus
had requested that precious relics of saints might be sent to him for the
protection of the Eastern armies. And, strange as is the circumstance, the
hair of his head had not perished, but is in the same state of preservation
as when he was alive and sojourning with mankind.35
accounts such as this may have influenced both Palestinian and Babylonian sources. See
Fowden, The Barbarian Plain, 120 for the Theophylact citation, and pp. 123–29, 133–40 on
the spread of this cult in the Iranian empire.
33 Acta Martyrum et Sanctorum, ed. P. Bedjan (Paris, 1890–97), 2:321.
34 “Mandra” refers to the enclosure where Simeon’s column was located.
35 Evagrius Scholasticus, “Life of Simeon the Stylite,” in The Ecclesiastical History of Evagrius:
A History of the Church from AD 431 to AD 594, trans. Edward Walford (London: S. Bagster,
1846), 1:13 (pp. 19–20).
326 Rubenstein
The imperial troops escort Simeon’s followers while they bring the body to
Antioch, fearing that local townsmen of nearby cities will steal it in order to
bury it in their town. This is exactly what the residents of Gush Halav (in PRK)
and Akhbaria (in b. B. Meṣ. 84b) try to prevent. The emperor also wants to
have the body taken to Constantinople, though in this case the residents of
Antioch persuade him to yield. Evagrius mentions that the body and the hair
of Simeon’s head were in the same state of preservation as when he was alive.
That the bodies of martyrs and holy men neither decompose nor reek is a com-
monplace, and parallels R. Eleazar telling his wife that his body will not rot
except for the one worm that will nibble his ear. The reference to Simeon’s hair
“in the same state of preservation as when he was alive” resembles the wife tell-
ing her neighbor that when she pulled out R. Eleazar’s hair, blood would flow
(in the Bavli account). The flowing blood is presumably a sign that the corpse
remained in the same state as when alive and did not decompose, therefore
retaining the ability to bleed. In the Syriac version of the “Life of Simeon
Stylites,” this episode is related as follows:
Then (i.e., after Simeon’s death) his disciples, since they were afraid of the
populace lest the villages gather and come to snatch him away and there
might be strife and murder, made a coffin for him and placed him in it on
the column until they could arrange for a place of honor for him.36
Again we have the concern that different villages will attempt to steal the body
and come to armed conflict.
Theodoret of Cyrrhus (393–466), in his A History of the Monks of Syria, pro-
vides brief biographies of about thirty monks and holy men. Several of the
accounts of death involve conflicts over possession of the body. When the her-
mit Maron died, Theodoret relates that:
A bitter war over his body arose between his neighbors. One of the adja-
cent villages that was well-populated came out in mass, drove off the oth-
ers and seized this thrice desired treasure; building a great shrine, they
reap benefit therefrom even to this day, honoring this victor with a public
festival.37
36 “The Syriac Life,” in Roberto Doran, The Lives of Simeon Stylites (Kalamazoo: Cistercian
Publications, 1989), section 118, p. 187.
37 Theodoret of Cyrrhus, A History of the Monks of Syria, trans. R. M. Price (Kalamazoo:
Cistercian Publications, 1985), 118.
Here the populous and aggressive village succeeds in carrying off the corpse,
after fighting a “bitter war” against others also hoping to possess the body. The
body of Maron’s companion, James of Cyrrhestica, was also the subject of con-
tention, though in this case while still on his deathbed:
As many came together from all sides to seize the body, all the men of
the town, when they heard of it, hastened together, soldiers and civilians,
some taking up military equipment, others using whatever weapons lay
to hand. Forming up in close order, they fought by shooting arrows and
slinging stones—not to wound, but simply to instill fear.38
As in the rabbinic accounts, the local townsmen succeeded in driving off the
attempted seizure. But not all such conflicts came to violence. Of the holy man
Acepsimus, Theodoret relates: “Everyone wished to seize his body and pro-
posed to carry it off to his own village, but someone resolved the dispute by
revealing the oaths of the saint, saying the saint had extracted oaths to commit
it to burial in this same place.”39
If we understand the rabbinic accounts against this background of the
Christian cult of relics, then the conflict over possession of the corpse and
the place of burial of R. Eleazar b. R. Shimon become readily understandable.
The removal of the corpse and procession to the new location, accompanied
by supernatural signs (fiery snakes in the PRK, a snake surrounding the burial
cave in b. B. Meṣ. 84b) seem to be depicting a translation of the sage’s bones.40
In addition, once we understand that R. Eleazar b. R. Shimon is being por-
trayed in the manner of a Christian “holy man,” other unusual elements of the
rabbinic accounts become understandable.
First, in both the PRK and the Bavli, R. Shimon bar Yohai appears in a dream
and instructs either the men of Meron (PRK) or the sages (Bavli) to bring his
son’s body to his cave. Many translation accounts are initiated by a dream that
38 Theodoret, History, 136.

39 Theodoret, History, 115–16.
40 See too John Rufus: The Lives of Peter the Iberian, ed. and trans. Cornelia B. Horn and
Robert R. Phenix Jr. (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 2008), 275. After the death of Peter, “When
it was morning and [the news of] the departure of the blessed one and the burial of his
body was heard by the inhabitants of Maiuma and Gaza, all of them together with their
wives and children ran to the monastery, anxious to take his holy body by force.” (This
text was written in Greek about 500 CE, and subsequently translated into Syriac.) And see
Palmer’s account of the Life of Theodotus, a seventh-century work, about a monk from the
Monastery of Tur Abdin, also on the border of the Roman and Sasanian empires along
the Tigris River, in Monk and Mason, 90.
328 Rubenstein
reveals the location of the relics. In most cases the martyr himself appears,
although in some cases it is another figure. Thus three times the empress
Pulcheria (399–453) dreamed that St. Thrysus, a third century martyr, revealed
the location of the bones of the “Forty Martyrs of Sebaste,” soldiers who had
lost their lives in a persecution. The Church historian Sozomen writes (d. 448):
Thrysus, the martyr, appeared to her three times, and revealed to her that
the relics of the martyrs were concealed beneath the earth; and com-
manded that they should be deposited near his tomb, in order that the
same honour might be rendered to him. The forty martyrs themselves
also appeared to her, arrayed in shining robes, and made the same com-
munication to her.41
And we find many similar such anecdotes.42

Second, the Bavli explains that the men of Akhabaria will not allow the
corpse to be moved because as long as it remained there no wild animal (hayyah
raʿah; a geniza fragment reads “no demon,” ruah raʿah) harmed the town. That
is, the body afforded supernatural protection to the residents. The PRK does
not explain the opposition to moving the body, and perhaps the Bavli story-
tellers were trying to fill that narrative gap. In any case, the primary function
of relics, of course, was to protect the city or village from harm. Likewise the
stories of Christian ascetics and holy men emphasize their protective powers
while alive, often from demons (as in the Geniza fragment) but also from wild
animals. We find again in the “Passion of Sergius and Bacchus:”
Many miracles and cures were effected wherever his holy relics were,
especially in the tomb where he had first lain. For it is a quality of the
place of his death that the saint is able to prevail upon God to heal all
those who come there with any sort of disease, and to cure those pos-
sessed of unclean spirits, and to render savage beasts completely tame.
41 The Ecclesiastical History of Sozomen, trans. Edward Walford (London: Henry G. Bohn,
1855), 9:2, pp. 407–408.
42 See, e.g., “The Passion of Saint Florian,” BHLAMA 3054: “Blessed Florianus then revealed
himself to a certain woman by the name of Valeria whose heart was devoted to God in
order for her to bury him in a more secret location. With precise signs, he revealed to her
the place where she was to hide or bury him rather. . . . And in this way she reached the
place which [Florianus] himself had revealed to her, and there the woman buried him in
secret and with great haste on account of the most bitter persecution which was threaten-
ing. Great cures occur in that place.”
The animals, in fact, observe the day of his death every year as if it were
a law, coming in from the surrounding desert and mingling with the
humans without doing any harm, nor do their savage impulses move
them to any violence against the humans who come there.43
Third, the Bavli’s description of R. Eleazar adjudicating legal cases despite

being dead in the attic is a very odd narrative element: “When a pair would
come for judgment, they would stand at the door. One would say his piece
and then the other would say his piece. A voice (qala: in the Florence manu-
script: bat qala) would come out of the attic and say, So-and-so you are liable;
So-and-so, you are blameless.” Among Brown’s important observations was
that Christian “holy men” served as (unofficial) intermediaries and judges,
and also mediated conflicts between different social classes.44 Thus we find in
Theodoret of Cyrrhus’s account of Simeon Stylites:
He can be seen judging and delivering verdicts that are right and just.
These and similar activities he performs after the ninth hour—for the
whole night and the day till the ninth hour he spends praying. But after
the ninth hour he first offers divine instruction to those present, and then,
after receiving each man’s request and working some cures, he resolved
the strife of those in dispute.45
I have not found a parallel in Christian sources to the relics themselves admin-
istering justice. And certainly rabbinic sages functioned as judges, whether
in an official or unofficial capacity. Yet the miraculous ability of a rabbinic
corpse to arbitrate disputes seems to me to derive from the miraculous powers
associated with relics and the corpses of holy men and martyrs in Christian
hagiography.
Fourth, yet another unusual element in the Bavli version is R. Eleazar b. R.
Shimon’s ascetic behavior, reported earlier in the Bavli passage. Because he
feels remorse for having collaborated with the authorities, R. Eleazar “accepts
sufferings” upon himself: “They used to spread out sixty felt garments for him
at night, and each morning they drew out from under him sixty basins filled
with blood and pus.” Still earlier in the narrative the sage performs a kind of
liposuction, cutting open his abdomen and removing his guts to see if they will
reek (thus indicating sin). The radical ascetic practices of Christian holy men
43 Trans. Boswell, Same Sex Unions, 390.

44 Brown, “Rise and Function of the Holy Man,” 122–133.
45 History of the Monks of Syria, trans. Price, 171.
330 Rubenstein
are described in the hagiographic literature in great detail. Among these are
many accounts of holy men wearing chains and ropes that cleave to their bod-
ies and eventually become infected such that their sores ooze with blood and
pus. In the “Life of Simeon Stylites” ascribed to Antonius, the author relates that
Simeon tied a rope tightly around his body, under his tunic, for a year, at which
point “it ate into his flesh so that the rope was covered by the rotten flesh of the
righteous man. Because of the stench no one could stand hear him . . . His bed
was covered with worms.”46 In Theodoret of Cyrrhus’s account, Simeon made
a rope of rough palm leaves “and bound it so tightly as to wound the whole
part which it encircled.” After ten days, “the wound had become more painful
and was dripping blood.”47 Both authors claim that when the superiors of the
monastery noticed this practice, they expelled him from the monastery, con-
cerned that his ascetic zeal would put others to shame. Descriptions of rabbis
engaging in ascetic practices are rare, and grotesque descriptions of the bodily
sufferings that result even rarer.48 The Bavli, to be sure, “rabbinizes” this theme
in presenting R. Eleazar b. R. Shimon accepting the sufferings as a penance, a
standard rabbinic idea, rather than as a general discipline to suppress or escape
bodily needs and desires. More importantly, the sage calls upon the suffering
every evening (“My brothers and friends—come!”), but dismisses them every
morning (“Go!”) in order that he be able to study Torah! The Talmudic storytell-
ers are reluctant to allow voluntary ascetic practices to negatively impact the
most important rabbinic activity.49 But if such penance is borderline rabbinic,
46 Trans. Doran, Lives of Simeon Stylites, 89.

47 Trans. Doran, Lives of Simeon Stylites, 71–72.
48 See, however, the story of Nahum of Gamzu (b. Ta‘an. 21a) and Eliezer Diamond, “Hunger
Artists and Householders: The Tension between Asceticism and Family Responsibility
among Jewish Pietists in Late Antiquity,” USQR 48, nos. 3–4 (1994): 28–33 and n. 43. Yet
here too the motivation is atonement. And see Steven D. Fraade, “Ascetical Aspects of
Ancient Judaism,” in Jewish Spirituality: From the Bible through the Middle Ages, ed. Arthur
Green (New York: Crossroad, 1986), 253–88.
49 Cf. the Bavli’s description of R. Shimon b. Yohai, who spends thirteen years in a cave
together with his son, b. Šabb. 33b–34a. The two sages bury themselves up to their necks
throughout the day—apparently naked—so that their clothes do not wear out, but don
their garments each morning and evening in order to pray. In addition, when R. Shimon
b. Yohai finally returns to society, his son-in-law Pinhas b. Yair weeps upon seeing his
damaged flesh that is full of “clefts,” a description that recalls the injured flesh of Christian
ascetics. Michal Bar-Asher Siegal has connected many themes of this narrative to Holy
Man literature (“The RaSHBI Stories: Monastic Traditions and their Jewish Analogies”
[paper presented at the AJS conference, Washington, DC, 2008]).
the vivid description of bodily discharges appears to have been influenced by

Christian traditions.
Finally, the Bavli contains an unusual account of distance or even alienation
between R. Eleazar b. R. Shimon and his colleagues.50 R. Eleazar b. R. Shimon’s
wife will not let him go to the academy “so that the rabbis not oppress (or
‘discomfort’; lidhaquhu)” him. Exactly what this means is unclear. Perhaps the
point is that the rabbis will be nauseated at the suppurating flesh mentioned
above. Or perhaps the storyteller believes that difficult questions and the dia-
lectical debate characteristic of the academy will be too much for him in his
weakened state. Subsequently, at the time of his death, the sage fears that the
rabbis will not treat his body appropriately “because they are furious at me,” and
therefore directs his wife to keep the corpse in his house. The reason for their
anger is not explicitly stated; Rashi suggests that it results from R. Eleazar b. R.
Shimon having arrested some Jews (as recounted earlier in the narrative) who
were their relatives. At all events, in both life and death R. Eleazar b. R. Shimon
stands at some remove from the rabbis, or at least there is an expression of ten-
sion between them. Brown emphasizes that late antique holy men also stood
apart from the larger society, and repeatedly depicts them as “strangers” and
“outsiders,” even as “the ‘stranger’ par excellence.”51 R. Eleazar, while clearly not
a hermit or monk, likewise stands somewhat outside the rabbinic establish-
ment and is closer to the holy man typology than many other sages.
50 One possibility that I cannot pursue here is that the Bavli’s depiction of R. Eleazar
b. R. Shimon’s corpse remaining unburied in the attic is related to the practice of the
Egyptian “Meletians” who preserved the bodies of martyrs in their houses, for which they
were denounced by Athanasius. He writes in Life of Antony, 90: “The Egyptians like to
honor with funeral rites and to wrap in fine linens the bodies of the zealous ones who
have died, and especially those of the holy martyrs, but they do not bury them under
the ground; rather, they place them on stretchers and keep them inside among them-
selves, supposing that in this way they honor those who have departed. But Antony often
demanded that the bishops command the people concerning this, and he shamed the
laity and chastised the women, saying that it was neither lawful nor pious to do this.”
Antony’s reproach of women on the grounds that it is not lawful or pious sounds eerily
like the rabbis’ remark concerning the sage’s wife that “it is not proper (lav orah ara).”
(Translation from David Brakke, “ ‘Outside the Places, Within the Truth’: Athanasius
of Alexandria and the Localization of the Holy,” in Pilgrimage and Holy Space in Late
Antique Egypt, ed. David Frankfurter [Leiden: Brill, 1998], 455; see too Athanasius’s “Festal
Letter 41” [from 369 CE], translated by Brakke, 474.) However, that the motif appears in
the Bavli, and not PRK, makes Egyptian influence unlikely.
51 Brown, “The Rise and Function of the Holy Man,” 130. See too Brown’s essay, “Town, Village
and Holy Man: The Case of Syria,” in Society and the Holy, 159–61.
332 Rubenstein
In sum, there are some striking affinities between the rabbinic accounts of
the death (and life) of R. Eleazar b. R. Shimon and those of Christian holy men
and martyrs. These include:
– the translation of the corpse/relics to a different location

– conflict between towns over the body of the holy man
– elaborate burial procession, sometimes with supernatural portents
– dream vision instructing that the body be buried or reburied
– miraculous protection bestowed by corpse (no wild animals / demons)
– asceticism or self-mortification
– holy man administering judgment
– the holy man’s body and even hair do not decay or stink after death
– the holy man standing apart from, or alienated from, society.52
Let me emphasize that I am not necessarily proposing that the corpses of any
sages in either Palestine or Babylonia were treated in this way in late antiquity,
nor that a cult of relics existed at this time.53 We are dealing with literary pro-
cesses by which Christian conceptions, ideas and literary topoi were adopted
and adapted by rabbinic storytellers. Christian hagiographic literature and
accounts of the lives of holy men are a valuable and under-utilized resource
for the study of rabbinic stories. If there is any virtue in this study, it suggests
that scholars should apply themselves to this literature to shed light on motifs
and conceptions found in rabbinic narratives.54
52 In fact the long series of traditions about R. Eleazar b. R. Shimon in PRK 11:16–24, one
of the most extensive such series in all of classical rabbinic literature, looks less like the
typical isolated biographical anecdote characteristic of rabbinic literature than the more
developed vita of Christian holy men, and perhaps should be understood in those terms.
The same can be said for the admittedly briefer series of traditions about R. Shimon b.
Yohai in y. Šeb. 9:1, 38d. I will return to this point in a future article.
53 However, it is worth considering whether these accounts can illuminate the origins of the
medieval Jewish cults connected to the tombs of rabbis such as that of R. Shimon b. Yohai
at Meron.
54 For other articles that use Christian hagiographic literature to elucidate rabbinic texts,
see Stephen Gero, “The Stern Master and his Wayward Disciple: A ‘Jesus’ Story in the
Talmud and in Christian Hagiography,” JSJ 25 (1994): 287–311; Shlomo Naeh, “Freedom
and Celibacy: A Talmudic Variation on Tales of Temptation and Fall in Genesis and Its
Syrian Background,” in The Book of Genesis in Jewish and Oriental Christian Interpretation:
A Collection of Essays, ed. Judith Frishman and Lucas van Rompay (Leuven: Peeters, 1997),
73–89. And see now the dissertation of Michal Bar-Asher Siegal, “Literary Analogies in
Rabbinic and Christian Monastic Sources” (PhD diss., Yale University, 2010).
part 5
Sinning in the Hebrew Bible
(Morality, Theodicy, Theology)
∵
CHAPTER 14
The Golden Rule in Classical Judaism

Jacob Neusner
Comparing religions requires identifying points in common, so as to high-

light the contrasts between and among them. Without shared traits, reli-
gions subject to comparison yield observations lacking consequence. If all
religions concur that the sun rises in the east, what generalization do we learn
about all of those religions that clarifies their shared character? And what fol-
lows for the particular characterization of any one of those religions? For reli-
gions bear distinctive traits. What they share by definition is commonplace,
outweighed by what distinguishes them from one another. The more wide-
spread a shared trait among religions, the more it lacks consequence for any
particular context.1
I propose that a proposition common to a number of religions bears no con-
sequence for the description, analysis, and interpretation of any one of those
religions in particular: what is common produces the commonplace. That
proposition requires the analysis of a set of religions that share a proposition.
It demands an estimate of the importance of the shared proposition in each of
those religions, respectively. But how are we to demonstrate that a trait shared
by numerous religions does not play a differentiating role in any given religion?
That intuitive proposition requires a test, which I shall carry out here.
The test requires describing the encompassing traits of a religion and its
propositions. These propositions are to be shown to form a system of ideas—
not random and episodic observations about this and that but a coherent com-
position. Then the role of ‘The Golden Rule’ in the articulation of the system is
to be assessed by appeal to the logic that sustains the system.
A religious system will appeal to a particular logic. Hypothetically recon-
structing that logic will permit us to predict what the religion will say about a
topic that is not articulately expounded. Such a system will generate solutions
to problems not addressed in the formative writings of the religion: if we know
this, what else do we know? Thus from the proposition, “two apples plus two
apples equal four apples,” the system invites the hypothesis, “two (anythings)
plus two (anythings) equal four (anythings).” That illustrates what I mean by
a religious system. It is a mode of thought or logic characteristic of a set of
1 A longer version of this chapter, more fully treating the texts relevant to an assessment of the
Golden Rule in Judaism, appears in The Review of Rabbinic Judaism 19 (2016), 193–193.

336 Neusner
religious ideas that generates new truth, accommodates fresh data, permits us
to make predictions concerning what must follow from a given proposition.
The logic of the system then is brought to bear upon the new truth and self-
evidence enters in.
That returns us to the task of comparing religions through what is alike and
what is different. What is common among several religious traditions does not
fit well with what is particular to any one of them. The distinctive logic of a
given religion will be obscured by what can just as well fit a competing system.
Religions cannot affirm everything and its opposite. So if religious systems
coincide, that upon which they concur cannot be a consequential, differenti-
ating proposition but only a commonplace in both senses of the word: what is
common to a number of systems, what makes slight difference in any of those
systems. And my thesis here is as follows:
A proposition that is shared among several religious systems will not play a
major role in the construction of any particular religious system.
Religions by their nature differ. They conflict. When they agree, therefore, it
is because the point of congruence is systemically neutral to the systems that
concur—episodic, not systematic, and commonplace, not consequential.
To test that proposition, I take the Golden Rule, which represents what is
common to a variety of religious systems, and I invoke classical Judaism and
its canon, which here stands for a coherent religious system. A review of the
representation of the Golden Rule in the formative canon will allow us to
assess the importance attached to it. We consider its position in the Judaic reli-
gious system and measure its generative power. What I shall show is that the
Golden Rule is parachuted down into classical Judaism and plays no systemic
role in the construction of that system.
The Golden Rule is called the encompassing principle of the Torah, but
when the system undertakes to generalize, it ignores the Golden Rule. The
faithful are admonished to go, study the generative data of the Golden Rule,
but when the system invokes the Golden Rule, it does not elaborate and extend
it, analyzing its implications for fresh problems. To state the proposition sim-
ply: in classical Judaism the Golden Rule is inert, not active, inconsequential
in an exact sense of the word, not weighty in secondary development. It yields
nothing beyond itself and does not invite new questions or stimulate specula-
tion about new problems. The Golden Rule emerges as a commonplace that
the system invokes without extension and elaboration.
We turn to the case at hand, the Golden Rule in classical Judaism, the Judaic
religious system set forth in the Israelite scriptures as interpreted by the rab-
binic sages of the first six centuries CE. The canon of that Judaism contains
The Golden Rule in Classical Judaism 337
an explicit expression of the Golden Rule. It is framed in both moral and

ethical terms, the moral referring to good or bad, the ethical to right or wrong.
Scripture’s formulation in terms of morality occurs in the commandment of
love: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself” (Lev 19:18). At issue is attitude,
with action implicit. The first century sage, Hillel, is cited as stating the Golden
Rule in ethical terms, “What is hateful to you, to your fellow don’t do.” That neg-
ative formulation of the Golden Rule applies to concrete relationships among
ordinary people. And what is noteworthy is that classical Judaism maintains
that the biblical commandment, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself”
(Lev 19:18), defines the heart of the Torah, which is to say, what we should call
the essence of Judaism: its ethics and its theology.
That judgment is set forth in the Talmud, the extension and amplification of
the Torah, in a famous story about the sage, Hillel. Hillel reformulated Lev 19:18,
the rule of reciprocal love, in terms of action (don’t do) rather than attitude
(love your neighbor):
A. [In Hebrew:] There was another case of a gentile who came before Sham-
mai. He said to him, “Convert me on the stipulation that you teach me the
entire Torah while I am standing on one foot.” He drove him off with
the building cubit that he had in his hand.
B. He came before Hillel: “Convert me.”
C. He said to him [in Aramaic], “ ‘ What is hateful to you, to your fellow don’t
do.’ That’s the entirety of the Torah; everything else is elaboration. So go,
study.” (b. Šabb. 31a/I.12)2
The concluding counsel, “Go, study,” points to the task of elaborating the
Golden Rule to cover a variety of specific ethical cases. Notice how the formu-
lation shifts from the positive, love, to the negative, “what is hateful to you, to
your fellow don’t do.” But in both positive and negative formulations, the focus
is on “your fellow,” and in context that excludes the stranger. A second glance,
however, shows that the lacuna in the Judaic formulation of the Golden Rule
was filled. It dealt with the question, who is my neighbor? To find the answer
for classical Judaism, we turn to the reading in ethical terms of the theologi-
cal teaching of Lev 19:18. That reading invokes Hillel’s formulation, “That’s the
entirety of the Torah; everything else is elaboration. So go, study.” The issue
emerges in a dispute on the encompassing principle of the Torah:
2 Italics signify Aramaic in the original. The Talmud is a bilingual document, in Hebrew and in
Aramaic. The Golden Rule is formulated in Aramaic for its ethical version, in Hebrew for its
theological statement.
338 Neusner
7. A. “ . . . but you shall love your neighbor as yourself: [I am the Lord]:”

B. R. Aqiba says, “This is the encompassing principle of the Torah.”
C. Ben Azzai says, “ ‘This is the book of the generations of Adam’ (Gen 5:1)
is a still more encompassing principle.”
(Sifra CC:III)
Aqiba, who flourished a century after Hillel, recapitulates the judgment that
the Golden Rule of reciprocity as stated at Lev 19:18 lies at the heart of the
Torah. But in that setting the issue of who is my neighbor figures. The dispute
between Aqiba and Ben Azzai makes clear that in Aqiba’s judgment by “my
neighbor” not everyone is meant. That emerges in what is implicit as the oppo-
site of Ben Azzai’s position. While Aqiba, like Hillel before him, identifies the
commandment to love one’s neighbor as oneself as the encompassing prin-
ciple of the Torah, Ben Azzai invokes the universal definition of one’s neighbor.
One’s fellow is any other person.
Ben Azzai accordingly chooses a still more compendious principle, “This
is the book of the generations of Adam,” which encompasses not only “your
neighbor” but all humanity. For the “book of the generations of Adam” covers
all the known peoples. By showing how all nations derive genealogically from
Adam and Eve the Torah establishes that humanity forms a common family.
One’s fellow is one’s cousin, however many times removed. In the context of
Genesis, which sets forth the theory that “Israel” is constituted by the extended
family of Abraham and Sarah, the metaphor of a family covering all of the
nations of the world carries a weighty message. So at issue is the governing
metaphor. Ben Azzai sees humanity as united in its common genealogy begin-
ning with Adam and Eve, and it is in that context that Ben Azzai’s reading of
“Love your neighbor as yourself” rejects the Golden Rule as too limited in its
application.
By his contrary choice of a relevant scripture as the heart of the matter, Ben
Azzai implies the negative judgment that loving one’s neighbor limits the com-
mandment of love to one’s own group. This he does when he selects a state-
ment that transcends the limits of a particular group. Lev 19:17–18 establishes a
context for his criticism. For it states: “You shall not hate your brother in your
heart, but reasoning, you shall reason with your neighbor, lest you bear sin
because of him. You shall not take vengeance or bear any grudge against the
sons of your own people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am
the Lord” (Lev 19:17–18). The clear intent is to frame matters in terms of your
brother and your own people. No wonder, then, that to oppose that position
Ben Azzai has chosen a verse that refers to all humanity.
But that is not the end of the story. Lev 19:31–32 explicitly extends the rule of
love to the stranger or outsider:
1. A. [“When a stranger sojourns with you in your land, you shall not do him
wrong. The stranger who sojourns with you shall be to you as the native
among you, and you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers
in the land of Egypt: I am the Lord your God” (Lev 19:31–32).]
4. A. “ . . . you shall not do him wrong:”
B. You should not say to him, “Yesterday you were worshipping idols and
now you have come under the wings of the Presence of God.”
5. A. “ . . . as a native among you:”
B.  Just as a native is one who has accepted responsibility for all the teach-
ings of the Torah, so a proselyte is to be one who has accepted respon-
sibility for all the words of the Torah.
6. A. “ . . . shall be to you as the native among you, and you shall love him as
yourself:”
B.  Just as it is said to Israel, “You will love your neighbor as yourself”
(Lev 19:18),
C. so it is said with regard to proselytes, “You shall love him as yourself.”
7. A. “ . . . for you were strangers in the land of Egypt:”
B. Know the soul of strangers, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.
(Sifra CCV:I)
Here is an explicit definition of the commandment to love the outsider, and

Lev 19:18 is cited to apply to the stranger. So much for the representation of
the Golden Rule in Classical Judaism, a fundamental teaching stated with
economy. A negative judgment is in order: the Golden Rule is designated as
the fundamental principle of the Torah, but we look in vain for elaborations
of the matter, that promise of an elaborate commentary for Lev 19:18 that Hillel
invoked.
1 What Does the Golden Rule Mean?
The climactic point of the narrative involving Hillel and the Golden Rule is
that the entire Torah can be extracted from the Golden Rule—a formidable
claim. The Golden Rule in its theological formulation is represented as the
recapitulation of the entire Torah. Judaism’s negative formulation of the ethi-
cal version of the Golden Rule by Hillel complements Scripture’s affirmative
340 Neusner
theological version. Given the remarkable claim in behalf of the Golden Rule
as the encompassing rule that takes account of the entire Torah, we come to a
surprising fact. The Golden Rule is nowhere elaborated. I find in the classical
canon of Judaism no attempt to amplify the proposition that the entire Torah
is embodied in the Golden Rule. Hillel’s mandate, ‘Now go, study,’ bears no
instructions on what one should study, no guidance in how we are to discern
the principle of reciprocity in the law and in the ethics of Judaism.
How important is the Golden Rule in the interpretive tradition of classi-
cal Judaism? To answer that question we take up the challenge of Hillel: “Go,
study.” Specifically, we ask where in the rabbinic system the principle of rec-
iprocity governs. Then if we generalize matters, the Golden Rule does form
the comprehensive principle of the Torah. If I had to specify how the Golden
Rule permeates Judaic law and theology, I would point to the rabbinic doc-
trine of justice: measure for measure. Then even though the Golden Rule as
formally expressed presents an enigma and a paradox, the Golden Rule does
register. Its principle of reciprocity indeed permeates the rabbinic system of
law and theology alike. What imparts to the Golden Rule the power of self-
evidence? It is the articulation of the principle of justice or fairness: it is only
fair that what one does not want done to himself one should not do to his
fellow. In law the Golden Rule in Judaism forms a variation on the theme of
justice and fairness.
That is expressed simply: By the measure that one metes out to others one’s
own measure is meted out. That principle of appropriate punishment, so that
the punishment fits the crime, is expressed through the case of the wife sus-
pected of unfaithfulness. She is subjected to an ordeal of drinking water that
produces marks of a curse in the guilty adulteress but nothing in the innocent
one. Here is how the Mishnah expounds the principle of justice, the reciproc-
ity of punishment for sin:
Mishnah Sotah 1:7 A. By that same measure by which a man metes out [to oth-
ers], they mete out to him.
2 How Does the Golden Rule Matter?
2.1 Systemic Significance

How important is the Golden Rule in the system of Judaism? The declaration
that the Golden Rule encompasses the Torah and all the rest is c ommentary
assigns to the Rule a critical position. But as we have seen, to define the
centrality of the Golden Rule we have to leave the narrow limits of loving
one’s neighbor as oneself and introduce the rule of reciprocity in a generic

framework of jurisprudence. So is it central or peripheral? That is a question
that can be answered only episodically. When the rabbinic documents attempt
to state the heart of the matter, do they invoke the Golden Rule outside of the
context in which it is introduced and made explicit? The answer is simple. We
do not find the Golden Rule invoked where we should anticipate locating it.
Take the case of an explicit exercise in reduction of the laws to the heart of
the matter:
Bavli Makkot 3:12 II:1/23b–24A

B. R. Simelai expounded, “Six hundred and thirteen commandments
were given to Moses, three hundred and sixty-five negative ones, corre-
sponding to the number of the days of the solar year, and two hundred
forty-eight positive commandments, corresponding to the parts of
man’s body.” . . .
D. [Simelai continues:] “David came and reduced them to eleven: ‘A Psalm
of David: Lord, who shall sojourn in thy tabernacle, and who shall dwell
in thy holy mountain? (i) He who walks uprightly and (ii) works righ-
teousness and (iii) speaks truth in his heart and (iv) has no slander on his
tongue and (v) does no evil to his fellow and (vi) does not take up a
reproach against his neighbor, (vii) in whose eyes a vile person is despised
but (viii) honors those who fear the Lord. (ix) He swears to his own hurt
and changes not. (x) He does not lend on interest. (xi) He does not take a
bribe against the innocent’ (Ps 15).” . . .
We have the opportunity to invoke the Golden Rule and to amplify the list
of virtues by appeal to the principle of reciprocity. But reciprocity does not
enter in.
V. [Simelai continues:] “Isaiah came and reduced them to six: ‘(i) He who
walks righteously and (ii) speaks uprightly, (iii) he who despises the gain
of oppressions, (iv) shakes his hand from holding bribes, (v) stops his ear
from hearing of blood (vi) and shuts his eyes from looking upon evil, he
shall dwell on high’ (Isa 33:25–26).” . . .
Once more we have the opportunity to invoke the Golden Rule. It comes close
to the surface at V.(ii), “speaks uprightly,” which the continuation of Bavli
Makkot, not presented here, interprets to refer to: “one who does not belittle
his fellow in public.” But there is no appeal to the Golden Rule, though one may
claim that it is implicit.
342 Neusner
FF. [Simelai continues:] “Micah came and reduced them to three: ‘It has
been told you, man, what is good, and what the Lord demands from you,
(i) only to do justly and (ii) to love mercy, and (iii) to walk humbly before
God’ (Mic 6:8).”
GG. “only to do justly:” this refers to justice.
HH. “to love mercy:” this refers to doing acts of loving kindness.
II. “to walk humbly before God:” this refers to accompanying a corpse to the
grave.
JJ. And does this not yield a conclusion a fortiori: if matters that are not
ordinarily done in private are referred to by the Torah as “walking humbly
before God,” all the more so matters that ordinarily are done in private.
KK. [Simelai continues:] “Isaiah again came and reduced them to two: ‘Thus
says the Lord, (i) Keep justice and (ii) do righteousness’ (Isa 56:1).
LL. “Amos came and reduced them to a single one, as it is said, ‘For thus says
the Lord to the house of Israel. Seek Me and live.’ ”
MM. Objected R. Nahman bar Isaac, “Maybe the sense is, ‘seek me’ through the
whole of the Torah?”
NN. Rather, [Simelai continues:] “Habakkuk further came and based them on
one, as it is said, ‘But the righteous shall live by his faith’ (Hab 2:4).”
“The righteous shall live by his faith” treats right attitude toward God as the
generative principle of the Torah—and not the ethical rule of reciprocity. One’s
trust in God defines the heart of the matter, and in the exposition of that mat-
ter loving one’s neighbor as oneself does not register. Here we have an occasion
for appeal to the Golden Rule, but there is no hint that the matter makes an
impact. Faith and trust in God now form the heart of the matter. There is no
hint that the Golden Rule is the ultimate generative rule of the Torah.
How does the Golden Rule work with the religion’s other component parts—
myths, beliefs, rituals, ethics—to produce coherence? The answer is, for the
Golden Rule to interact with the theological principles of Judaism, we must
invoke the principle of God’s justice, which man emulates. Then the Golden
Rule requires translation into the principle of divine justice. On its own it does
not register. It is, as I said, parachuted down into a composite to the details
of which the Golden Rule is irrelevant. Other teachings and practices hardly
depend on the Golden Rule. We cannot identify specific teachings or actions as
particular applications of the Golden Rule. But I can identify no major alterna-
tives or challenges to the Golden Rule. It is inert.
3 Conclusion
Classical Judaism is defined by generative propositions and invites judgment

concerning systemic traits. But the Golden Rule in its articulated form is not
one of these. Hillel is given another aphorism, one that competes with the
Golden Rule:
ʾAbot 1:14
A. He [Hillel] would say,
(1) “If I am not for myself, who is for me?
(2) “And when I am for myself, what am I?
(3) “And if not now, when?”
That forms the corollary to the Golden Rule. One must preserve one’s own
dignity. But in doing so, one must accommodate the dignity of others. And
the occasion is always the present. Reciprocity requires self-esteem, but also
regard for the other, and urgency pervades. If the Golden Rule stands solitary
in the rabbinic system, its corollary stands in splendid isolation even from the
Golden Rule, the paradox on which it is built forming an enigmatic variation.
What of Hillel’s mandate, “Go, study?” The legal system and its rules await the
analysis of how the Golden Rule pervades the whole. The theological-narrative
system and its exegesis of scripture await the extenuation of the conflict cap-
tured in the clauses, “If I am not for myself, who is for me? And when I am
for myself, what am I?” When descriptive and analytical work has produced for
other religious systems a comparable description of the systemic consequence
of the Golden Rule, we shall find it possible to compare the role of the Golden
Rule in two or more systems. Then we may generalize about the role of com-
monplace propositions in religions.
CHAPTER 15
From Theodicy to Anti-theodicy: Midrashic

Accusations of God’s Disobedience to Biblical Law
Adam Gregerman
1 Introduction
Alan Segal’s many contributions to our knowledge of ancient Judaism and

Christianity are distinguished by great creativity and insight. Both from his
writings and from his guidance in my own scholarly development, I have
learned to question commonplace beliefs about Judaism, Christianity, and—
most importantly—the study of Judaism and Christianity. Alan refused to be
bound by traditional assumptions or methodologies, and he did not simply
repeat oft-heard and largely unchallenged ideas. For example, his work inverts
the widespread and questionable scholarly practice of drawing on compara-
tively late rabbinic sources to illuminate the New Testament by convincingly
arguing for the usefulness of Paul’s writings for the study of Judaism in the
first and second centuries. He broke with earlier Jewish scholars’ unwillingness
to move beyond traditional antipathies and fruitfully considers the relevance
of Christian sources to Jewish history.1 He brought nuance to popular and
scholarly terminology, and skillfully demonstrates the inadequacy of descrip-
tions of ‘universalistic’ Christianity and ‘particularistic’ Judaism, for example.2
He critiqued such simplistic divisions and distinctions, and likewise crossed
academic boundaries to draw from other fields. In his research on both the
afterlife and conversion, he did not limit himself to an analysis of theological
beliefs but delved into contemporary sociological data and methods.3 These
Yale University Press, 1990), xv–xvi.
Harvard University Press, 1984), 163–82; Alan F. Segal, “Universalism in Judaism and
Christianity,” in Paul in his Hellenistic Context, ed. Troels Engberg-Pedersen (Minneapolis:
Fortress, 1995), 1–29.
3 Segal, Paul the Convert, 285–300; Alan F. Segal, Life after Death: A History of the Afterlife in the
Religions of the West (New York: Doubleday, 2004).

From Theodicy to Anti-theodicy 345
examples, and many more, illustrate why it is appropriate to honor him with a
work subtitled “Crossing Boundaries in Early Judaism and Christianity.”
As a tribute to my mentor and friend, I present here a study of rabbinic
theology that in a sense crosses both modern and ancient boundaries. I will
consider anti-theodicy—challenges to the traditional belief in divine justice
and benevolence which blames the Jews’ suffering on their own sins—in the
Midrash on Lamentations.4 While not dominant, such challenges in this text
have largely been overlooked by modern scholars, and yet deserve serious
attention. Whether this can be explained by traditional piety (i.e., a reluctance
to consider sometimes shocking rabbinic ideas) or unexamined assumptions
about rabbinic theology, there has been surprisingly little interest in investigat-
ing rabbinic anti-theodicy, especially the most extreme or harsh statements.
Whatever the reasons, I propose to move beyond the prominent scholarly
focus on the many midrashim that support a traditional theodicy and consider
evidence for an anti-theodic trend.5 This parallels what I will demonstrate
was a more remarkable breach of religious boundaries in the Midrash itself.
Despite the dominance of traditional theodicy in biblical and rabbinic thought,
4 On biblical theodicies, see Antti Laato and Johannes C. de Moor, eds., Theodicy in the World
of the Bible (Leiden: Brill, 2003); James L. Crenshaw, Defending God: Biblical Responses
to the Problem of Evil (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). On rabbinic theodicies, see
Ephraim E. Urbach, The Sages: The World and Wisdom of the Rabbis of the Talmud, trans.
Israel Abrahams, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1979), 437–41, 511–23; David
Kraemer, Responses to Suffering in Classical Rabbinic Literature (New York and Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1995). On Jewish theodicy generally, see Anson Laytner, Arguing with God:
A Jewish Tradition (Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson, 1990); Marvin Fox, “Theodicy and Anti-
Theodicy in Biblical and Rabbinic Literature,” in Theodicy, ed. Dan Cohn-Sherbok (Lewiston,
NY: Mellen, 1997), 33–49; Zachary Braiterman, (God) After Auschwitz: Tradition and Change in
Post-Holocaust Jewish Thought (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998).
5 Some downplay or deny the anti-theodicy of rabbinic statements; see Jacob Neusner,
Lamentations Rabbah, vol. 1 of The Midrash Compilations of the Sixth and Seventh Centuries:
An Introduction to the Rhetorical, Logical, and Topical Program (Atlanta: Scholars, 1990), 185;
Jacob Neusner, “Folklore in the Rabbinic Theological Context: A Review Essay,” Review of
Rabbinic Judaism 4 (2002): 297–312 (308–09); Christian M. M. Brady, The Rabbinic Targum
of Lamentations: Vindicating God (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 15. More nuanced studies recognize
the presence of anti-theodic ideas, though there is a tendency to minimize their radical-
ness or significance; see Shaye J. D. Cohen, “The Destruction: From Scripture to Midrash,”
Prooftexts 2 (1982): 18–39; Alan Mintz, Hurban: Responses to Catastrophe in Hebrew Literature
(New York: Columbia University Press, 1984), 49–83; David Stern, Parables in Midrash:
Narrative and Exegesis in Rabbinic Literature (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1991);
Kraemer, Responses to Suffering, 141.
346 Gregerman
I will show that some rabbis were willing to question these views and present
stunning accusations of injustice against God, crossing boundaries that other
Jews refused to breach.
The Midrash on Lamentations, redacted in the land of Israel in the fourth
or fifth centuries though containing earlier sources, presents a wide range
of views on the Jews’ suffering following the Romans’ victories in 70 CE and
135 CE.6 Specifically, I explore an anti-theodic theme in four midrashim that
reflects prior critiques of traditional theodicy but also offers distinctly rab-
binic, and stunningly harsh, accusations against God. Rather than affirm a
traditional theodicy linking suffering and the sin of Jewish disobedience to
God and the Torah, the authors of these midrashim turn such an accusation
on its head by charging God with disobedience to biblical Law. Refusing to
blame the Jews themselves for their sins, they blame God, and, most impor-
tantly, hold him to a standard of behavior—faithfulness to the Law—that is
otherwise applied to the Jews and used to justify their punishment when that
standard is not met. In an inversion of expectations, it is God’s transgressions
that explain Jewish suffering.7
My focus is quite specific. I move beyond doubts about divine justice to
accusations that God breaks the very commandments enjoined on Israel.
Reflecting their intense commitment to Law observance, these rabbis do not
make general accusations of divine injustice based on vague expectations that
God is good, powerful, etc. Rather, they offer pointed critiques that God ought
to have followed the biblical commandments and yet grievously failed to do so.
Surprisingly, it is God’s failure that explains suffering faced by Israel.
6 See Moshe David Herr, “Lamentations Rabbah,” Encyclopaedia Judaica (New York:
Macmillan, 1971), 10:1378; H. L. Strack and Gunter Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and
Midrash (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992), 283–87; Carl N. Astor, “The Petihta’ot of Eicha Rabba”
(PhD diss., Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1995), 83–88. There is no critical edition
of the entire text. I have used the so-called Vilna or Jerusalem version (1878), found on the
CD-Rom of the Bar-Ilan University Database of Jewish Studies. Versification is to book and
chapter number, with the letter indicating where in the chapter the text is found (e.g., ‘b’ is
partway through the chapter).
Translations of the Bible are taken from the NJPS, and translations of the Midrash are
taken from Midrash Rabbah, vol. 7 of Lamentations, ed. Maurice Simon, 10 vols. (London:
Soncino, 1961). I have occasionally made small changes in the translations. Finally, in this
essay, ‘Midrash’ refers to the entire work, and ‘midrash’ refers to an individual passage.
7 Note that not all the accusations are based on God’s unfaithfulness to commandments from
the Torah alone, but include accusations that God disobeyed requirements in other parts of
the Bible as well.
It is essential to note that these specific critiques are based on an assump-

tion that God, as the author of scripture, observes its commandments. The
idea is found throughout the rabbinic corpus. For example, a statement attrib-
uted to R. Shimon says that God observed the biblical requirements binding on
Israel “to rise before the aged and to show deference to the old,” in Lev 19:32.
This presumably refers to the scene in Gen 18:2, where God (or the angelic
messengers) stood before Abraham by the oaks of Mamre. God attested “I am
the one who carried out the requirement to stand before an elder.”8 In another
example, R. Akiva is said to have rebuked R. Papias in a dispute over God’s
freedom of action. R. Papias said that because there is one God in the world,
“whatever he wants to do, he does.” R. Akiva, however, retorts that God is not
capricious, but does everything “according to the Torah.”9 Another text, attrib-
uted to R. Hama b. R. Hanina in the Babylonian Talmud, reflects an idea that
one can “walk after” God by following the same commandments that God
follows. Midrashically interpreting various passages in Genesis, he says that
God visited the sick and buried the dead, and expects Jews to do the same.10
In all these examples, God is said to do that which is demanded of the people
by the Law.11
This expectation is not surprising, for rabbis see biblical Law as the guide for
righteous conduct. Just as they deem its observance a Jew’s highest obligation,
so too do they expect that God also follows its dictates. Required acts of kind-
ness and mercy are as obligatory on the one who gave the Law as the ones who
received it. Solomon Schechter summarizes this ideal: “God himself observes
the commandments.”12 Importantly, this makes it possible, as noted above, to
appeal to the covenant when evaluating God’s behavior, for it functions as a
“mediating power” between God and the Jews in the case of transgressions by
either party. Rabbis appeal to it as if it were a “contractual agreement binding
them both.”13 This undergirds the remarkable accusations of divine disobedi-
ence found in the midrashim. God broke the Law, yet Israel paid the price.
8 y. Bik. 3:3, 66c. See also Lev Rab. 35:3.

9 Tanḥ., Buber Recension, Vayera 4.
10 b. Soṭah 14a.
11 See also Solomon Schechter, Aspects of Rabbinic Theology: Major Concepts of the Talmud
(New York: Schocken Books, 1961), 201–03.
12 See Schechter, Aspects, 203. See also George Foot Moore, Judaism in the First Centuries of
the Christian Era, 2 vols. (New York: Schocken Books, 1971), 2:146.
13 Braiterman, (God), 32.
348 Gregerman
2 The Accusations: Four Passages from the Midrash on

Lamentations14
2.1 1:37b
The Holy Spirit cries out and says, “See, O Lord, my misery; How the
enemy jeers!” (Lam 1:9). [It is written,] “The insolent have dug pits for me
[which was contrary to your Torah/Law]” (Ps 119:85).
R. Abba b. Kahana, adducing two biblical verses, said, “ ‘[If, along the
road, you chance upon a bird’s nest, in any tree or on the ground, with
fledglings or eggs and the mother sitting over the fledglings or on the
eggs,] do not take the mother (ha‌ʾem) together with her children
(habanim)’ (Deut 22:6). But here [it is written], ‘. . . mother (ʾem) and
children (banim) were dashed to death together’ (Hos 10:14), ‘which was
contrary to your Torah/Law’ (Ps 119:85).”
R. Abba b. Kahana said, “Another time it is written, ‘[For death has
climbed through our windows, has entered our fortresses,] to cut off chil-
dren from the streets’ (Jer 9:20). But not from the synagogues! ‘[to cut off]
youth (bahurim) from the squares’ (Jer 9:20). But not from houses of
study! But here [it is written], ‘. . . when God’s anger flared up at them [he
slew their sturdiest, and he struck down the youth (bahore) of Israel]’
(Ps 78:31), ‘which was contrary to your Torah/Law’.”
R. Yehudah b. R. Shimon, adducing two biblical verses, said, “ ‘No ani-
mal from the herd or from the flock [shall be slaughtered on the same
day] with its child (beno)’ (Lev 22:28). But here child was slain with its
mother on the same day, as it says, ‘. . . mother and children (banim)
were dashed to death together’ (Hos 10:14), ‘which was contrary to your
Torah/Law’.”
R. Yehudah b. R. Shimon said, “Another time it is written, ‘[And if any
Israelite, or any stranger who resides among them], hunts down an ani-
mal or bird [that may be eaten, he shall pour out its blood (damo) and
cover it with earth]’ (Lev 17:13). But here [it is written], ‘Their blood
(damam) was shed like water around Jerusalem, with none to bury them’
(Ps 79:3), ‘which was contrary to your Torah/Law’.”
14 I have chosen to focus on four midrashim, though others could have been included. These
include sections from proems 3, 15, and 24, as well as midrashim at 1:41, 1:50, 1:56, 2:3, 3:1,
and 5:1.
The midrash, attributed to two Amoraim, R. Abba b. Kahana and R. Yehudah

b. Shimon, sets the tone with a biblical quote recalling Israel’s “misery.” Each
rabbi then creatively juxtaposes biblical verses showing that Israel’s suffering
contradicted biblical commandments for humane treatment. Though the ene-
mies were the immediate cause of their suffering, I will argue that the conclud-
ing statements from Psalm 119:85 emphasize where responsibility ultimately
lies: not with the enemies but with God, the giver of the Law, in whose hands
lies Israel’s fate.
First, R. Abba quotes Deut 22:6: one who finds both fledglings and eggs in
a nest must not “take the mother together with her children.” He then quotes
Hos 10:14, a violent description of conquest and slaughter, which he applies
to an attack on Jerusalem. When Israel’s enemies assaulted the city, “mother
and children were dashed to death together.” The link between prohibition and
assault is based on the appearance of the Hebrew words “mother” and “chil-
dren” in both verses, in order to prove that the requirement in Deuteronomy,
seen as a restriction on human cruelty, was broken. The result was “contrary
to your Torah/Law,” quoting the verse in Psalms 119:85. That is, the rabbi uses
Hosea’s description of an assault on Israel to show that more recent assaults
contradicted the Deuteronomic commandment.
In a parallel passage a bit later, R. Yehudah quotes Lev 22:28, where a similar
command appears: “No animal from the herd or from the flock shall be slaugh-
tered on the same day with its child.” He then follows up with the same violent
verse, Hos 10:14. The link is similar: in this case, the appearance of the word
“child/children” in both verses. Again, the claim is that a more recent assault
on the Jews constituted a transgression of the biblical prohibition on unac-
ceptable violence, for this outcome was “contrary to your Torah.” The original
commandments applied to the treatment of animals, though the implication
is that humans (let alone Israel!) should be shown at least equal consideration.
These accusations are a statement about God’s failure. There is no mention
of Israel’s sins which might justify their suffering according to a traditional,
retributive theodicy. Likewise, the foreign enemies, who are largely overlooked
in the descriptions, should be seen as at most the agents of Israel’s suffering,
for it is God who is ultimately in control, and only God could be expected to
observe the Law. The failure to do so explains the slaughter faced by the peo-
ple. The summary denunciations make this clear: all happened “contrary to
your Torah” (Ps 119:85). This functions as an indictment of God for failure
to assure Israel the humane treatment demanded in the Torah.
Each rabbi also comments on a different set of verses to make a similar
point about God’s responsibility for Israel’s excessive suffering. Returning to
the first section, with R. Abba’s statements, he quotes a verse from Jeremiah
350 Gregerman
that he says details the biblical requirements, and then another from Psalms
illustrating God’s transgression of them. The first verse reads: Death “cut off
children from the streets, and youth from the squares” (9:20). He reads this
verse over-literally, as if it sets a limit on the places that Jews could be harmed:
apart from those who were in the “streets” and “squares,” the rest of the Jews,
in synagogues and study-houses, should have been protected. He implies that
they were not, however, recalling actual attacks on these places. Ps 78:31 proves
that the excessive destruction was God’s fault and a transgression of Jeremiah’s
limits: “God’s anger flared up at them. He slew their sturdiest, and he struck
down the youth of Israel.” As above, the link between the two verses is the
appearance of the same word, in this case, “youth.” This description in Ps 78 is
used to argue that the violence was too broad, affecting more people than the
verse in Jeremiah seems to allow. “Children,” R. Abba says, were cut off not only
“from the streets” but also “from the synagogues.” “Youth” were cut off not
only “from the squares” but also “from the study halls.” This wide-ranging vio-
lence went beyond what Jeremiah seems to permit. It was inexplicable because
an attack ultimately attributed to God occurred in places of piety and learn-
ing, and it afflicted those especially beloved of God, children and scholars. The
attack was a divine betrayal of the divine limitations laid out in Jeremiah and
therefore “contrary to your Torah.”
Finally, R. Yehudah makes a similar claim. He first quotes Lev 17:13, which
requires that one who slaughters an animal must “cover [its blood] with earth.”
His interest in this ritual commandment can be explained by the connection
he makes with another verse about the uncovered blood of the slain among
Israel. This second verse, Ps 79:3, supports his claim that the slaughtered Jews’
blood was not covered up when they were attacked: “Their blood was shed like
water around Jerusalem, with none to bury them.” Again, the link is a word
in both verses, ‘blood.’ The assault on Jerusalem was brutal, filling the streets
with slaughter and, in an egregious omission, leaving the bodies of the slain
unburied.15 With vivid imagery, the midrash accuses God of treating the blood
of the Jews worse than God demanded in Leviticus that they treat the
blood of animals. If the blood of animals slain for food and sacrifice must be
covered up, should not equal consideration be shown to the blood (and bod-
ies) of the Jews? Like R. Abba, then, R. Yehudah argues that the biblical limita-
tions on violence were ignored, as devastation was, he repeats, “contrary to
your Torah.”
Despite the denunciations from Ps 119:85, the link between God and the
enemies’ brutality is not always explicit in these terse statements. Sometimes,
15 See also below, at 1:37c.

there is the implication that God is responsible, without identifying God as

the agent of punishment, because God is the one who gave the command-
ment that was broken (and who could be expected to follow it), and who ulti-
mately controls Israel’s fate. This is the case with R. Yehudah’s last statement.
However, R. Abba makes the accusation against God explicit in his quotation
of Ps 78:31. While the other verses recounting the enemies’ attacks on Israel do
not directly implicate God, the verse he quotes is unambiguous. Referring to
the people who were “struck down,” the agent of the violence is God himself:
“He” was angered, and “he” killed them. This makes explicit what the other
verses similarly suggest.16
2.2 1:37c
R. Berechiah said, “The people of Israel spoke before the Holy One,
blessed be He, ‘Lord of the Universe, to donkeys you gave a burial but to
your people you gave no burial.’ ‘To donkeys you gave a burial’—these are
the Egyptians, as it is written, ‘whose flesh was like the flesh of donkeys’
(Ezek 23:20).” R. Berechiah said, “Since the sea kept casting them back to
the land and the land kept casting them back to the sea—the sea was say-
ing to the land, ‘Receive your bodies,’ and the land was saying to the sea,
‘Receive your bodies’—the land said, ‘If at the time that I only received
the blood of Abel it was pronounced against me, “Cursed is the ground”
(Gen 3:17), how can I receive the blood of this multitude?’ [Then] the
Holy One, blessed be He, swore to it that he would not hold it to account.
For is it not written, ‘You stretched out your right hand, the earth swal-
lowed them’ (Exod 15:12)? ‘Right hand’ signifies nothing else than an oath,
as it is said, ‘The Lord has sworn by his right hand’ (Isa 62:8). But to your
people you gave no burial, ‘which was contrary to your Torah/Law’
(Ps 119:85).”
The midrash attributed to the amora R. Berechiah indicts God for failing to
perform a deed assigned supreme significance in rabbinic literature: burial of
the dead. This is not simply an act of kindness for which one cannot be repaid,
but a binding commandment.17 Importantly, God too made sure that the com-
mand was followed. For example, rabbis say God buried Moses at the end of
16 Interestingly, the opposite explanation—Israel alone is at fault—appears in another

interpretation of Ps 119:85, in the Midrash on Psalms ad loc.
17 For example, b. Meg. 3b and b. B. Qam. 81b use legal language to describe this obliga-
tion; see also b. ‘Erub. 17b; b. Sukkah 25b; b. Naz. 43b–48b; b. Sanh. 35a–b; cf. Josephus, C.
352 Gregerman
Deuteronomy and, when Jews’ bodies were left unburied after the fall of the
Betar fortress in 135 CE, preserved them from decomposition until it was pos-
sible to inter them.18 This midrash, however, reflects intense disappointment
and confusion over what is seen as God’s failure to bury the dead of Israel. The
accusation perhaps recalls the slaughter of Jews by Rome, and is based on a
verse quoted in the previous midrash, Ps 79:3.
The author begins with a related criticism of divine injustice. Not only did
God not bury the dead of Israel, but, it also says, God did bury the Gentile
dead: “To donkeys [i.e., Egyptians] you gave a burial.”19 Evidence for this is
offered from the Exodus account of the Israelites’ flight from their Egyptian
pursuers. The midrash introduces a verse from Exod 15:12, “the earth swal-
lowed them.” This is a poetic reference to the defeat of the Egyptians, who
followed the Israelites into the parted sea but “sank like lead” and were
destroyed (Exod 15:10). According to the midrash, the land and the sea both
were afraid to accept Egyptian corpses. The land explains its reluctance: “If at
the time that I only received the blood of Abel it was pronounced against me,
‘Cursed is the ground,’ how can I receive the blood of this multitude?”20 Only
God’s direct intervention secures the land’s assent to accept the bodies. God
will not “hold it to account,” and there will be no curse on the land as there was
in Genesis. God, the midrash says, even gave an oath, reading Exod 15:12 (“You
stretched out your right hand”) as evidence of a solemn promise to the land,
for that is how the phrase “right hand” is used in Isa 62:8.21
The emphasis on God’s commitment to the burial of the Egyptians is used
to demonstrate a shocking discrepancy between God’s treatment of them, in
fulfillment of the requirement to bury corpses, and of the Jews. God’s com-
parative lack of concern for the Jews prompts the pointed accusation of divine
transgression. God failed to ensure the burial of the slain among the Jews—“to
your people you gave no burial”—and this was “contrary to your [i.e., God’s]
Torah” (Ps 119:85).22 Though the verse was originally a criticism of the Psalmist’s
Ap. 2:30. See Saul Lieberman, “Some Aspects of After Life in Early Rabbinic Literature,” in
Texts and Studies (New York: Ktav, 1974), 235–72 (255–56).
18 b. Soṭah 14a; b. Taʿan. 31a.
19 The midrash depends on verses not provided here. Egyptians are linked with donkeys
in Ezek 23:19, and the claim that God buried donkeys likely refers to the requirement in
Lev 17:13, quoted in a previous midrash, that the blood of slain animals be covered with
earth (though this applies to animals that were consumed).
20 The quotation is from Gen 3:17, but the midrash seems to refer to Gen 4:11.
21 Cf. Tg. Neof. and Tg. Ps.-J. on Exod 15:12.
22 See Charles A. Kroloff, “The Effect of Suffering on the Concept of God in Lamentations
Rabba” (MA thesis, Hebrew Union College, 1960), 69; Mintz, Hurban, 78.
enemies, in the midrash the charge is now redirected at God directly (“you”).
The enemies, just like in the previous midrash, are not in view. The religious
requirement to attend to the burial of the Israelite dead was neglected by God,
so that God, inexplicably, broke the Law. God’s behavior failed to conform
to this ultimate standard of right conduct. There is no hint that the people
deserved such treatment, no mention of their sin or guilt which might other-
wise minimize the apparent injustice. This is a damning indictment of God for
kindness to those least deserving and for cruelty to those most deserving.
2.3 1:4023
“Look about and see: Is there any agony like mine, which was dealt out to
me [when the Lord afflicted (ʿolal) me on his day of wrath]?” (Lam 1:12).
For he was strict with me, and cut off my gleanings (ʿolalti)—gleanings
having the same meaning as in the verse, “When you gather the grapes of
your vineyard [do not glean (teʿolel) what is left; that shall go to the
stranger, the fatherless, and the widow]” (Deut 24:21).
The most straightforward accusation of divine injustice is made here by an

unnamed rabbi, in a midrash on Lam 1:12, a mournful comment on suffering
when “the Lord afflicted [Israel].” Importantly, the biblical verse is surrounded
by others that justify suffering as divine chastisement of sinful Israel.24 This
midrash, by contrast, undermines this type of retributive justification. It too
bemoans Israel’s suffering, but the explanation is very different.
The unnamed rabbi, citing Lam 1:12, also emphasizes Israel’s suffering, but
instead lodges a complaint against God: “He was strict with me, and cut off
my gleanings.” The complaint is based on the ambiguity of the Hebrew word
ʿolal, translated in Lam 1:12 as “afflicted.” However, the same root can also be
translated as “glean,” as in a harvest.25 This is the meaning it is given next, as
the author quotes Deut 24:21, a commandment to the farmer to leave fallen
produce behind for the poor: “When you gather the grapes of your vineyard, do
not glean (teʿolel) what is left.” This biblical requirement to leave dropped food
behind in the fields is obligatory on all Israelites, a required act of kindness
toward the hungry and vulnerable.
23 Cf. 1:57.

24 E.g., 1:5, 8, 14, 18.
25 F. Brown, S. Driver, and C. Briggs, eds., The Brown-Driver-Briggs Hebrew and English
Lexicon (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1996), 760.
354 Gregerman
The midrash charges that God did not fulfill this biblical requirement.
Reading Deut 24:21 metaphorically, the rabbi accuses God of having acted
harshly toward those who, as the Torah says, deserve to be cared for, when he
“cut off [their] gleanings.” Israel, like the hungry and weak, are rightfully owed a
minimum level of consideration, though this was denied to them by God, who
saw to it that nothing was left behind for them. This expectation that some-
thing would be left behind is based on the commandment in Deuteronomy,
and is by extension binding on God as the author of the Law. The biblical stan-
dard the rabbi appeals to is God’s own standard; God is accused of being overly
“strict,” and therefore not adhering to the commandment.26
This is not simply a complaint that God treated Israel harshly. Rather, God
explicitly failed to heed the demands of the Law by symbolically denying the
Jews the sustenance necessary for survival. It is not divine mercy but divine
justice and faithfulness to the Law which is denied. Recalling the ancient dev-
astation mentioned in Lam 1:12, the author therefore condemns God’s later
“affliction” of Israel. (Again, the enemies go unmentioned.) Like others, this
midrashist struggles to explain Israel’s repeated setbacks and continuing sense
of powerlessness. He appropriates the cry in Lamentations, though without
offering a traditional justification for suffering (i.e., Israel’s sin), to rebuke God.
2.4 Proem 2427

When the angels saw [Abraham], they also composed lamentations, arrang-
ing themselves in rows [like mourners] and saying, “Highways are desolate,
Wayfarers have ceased. He broke the covenant, He rejected the cities, He
did not regard man” (Isa 33:8). What does “Highways are desolate” mean?
The angels spoke before the Holy One, blessed be He, “How the highways to
Jerusalem that you established, so that travelers should not cease therefrom,
have been destroyed!” “Wayfarers have ceased.” The angels spoke before the
Holy One, blessed be He, “How have the ways on which Israel used to pass to
and fro on the pilgrimage festivals ceased!” “He broke [hefer] the covenant.” The
angels spoke before the Holy One, blessed be He, “Sovereign of the universe,
broken is the covenant made with their patriarch Abraham, through which the
world is peopled and through which humanity acknowledges that you are God
Most High, maker of heaven and earth.” “[H]e rejected (ma‌ʾas) the cities.” The
26 The term for ‘strict’ (‫ )דקדק‬can refer to God and humans, and describe behavior that
is unexpectedly harsh and even contrary to justice; e.g., b. Yebam. 121b; Lev Rab. 27:1;
see Michael Sokoloff, A Dictionary of Jewish Palestinian Aramaic of the Byzantine Period,
2nd ed. (Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University, 2002), 154.
27 This section appears about one-third of the way into Pr 24.
angels spoke before the Holy One, blessed be He, “Have you rejected Jerusalem
and Zion after you had chosen them?” And so it is stated, “Have you completely
rejected (hama‌ʾos ma‌ʾasta) Judah? Does your soul loath Zion?” (Jer 14:19). “He
did not regard man (ʾenosh).” The angels spoke before the Holy One, blessed
be He, “You have not regarded Israel even as much as the generation of Enosh
(ʾenosh), who were the foremost idolaters.”
The lengthy Proem 24 contains a vivid description, attributed to the amora
R. Shmuel b. Nachman, of a visit by a mournful Abraham to the destroyed
Temple. Joining him are angels, who compose lamentations of their own.
First, the patriarch demands that God tell him why Israel has suffered such
a loss, especially when the idolatrous nations are thriving inexplicably. Next,
angels issue similar accusations against God, for they too are angry over Israel’s
fate. I will focus on this part of the larger scene. As I will demonstrate, the
angels’ accusations, like those above, are grounded in a sense of disappoint-
ment in God. Specifically, Israel’s inability to carry out required command-
ments because of the Temple’s destruction ultimately is seen as a failure of
God’s faithfulness to Scripture. They are also disappointed by God’s betrayal
of fundamental features of the relationship between God and Israel, and
accuse God of infidelity to the covenant and earlier promises of election.
The midrash is based on a re-application of Isa 33:8 to post-70 CE Jerusalem.
Isaiah’s ancient description of foreign oppression is here used to illustrate
recent devastation of the land. The angels comment on each phrase of the
verse. They begin their lament with the first phrase: “Highways are desolate,
Wayfarers have ceased.” They speak directly to God, complaining about loss
that extends beyond the localized devastation of the Temple to the Jews’ inabil-
ity to fulfill a central religious obligation, travel to Jerusalem on pilgrimage.28
Previously, they say, Jews came from great distances to the Temple. However,
the paths they took were destroyed, as illustrated by Isaiah’s statement,
“Highways are desolate,” which they read as an explanation for the absence of
Temple pilgrims. In their comment on the verse, they exclaim, “How the high-
ways to Jerusalem that you [i.e., God] established, so that travelers should not
cease therefrom, have been destroyed!” The second phrase, “Wayfarers have
ceased,” also refers to the cessation of pilgrimages. These were trips under-
taken in obedience to the biblical commandment to travel to Jerusalem, and
demonstrated the Jews’ piety.
They can no longer do this, yet the implication is that they are not to be
blamed. The angels suggest that the Jews were willing—“Israel used to pass
to and fro”—and remain willing, for they ceased their pilgrimages only when
28 E.g., Exod 23:14–17; 34:23; Deut 16:16.

356 Gregerman
the roads became impassable. Furthermore, there is no mention of the Gentile

destroyers, who are most immediately responsible for the change. Rather, in
the context of this angry section, we have here an indictment of God, placed
on the lips of the angels. Following Abraham’s outburst at God, the angels’
complaint neatly fits into this pattern of accusations. Their focus is not on
suffering and loss generally, but, specifically, on the losses that keep Jews from
observing the Torah’s pilgrimage requirement. Witnessing the destruction,
they blame God for the abrogation of a biblical obligation.
The following statement makes the object of the accusation explicit. Isaiah’s
phrase, “He broke the covenant,” with its third-person masculine singular verb
form hefer, refers directly to God. The accusation of breaking the covenant is
typically applied to the Jews, using identical words to criticize them for trans-
gressing the commandments.29 In this midrash, the critique is inverted. Now
God, like the wicked in Israel, is accused of abrogating the covenant. The angels
suggest that God’s promises can be doubted and that God’s power may not be
as great as was once thought. Addressing God, they say that humanity may no
longer acknowledge “that you are God Most High, maker of heaven and earth.”
God’s faithlessness to the covenantal obligations is manifest in Israel’s suffer-
ing, and raises disquieting doubts among Jews and Gentiles.
The angels’ last two comments on Isaiah provide stinging parallels to the
accusations we have already seen. They charge God with unfaithfulness to fun-
damental ideas of chosenness. Promises given repeatedly in the Bible—to put
God’s name in one place, to take one people as God’s own—have been forgot-
ten. The charges, while less specific than the immediately preceding ones, fit
with the others as evidence of divine disobedience to the Bible.
On Jerusalem, angels demand to know, “Have you rejected Jerusalem and
Zion after you had chosen them?” To describe the loss, they quote a verse from
Jeremiah which contains the same word “reject” as Isa 33:8: “Have you com-
pletely rejected Judah?” (Jer 14:19). Jeremiah’s anguished question becomes
an indictment of God for betraying a bedrock idea in biblical theology, God’s
choice of Jerusalem. The betrayal, manifest in the destruction, cannot be rec-
onciled with the prophecy, prompting doubts about God’s faithfulness to his
word. Likewise, on Israel’s chosenness, the angels, commenting on the phrase
“He did not regard man,” contrast the terrible fate of the chosen people with
the success of the Gentiles. The angels creatively read not the generic word
“man” (ʾenosh) in Isa 33:8 but the name “Enosh,” recalling this antediluvian
figure from Gen 4:26 who was demonized as the first idolater in rabbinic
29 E.g., Lev 26:15; Deut 31:16, 20.

tradition.30 The point they make is that God, as demonstrated by recent events,
did not even “regard” him and his fellow idolaters negatively, though they,
rather than Israel, deserved to be criticized and punished.
This unexpected outcome provides further evidence of divine injustice
and a breakdown in Jewish observance. The unique relationship between
God and Israel, and God’s solicitude for the people, are undermined. There is
no defense of God’s behavior, and there are no accounts of Israel’s sins which
might prove the justice of this outcome. There is only a cessation of promi-
nent biblical commandments, and suffering and dispossession for the chosen
people, a fate worse than that of the sinful nations.31
3 Historical Context
When considering the influences upon rabbis’ perceptions of Jewish suffer-

ing, we can draw on the Midrash itself, as well as our knowledge of Jewish his-
tory in the land of Israel in the few centuries after the destruction.32 I cannot
now reconstruct that history, but simply want to mention evidence that might
have encouraged these perceptions. Throughout the Midrash we find refer-
ences to mass suicide, enslavement, and slaughter.33 Though many statements
are of questionable historicity, their frequency and vividness reflect strong
perceptions of loss and suffering, at various times and places, and under
various rulers.
The force of these complaints is compounded by perceptions of political
and symbolic powerlessness and loss, especially when compared to the suc-
cesses of the Gentiles.34 It was surely galling that Rome’s domination, unlike
that of earlier oppressors, had not come to an end. Those who destroyed
the Temple in 70 CE and repressed the revolts retained control of the land.
In it were garrisons of Roman troops. Taxation was high, and paganism was
30 See b. Šabb. 118b; Gen Rab. 23:7. The negative perception is not found in all ancient Jewish
texts; see Steven D. Fraade, Enosh and his Generation: Pre-Israelite Hero and History in
Post-Biblical Interpretation (Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1984).
31 See also Mintz, Hurban, 78; David Stern, “Imitatio Hominis: Anthropomorphism and the
Character(s) of God in Rabbinic Literature,” Prooftexts 12 (1992): 151–74 (162); Kraemer,
Responses to Suffering, 145.
32 Saul Lieberman, “Palestine in the Third and Fourth Centuries,” in Texts and Studies,
112–79; Louis Feldman, “Some Observations on Rabbinic Reaction to Roman Rule in
Third Century Palestine,” HUCA 63 (1992): 39–81.
33 E.g., Proem 17; 1:45–50; 2:6b; 2:23; 4:7.
34 E.g., Proem 24; 1:35; 1:41; 1:51–52; 5:1. See Mintz, Hurban, 5, 78.
358 Gregerman
unavoidable.35 Perhaps the shift to a Christian empire encouraged such anger.

While the Midrash makes no explicit references to Christianity, we do know
of increasing restrictions on Jewish life following Constantine. These include
limits on the power of Jewish courts, restrictions on ownership of slaves, and
loss of exemptions from onerous civil service tasks, for example. With Jews
already chafing under pagan rule and oppression, the coming of Christian rule
presented further evidence of Jewish powerlessness.36
4 Conclusion
These midrashim, rejecting a retributive theodicy that explains the fate of the
Jews by their transgressions of the Law, present remarkable critiques of God.
There is some precedent in earlier anti-theodicies for doubts about divine jus-
tice. However, these midrashim are noteworthy not only for their bitterness but
for the use of God’s own standard—faithfulness to the Torah—against him.
Some rabbis seem reluctant to directly criticize God, or have surrogates (e.g.,
angels) do so, while others are stunningly direct. However, the central theo-
logical assumption that underlies these midrashim—that ultimately God con-
trols Israel’s fate, even when afflicted by human enemies—makes the object of
the critiques unmistakable. It is God who failed to follow the requirement
of Scripture, but Israel who pays the price. The repeated failure to mention
Israel’s human enemies, who were of course most immediately responsible for
their suffering, confirms this. Though one should be cautious when speculating
about rabbis’ motives, a desire to give voice to feelings of pain and frustration,
rather than to exonerate Israel as sinless victims, is most prominent. Rabbis
may also wonder whether Israel deserved to suffer, but the emphasis—in tone,
35 See E. Mary Smallwood, The Jews Under Roman Rule from Pompey to Diocletian: A Study in
Political Relations (Leiden: Brill, 1981), 495–96, 526–27; Martin Goodman, State and Society
in Roman Galilee, AD 132–212 (Totowa, NJ: Rowman & Allanheld, 1983), 142–48; Richard
Horsley, Galilee: History, Politics, People (Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International,
1995), 124–25; Seth Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society, 200 BCE to 640 CE (Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 2001), 107–08; Steven Fine, Art and Judaism in the Greco-
Roman World: Toward a New Jewish Archaeology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2005), 110–17.
36 Peter Schäfer, The History of the Jews in the Greco-Roman World (London: Routledge,
2003), 176–88; Amnon Linder, “The Legal Status of the Jews in the Roman Empire,” in
The Cambridge History of Judaism: The Later Roman-Rabbinic Period, ed. Steven T. Katz
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 1:128–73 (144–73).
in the vividness of the descriptions, in the contrast between the fates of Israel
and the nations—is on anger over God’s failings.
No rabbi (at least, no rabbi whose views are preserved in rabbinic literature)
goes so far as to threaten to punish or reject God for breaking the Torah, as
God threatens to do to disobedient Israel many times in the Bible. This, one
imagines, would take the critique too far, crossing an unacceptable boundary
by vitiating entirely the covenantal relationship between God and Israel. If one
follows through the logic of some of the accusations, this may be surprising.
However, there are precedents for this reluctance to cast off God, even in the
wake of suffering, and even when racked by doubts about divine justice. Anti-
theodicy does not mark the end of faith, nor is anti-theodicy the same thing as
atheism.37 Blunt rebukes of God appear in speeches to God, implicitly affirm-
ing the relationship, even as rabbis attack the other party to it.
The Jewish covenantal model of the relationship between God and Israel
may be well-suited for such a rebuke, and helps us to understand how rebuke may
co-exist with continuing faith. In the dominant form of the model, God criti-
cizes Israelites for their transgressions, and nonetheless affirms a deep com-
mitment to them. Now, in the midrashim, rabbis both criticize God for God’s
transgressions but nonetheless implicitly affirm their faith by not rejecting
God. There is an inherent tension in each formulation, between critique on
the one hand and steadfastness and fidelity on the other. This need not, how-
ever, be irreconcilable; biblical ideas of covenant emphasize both aspects of
God’s treatment of Israel, sometimes in close proximity to each other.38 This
unlikely parallel between the dominant covenantal model and that of these
four midrashim, while minimizing the stark differences between the two par-
ties God and Israel (in power, expectations, etc.), illustrates the type of balance
that can be struck by those who face the sad reality that covenant partners can
be profoundly disappointing.
37 See Braiterman, (God), 4.

38 See Walter Brueggemann, Theology of the Old Testament: Testimony, Dispute, Advocacy
(Minneapolis: Fortress, 2005), 247–49.
Appendix: Complete List of Publications
Dissertation
“Two Powers in Heaven: The Significance of the Rabbinic Reports about Binitarianism,
Ditheism, and Dualism for the History of Judaism and Early Christianity.” PhD diss.,
Yale University, 1975.
Books
Teachers’ Guide for “Arabs and Jews.” New York: UAHC Press, 1969, 1971.
Two Powers in Heaven: Early Rabbinic Reports about Christianity and Gnosticism.
SJLA 25. Leiden: Brill, 1977.
Deus Ex Machina: Computers in the Humanities. Philadelphia: University of
Pennsylvania Bulletin Board for Textual Studies, 1985. (With John Abercrombie.)
Rebecca’s Children: Judaism and Christianity in the Roman World. Cambridge: Harvard
University Press, 1986.
The Other Judaisms of Late Antiquity. BJS 127. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987.
Paul the Convert: The Apostolate and Apostasy of Saul the Pharisee. New Haven: Yale
University Press, 1990. Translation into French, Paul le converti: Apôtre ou apostat.
Translated by Anne Pamier, Patrice Ghirardi, and Jean-Francois Sene. Paris: Bayard,
2003.
Life after Death: A History of the Afterlife in Western Religion. New York: Doubleday,
2004.
A Concise Introduction to World Religions. Co-edited with Willard G. Oxtoby. New York:
Oxford University Press, 2007.
Sinning in the Hebrew Bible: How the Worst Stories Speak for Its Truth. New York:
Columbia University Press, 2012.
Journal Articles and Chapters in Edited Collections
“Magic and Heavenly Ascent.” Proceedings of the Philadelphia Seminar for Christian
Origins. 1977.
“Philo and the Rabbis on the Names of God.” JSJ 9, no. 1 (1978): 1–28. (With N. A. Dahl.)
“Heavenly Ascent in Hellenistic Judaism, Early Christianity and their Environments.”
ANRW 23.2:1333–94. Part 2, Principat. 23.2. Edited by Hildegard Temporini and
Wolfgang Haase. Berlin: de Gruyter, 1980.
362 APPENDIX: Complete List of Publications
“Ruler of this World: Attitudes towards Mediator Figures and the Problem of a Sociology
of Gnosticism.” Pages 245–68 in Aspects of Judaism in the Greco-Roman Period.
Edited by E. P. Sanders with A. I. Baumgarten and Alan Mendelson. Vol. 2 of Jewish
and Christian Self-Definition. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1981.
“Hellenistic Magic: Some Questions of Definition.” Pages 349–75 in Studies in Gnosticism
and Hellenistic Religions: Presented to Gilles Quispel on the Occasion of his
65th Birthday. Edited by R. van den Broek and M. J. Vermaseren. Leiden: Brill, 1981.
“The Sacrifice of Isaac in Judaism and Paul.” Proceedings of the Philadelphia Seminar for
Christian Origins. 1982.
“ ‘He Who Did Not Spare His Only Son . . .’ (Romans 8:32): Jesus, Paul, and the Sacrifice
of Isaac.” Pages 169–84 in From Jesus to Paul: Studies in Honour of Francis Wright
Beare. Edited by Peter Richardson and John C. Hurd. Waterloo: Wilfred Laurier
“Torah and nomos in Recent Scholarly Discussion.” Studies in Religion/Sciences
Religieuses 13, no. 1 (1984): 19–28.
“Pre-Existence and Incarnation: A Response to Dunn and Holladay.” In “Christology
and Exegesis: New Approaches.” Edited by Robert Jewitt. Semeia 30 (1985): 83–97.
“Covenant in Rabbinic Literature.” SR 14, no. 1 (1985): 53–62. Translation into German,
“Bund in den rabbinischen Schriften.” Translated by Rolf Rendtorff. Kirche und
Israel 6 (1991): 147–162.
“Judaism, Christianity, and Gnosticism.” Pages 133–62 in Anti-Judaism in Early
Christianity. Vol. 2: Separation and Polemic. Edited by Stephen G. Wilson. Waterloo:
Wilfred Laurier University Press, 1986.
“Paul and Ecstasy.” Pages 555–80 in Society for Biblical Literature 1986 Seminar Papers.
Edited by K. H. Richards. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1986.
“Romans 7 and Jewish Dietary Law.” Studies in Religion/Sciences Religieuses 15, no. 3
(1986): 361–74.
“Judaism and Christianity as Rebecca’s Children.” Explorations 1, no. 1 (Spring 1987):
3–4. Translation into Italian, “Giudaismo e cristianesimo sono fratelli gemelli.”
Translated by Gabriele Boccaccini Amicizia ebraico-cristiana 27, nos. 1–2 (1992): 3–6.
“The Costs of Proselytism and Conversion.” Pages 336–69 in Society of Biblical Literature
1988 Seminar Papers. Edited by David J. Lull. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988.
“Romans 9–11.” In “The Church and Israel: Romans 9–11.” Princeton Theological Seminary
Journal Supplementary Issue no. 1 (1990): 56–70.
“Judaism and Christianity: The Hidden Closeness.” Opus: A Journal for Interdisciplinary
Study 1 (1990): 51–71.
“Jesus the Jewish Revolutionary.” Pages 199–225 in Jesus’ Jewishness: Exploring the Place
of Jesus within Early Judaism. Edited by James H. Charlesworth. Shared Ground
among Jews and Christians: A Series of Explorations 2. New York: Crossroads, 1991.
(Reprint of chapter 4 of Rebecca’s Children.)
APPENDIX: Complete List of Publications 363
“Jewish Christianity.” Pages 326–55 in Eusebius, Christianity, and Judaism. Edited by

Harold W. Attridge and Gohei Hatta. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1992.
“Matthew’s Jewish Voice.” Pages 3–37 in Social History of the Matthean Community:
Cross-Disciplinary Approaches. Edited by David L. Balch. Minneapolis: Fortress,
1991.
“Studying Judaism with Christian Sources.” USQR 44, nos. 3–4 (1991): 267–86.
“Universalism in Judaism and Christianity: The Presidential Address.” Canadian Society
of Biblical Studies Bulletin 15 (1991–1992): 20–35.
“Conversion and Messianism: Outline for a New Approach.” Pages 296–340 in The
Messiah: Developments in Earliest Judaism and Christianity. Edited by James H.
Charlesworth. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992. (Segal also served as the editor for the
essays primarily concerned with Judaism.)
“The Risen Christ and the Angelic Mediator Figures in Light of Qumran.” Pages 302–28
in Jesus and the Dead Sea Scrolls. Anchor Bible Reference Library. Edited by James H.
Charlesworth. New York: Doubleday, 1992.
“How to Respect Each Other: Lessons from Jewish-Christian Scholarship.” Pages 93–108
in Overcoming Fear: Between Christians and Jews. New York: Crossroads, 1993.
“A Dialogue with Professor Dr. Hans Kueng.” Christology in Dialogue. Edited by Robert F.
Berkey and Sarah A. Edwards. New York: Pilgrim Press, 1993.
“Conversion and Universalism: Opposites That Attract.” Pages 162–89 in Origins and
Method: Towards A New Understanding of Judaism and Christianity. Edited by
Bradley H. McLean. Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement Series
86. Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993.
“From Christ to God: Outlining the Question.” Pages 124–37 in Jews and Christians
Speak of Jesus. Edited by Arthur Zannoni. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1994.
“The Aramaic ‘Elect of God’ Text from Qumran, Cave 4.” In vol. 7 of The Dead Sea Scrolls:
Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek Texts with English Translations. Edited by James H.
Charlesworth. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1994.
“Universalism in Judaism and Christianity.” Pages 1–29 in Paul in His Hellenistic Context.
Edited by Troels Engberg-Pederson. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995.
“Gnosticism: A Jewish View.” A Dictionary of the Jewish-Christian Dialogue. Expanded
ed. Edited by Leon Klenicki and Geoffrey Wigoder. New York: Paulist, 1995.
“On the Nature of Magic: Report on a Dialogue between a Historian and a Sociologist.”
Pages 275–92 in The Social World of the First Christians: Essays in Honor of Wayne A.
Meeks. Edited by L. Michael White and Larry Yarbrough. Minneapolis: Fortress,
1995.
“Paul and the Beginning of Jewish Mysticism.” Pages 93–120 in Death, Ecstasy, and
Other Worldly Journeys. Edited by John J. Collins and Michael Fishbane. Albany:
SUNY Press, 1995.
“ ‘The Ten Commandments’ by Cecil B. DeMille (1958).” Review of The Ten Command
ments. Pages 36–39 in Past Imperfect: History According to the Movies. Edited by
Mark Carnes. New York: Agincourt Press, 1995.
“The Hebrew Bible.” In Companion Encyclopedia of Theology. Edited by Peter Byrne and
Leslie Houlden. London: Routledge, 1995. (With Gary Gilbert.)
“Hellenism.” The HarperCollins Dictionary of Religion. Edited by Jonathan Z. Smith with
William Scott Green and the American Academy of Religion. San Francisco:
HarperSanFrancisco, 1995.
“The Jewish Tradition.” Pages 1–150 in Western Religions. Edited by Willard G. Oxtoby.
Vol. 2 of World Religions. New York: Oxford University Press, 1996.
“Some Observations about Mysticism and the Spread of Notions of Life after Death in
Hebrew Thought.” Pages 385–400 in Society of Biblical Literature 1996 Seminar
Papers, Society of Biblical Literature Seminar Papers 35. Atlanta: Scholars Press,
1996.
“Jesus and First Century Judaism.” Pages 55–72 in Jesus at 2000. Edited by Marcus J.
Borg. San Francisco: Westview Press, 1996.
“The Akedah: Some Reconsiderations.” Pages 99–118 in vol. 1 of Geschichte—Tradition—
Reflexion: Festschrift für Martin Hengel zum 70. Geburtstag herausgegeben von
Hubert Cancik, Hermann Lichtenberger, Peter Schäfer. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck,
1996.
“Life after Death: The Social Sources.” Pages 90–125 in The Resurrection: An
Interdisciplinary Symposium on the Resurrection of Jesus. Edited by Stephen T. Davis,
Daniel Kendall SJ, and Gerald O’Collins SJ. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997.
“Electronic Echoes: Using Computer Concordances for Bible Study.” BAR 23, no. 6
(November/December 1997): 58–60, 74–75.
“Paul’s Thinking about Resurrection in its Jewish Environment.” NTS 44:3 (1998):
400–19.
“Paul and the Beginning of Christian Conversion.” Pages 79–113 in Recruitment,
Conquest, and Conflict: Strategies in Judaism, Early Christianity, and the Greco-
Roman World. Edited by Peder Borgen, Vernon Robbins, and David B. Gowler.
Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1998.
“Reply: Jewish Orthodoxy, Modernity, and Women’s Rights.” Pages 174–77 in Religion
and Human Rights: Competing Claims? Edited by Carrie Gustafson and Peter Juviler.
London: M. E Sharpe, 1999.
“ ‘Two Powers in Heaven’ and Early Christian Trinitarian Thinking.” Pages 73–95 in The
Trinity: An Interdisciplinary Study of the Doctrine of the Trinity. Edited by Stephen
Davis, Daniel Kendall SJ, and Gerald O’Collins SJ. Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1999.
“Paul’s ‘Soma Pneumatikon’ and the Worship of Jesus.” Pages 258–76 of The Jewish
Roots of Christological Monotheism: Papers from the St. Andrews Conference on the
Historical Origins of the Worship of Jesus. Edited by Carey C. Newman, James R.

Davila and Gladys S. Lewis. Leiden: Brill, 1999.
“Apocalypticism and Life after Death.” Proceedings of the Irish Biblical Association
22 (1999): 41–63.
“Some Thoughts on Theurgy.” Pages 505–27 in Text and Artifact in the Religions of
Mediterranean Antiquity: Essays in Honour of Peter Richardson. Edited by Stephen G.
Wilson and Michel Desjardins. Studies in Christianity and Judaism/Études sur le
christianisme et le judaisme 9. Waterloo: Wilfred Laurier University Press, 2000.
“Response: Some Aspects of Conversion and Identity Formation in the Christian
Community of Paul’s Time.” Pages 184–90 in Paul and Politics. Edited by Richard
Horsley and James Tracy. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2000.
“Jesus in the Eyes of One Jewish Scholar.” Pages 147–55 in The Historical Jesus Through
Catholic and Jewish Eyes. Edited by Bryan F. LeBeau, Leonard Greenspoon and
Dennis Hamm SJ. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2000.
“The Incarnation: The Jewish Milieu.” Pages 116–39 in The Incarnation: An Inter
disciplinary Symposium on the Incarnation of the Son of God. Edited by Stephen
Davis, Daniel Kendall SJ, and Gerald O’Collins SJ. Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2002.
“Transformation and Afterlife.” Pages 111–30 in The Gospels According to Michael
Goulder: A North American Response. Edited by Christopher A. Rollston. Harrisburg,
PA: Trinity Press International, 2002.
“The Jewish Experience: Temple, Synagogue, Home, and Fraternal Groups.” Pages
20–35 in Community Formation in the Early Church and in the Church Today. Edited
by Richard N. Longenecker. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2002.
“A Personal Confession from Another Direction.” USQR 56, nos. 3–4 (2002): 121–129.
“Paul’s Jewish Presuppositions.” Pages 159–73 in The Cambridge Companion to Saint
Paul. Edited by James D. G. Dunn. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003.
“Text Translation as a Prelude for Soul Translation.” Pages 213–48 in Translating
Cultures: Perspectives on Translation and Anthropology. Edited by Paula G. Rubel
and Abraham Rosman. Oxford: Berg, 2003.
“Walter Wink’s The Human Being: Review and Appreciation.” Crosscurrents (Summer
2003): 307–14.
“Mary Douglas among the Hebrews.” Journal of Ritual Studies 18, no. 2 (2004): 169–71.
“Angels in Judaism.” In An Extraordinary Gathering of Angels. Edited by Margaret
Barker. London: T&T Clark, 2004.
“ ‘How I Stopped Worrying about Mel Gibson and Learned to Love the Quest for the
Historical Jesus’: A Review of Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ.” Journal for the
Study of the Historical Jesus 2 (2004): 190–208.
“Being Dispassionate about The Passion of the Christ: A Response to Rikk Watts’s
Review.” Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 2 (2004): 219–23.
“The Jewish Leaders.” Pages 89–102 in Jesus and Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ:
The Film, the Gospels and the Claims of History. Edited by Kathleen Corley and
Robert Webb. London: T&T Clark, 2004.
“Comparative Transformations: Daoist Ascent and Merkabah Ascent Mysticism.” Pages
32–52 in Wisdom in China and the West. Edited by Vincent Shen and Willard G.
Oxtoby. Washington DC: The Council for Research in Values and Philosophy, 2004.
“The Resurrection: Faith or History?” Pages 121–39 in The Resurrection of Jesus:
John Dominic Crossan and N. T. Wright in Dialogue. Edited by Robert B. Stewart.
Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006.
“A construção do ‘eu’ transcendente em Terceiro Enoch.” Oracula: Revista Eletronica do
Grupo Oracula des Pesquisas em Apocaliptica Judaica e Christa Universidade
Metodista de São Paulo 2, no. 4 (2006): https://www.metodista.br/revistas/revistas-
ims/index.php/oracula/article/view/5904/4775. (Portuguese translation of “The
Construction of the Transcendent Self in Third Enoch.”)
“Religious Experience and the Contruction of a Transcendent Self.” Pages 27–40 in
Paradise Now: Essays on Early Jewish and Christian Mysticism. Edited by April D.
DeConick. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2006.
“Abode of the Dead,” “Afterlife,” “To Cry,” “Immortality,” “Immortality in Early Judaism,”
“Resurrection, Early Jewish,” “Resurrection, NT,” “Resurrection, OT,” “Trance” in
New Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible. Edited by Katharine Doob Sakenfeld. 5 vols.
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“Paul et ses exégètes juifs contemporains.” Recherches de science religieuse 94, no. 3
(Juillet–Septembre 2006): 413–41.
“Social Sources of the Afterlife in Western Religions: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.”
Pages 57–98 in Dying, Death, and the Afterlife in Dharma Traditions and Western
Religions. Edited by Adarsh Deepak and Rita DasGupta Sherma. Hampton, VA:
Deepak Heritage Books, 2006.
“Paul and the Beginning of Jewish Mysticism.” Pages 470–85 in The Writings of St. Paul.
Edited by Wayne A. Meeks and John T. Fitzgerald. New York: Norton, 2007.
“Christology in the Dark: The Da Vinci Code and The Passion of the Christ—What They
Tell Us about American Religion Today.” Pages 211–22 in Jesus in Twentieth Century
Literature, Arts and Movies: Competing Models of Humanity. New York: Continuum,
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“The History Boy: The Importance of Perspective in the Study of Early Judaism and
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Jews, Christians and Others. Edited by Zeba A. Crook and Philip A. Harland. Sheffield:
Phoenix Press, 2007.
“Paul’s Religious Experience in the Eyes of Jewish Scholars.” Pages 321–44 in Israel’s God
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“Judaism in the Time of Jesus.” Copyrighted course on audio tape for Barnard Alumnae
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Index
Page ranges in bold indicate whole chapters.
Abba b. Kahana 348–351 Arbel, Mount 294–295

Abegg, Martin G., Jr 26, 27 arguing with God 302–306
Abraham 52–54, 64–65 ascent to heaven 25–40
absence, divine 234–239, 310, 313 asceticism 202, 248, 329–331
Acts of Andrew 176 Aseneth 176
Acts of John 176–177 Athanasius 46, 47n18, 63, 66, 331n50
Acts of Paul and Thecla 176 Aune, David 303–304
Acts of Peter 177 Aurelia Rufina inscription 183
Acts of the Apostles 171, 172, 206n24, 291 Aurelia Soteria inscriptions 182–183
Adam 50–52, 58–59, 61, 62, 64 autobiographical writing 223–224, 228–229,
afterlife 8–12, 38, 149n23, 304–306 see also 249–250, 254
immortality
Agnon, S. Y. 99–101, 113 Babylonian Talmud (Bavli)
Agrippa II 179–180 death of Eleazar b. R. Shimon 315,
Akiba (Akiva, Aqiba) 59, 77, 253, 285n18, 316–318, 326, 327, 328, 329, 330, 331
338, 347 and the Golden Rule 341–343
Aland, Barbara 213n47 human divinizing 70–71
Alexander, Philip 25, 31, 36–37, 40 veneration of the dead 320
allegory 214–215, 222–223, 245–249, 250 Baillet, Maurice 26, 27, 28, 32, 37
alliteration 265, 267–268, 273 baptism 148
Alter, Robert 271–272n57 Bar Kokhba rebellion 217–218
Ameling, W. 186, 187, 189 Barnabas, Epistle of 66, 219n69
angelification 43–45, 60, 61 Barton, John 214n50
angels Basil the Great of Caesarea 63, 64–65
Abraham’s relationship to 52–54 Baur, F. C. 119, 120, 124
accusations against God 354–357 Bavli see Babylonian Talmud
and festival of Shavuot 76, 79, 111 beliefs, effect on scholarship 154–165
Jacob’s ladder 54–58 Ben Azzai 338
mistaking Adam for a god 51–52 Benedict XVI, Pope 47n16
prayers of complaint 304–305 Benjamin, Walter 263
and the Self-Glorification Hymn from Bentley, James 321n20
Qumran 26, 28, 32, 36, 38, 40 Ben-Yehuda, Nachman 292n42
at Sinai 68–69, 76 Berechiah 351
Skekhinah described as an angel 112 Bernays, J. 171n7, 173n13, 183n49
Antiochus Epiphanes 85, 86 Bet Shearim 320
anti-theodicy 344–359 bible see scriptures; Torah
Antonius: Life of Simeon Stylites 330 Bickerman, Elias 321n23
Aphrodisias inscriptions 173, 181, 189, Boyarin, Daniel 66n73, 129–130
190–192, 194 Bride and Bridegroom imagery 76–77,
apocalypticism 4–5, 7, 10, 11, 38, 132, 160–163 107–110, 111, 222–223, 225–232, 233–240,
see also Revelation, book of 251–252
Aqiba (Akiba, Akiva) 59, 77, 253, 285n18, Brighton, Mark Andrew 292n41, 293n43,
338, 347 295–296n55
404 Index
Brown, Peter 314, 320–321, 329, 331 Conservative Judaism 156, 157, 158–159,

Buckley, Jorunn Jacobsen 257n10, 258n12, 161–162, 163–164
259n19 Constantine I, emperor 196
Buczacz 99–101 conversion 5, 6–8, 174–175, 174n15, 176, 179,
burial 195 see also proselytism
vs. cremation 10 Coptic language and literature 255–275
Egyptian non-burial of martyrs 331n50 Cos: epitaph of Eirene 186
of Eleazar b. R. Shimon 314–332 Cothenet, Édouard 302
God indicted for failure to bury the covenant
dead 351–353 broken by God 347, 354–356, 359
Burton, Joan B. 233n57, 240n88 Ezekiel’s vision and 103
as marriage 76–77, 107, 108, 109
Caelicolari (heaven-fearers) 193–194 with Noah 79
Caesarea 250–251, 252–253 seven-based cycles of 82, 84–85, 87–90
Calaway, Jared 15 Shavuot (Feast of Weeks) and renewal
calendars 81–85, 97, 104–106 of 76–77, 78–79, 87–89, 91–93,
Caligula 287 102–104, 106, 111, 112
Campenhausen, Hans F. von 206n22 Sinai 76–77, 94, 102–104, 107
Capitolina inscription(s), Tralles 186–188 creation story 48, 271–272n57 see also Adam
Carr, David M. 235n61 creator, Jacob (Israel) as 65
Catechism of the Roman Catholic Crusades 309–310
Church 47–48 Cyril of Alexandria 180
chariot of the cherubim 95–96, 103–104, 107
Chariot tradition 76, 78, 96–97 Daniel, book of 10
charity, food 150–151 Day of Atonement (Yom Kippur) 87,
cherubim 95–96, 102, 103–104, 107–108, 109 145–146n16
chosenness 121–126, 356–357 Dead Sea Scrolls see Qumran community and
Christ see Jesus Christ texts
Christianity death(s) 279–299
divinization (theosis) 41–43, 45–48, of Eleazar b. R. Shimon 314–332
60–65, 69–70, 72n88 martyrdom 282–288, 291–292, 298
food charity 150–151 and afterlife beliefs 11, 12
origins 3, 4–6, 7, 120 lament of the martyrs (Rev
salvation 124, 132–135 6:10) 300–313
universalism 118–119, 120, 124, 127–128, of Stephen 76, 291
133–134 translation of relics 323–327, 332
2 Chronicles 91 murders 288–292, 298
Chyutin, Michael 97 murder-suicides 295–296, 298–299, 310
Cicero 261–262 noble deaths 280–282
Ciner, Patricia 235n62 suicide 283, 292–298
circumcision 174–175, 174n15 DeConick, April D. 252n154
Clabeaux, John James 205 deification see theosis
Clark, Elizabeth 222n4 Deliler: inscription of Eustatios 188
2 Clement 66n72 destruction, literature of 306–313
clothing as garment of divinity 63–64, 68 Deuteronomy Rabbah 71
Cohen, Shaye J. D. 154–159, 161–162, 163–164 diaspora revolts 217
comparing religions 335–343 Didymus the Blind 44n6, 66
complaint, prayers of 302–306 dietary restrictions 143–145
Index 405
Donaldson, Terence L. 117–118, 129, 132, in the Self-Glorification Hymn from

136n65 Qumran 26, 28–37
Drewery, Benjamin 48n20 Florian (Christian saint) 328n42
dualism 10, 203–205 food
charity 150–151
Eirene epitaph, Cos 186 contemporary religious importance 141–
Eleazar (2 Maccabees) 283 142, 143–144, 145–146, 147, 150–151
Eleazar Avaran 281, 282 dietary restrictions 143–145
Eleazar ben R. Shimon 314–332 fasting 145–146, 148
Eleazar of Masada 292n41, 297–298 in heaven 149n23
election (chosenness) 121–126, 356–357 Jesus and 138–153
Elpis manumission inscription 189–190 offerings to deities 140–142
Enoch 38 special religious occasions 146–150
1 Enoch 82, 305–306 food laws 143–145
enthronement 39, 55–56, 69 and martyrdom 283, 284–285,
Ephrem the Syrian 47 288
epigraphs 180–192 Fossum, Jarl 55–56, 59n53, 66n71
Epiphanius 177 Fredriksen, Paula 195, 205n19, 252n156
Epistle of Barnabas 66, 219n69 Frey, Jean-Baptiste 172, 181–182, 186
2 Esdras 304–305 Friedman, Shamma 315
Eshel, Esther (Esti) 26–27, 29, 35 Friedrich, Hugo 262n33
Essenes 161, 284–286, 297 fringed shawls 63–64
Eucharist 142, 149–150 Funk, Wolf-Peter 265n42
Euphrosyne epitaph, Rhodes 186
Eusebius 177, 230n42 Gager, John G. 215
Eustatios inscription, Deliler 188 García Martínez, Florentino 27, 32n30
Evagrius Scholasticus 325–326 garments of divinity 63–64
Eve 58 gender
evil spirits 142 angels and cherubim 44n7, 112
exclusion and inclusion see dietary and conversion 174–175, 174n15, 179, 195
restrictions; universalism and and fasting 146
particularism Origen and the Song of Songs 228–232,
Ezekiel’s vision 96–97, 102–104, 269n50 233
Ezra 304–305 stereotyping countered by Segal 14
see also bride and bridegroom imagery
faith vs. works 42–43, 54, 57, 61–62 Genesis Rabbah 50–59, 61, 64–65, 67, 70
fasting 145–146, 148 Gentiles, relationship to Judaism 117–118,
Feast of Weeks see Shavuot 128–129, 131–132, 163 see also
Feeley-Harnik, Gillian 149n22 Godfearers
Feldman, Louis H. 171n7, 171n8, 172, 175n19, gnostics and gnosticism 2–3, 11, 204–205,
183, 189n82 216, 258n12 see also Valentinus and
Festival of Weeks see Shavuot Valentinians
festivals and food 146–150 God
Finlan, Stephen 47 accused of injustice 346–359
first-person texts see also theosis (divinization, deification)
in Origen’s homilies on Song of Godfearers 169–199
Songs 223–224, 228–229, 249–250, ancient evidence 171–175
254 epigraphical evidence 180–194
406 Index
Godfearers (cont.) immortality 10, 61, 68n79, 286n21, 297–298

Josephus’s use of theosobes 175–176, see also life after death
178–180 inclusion and exclusion see dietary
theosobeis as piety 175–178 restrictions; universalism and
modern scholarly use of term 169–171, particularism
194–199 inscriptions 180–192
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 262n28 Irenaeus 46, 203, 212
Golden Rule 335–343 Isaac bar Shalom 309–310, 311
Gomery, Mónica 51n29 Isaiah, book of 28, 29, 33–34, 39–40, 65
Gooch, Peter 141n7 Ishmael, Rabbi 38
Good, Deirdre 252n151
Goodman, Martin 185, 217n61 Jacob (Israel) 54–58, 65
Gospel of John 55, 56, 67, 176 James, Epistle of 61–62
Gospel of Luke 206–207 Jeremias, Joachim 322
Gospel of Philip 252 Jerome 260, 261n26, 262
Greek: translation into Coptic 256–257, Jerusalem Talmud (Yerushalmi) 319
263–274 Jesus Christ
Groag, E. 188n76 and apocalyptic Judaism 4–5, 7
Gross, Jules 61n58, 62–63, 69 as the dart of love 241
Grossman, Edith 260 exalted 39–40
and food 138–153
Hama b. R. Hanina 347 charity 150–151
Harl, Marguerite 228n31, 237n71 fasting 145–146, 148
Harnack, Adolf von 200n2, 204, 210n35, food laws 144–145
211n38, 211n39, 213, 214–215, 219n68 home 141–142
harvest 89–91, 105–106 religious occasions 147–149
Hasmonean priests 81, 86, 87, 93 Temple cult 140–141
Hastings, James (Encyclopaedia of Religion and human deification 46–47, 62–63, 66
and Ethics) 119, 126, 132n48, 133 Marcion’s view of 207, 208, 209
heaven 149n23 see also ascent to heaven as mediator of salvation 132–133
heaven-fearers (Caelicolari) 193–194 and the Temple cult 140–141
heavenly chariots 96 and women 142, 146–147, 148–149,
Heracleon 251 151–152
Herod, King 286–287, 294–295, 322 John’s gospel 55, 56, 67, 176
Herodotus 175 John the Baptist 146, 289–290
Hillel 337, 343 Jonathan, priest 290
Hippolytus 148n19 Joseph and Aseneth 176
Hoffmann, R. Joseph 203, 210n35, 211n39 Josephus
Holy of Holies 95, 102 on Israel’s chosenness 125
Holy Spirit 106–107, 110–111 noble deaths 281–282, 284–287, 288–291,
home and food 141–142 292–299
H̱ onyo (Onias) ben Simeon 85–86 on tomb-building 322
Hoshaya, Rabbi 51 use of theosebes (god-fearing) 175–176,
178–180
Ibn Gabirol, Solomon 100–101 Jubilees, book of 79, 82, 125
Ignatius of Antioch 208–209, 219n69 Judaism see rabbinic Judaism; religious
image of God 48 beliefs, effect on scholarship
imitation of God 47n18 judaizing 218–219
Index 407
Judas Maccabeus 281 love 239–243, 253

Judas the Galilean 292 Lüdemann, Gerd 208n30
Julian, emperor 177 Luke’s gospel 206–207
Justin Martyr 56, 59n53, 203, 212, 218–220 Luzzatto, Moses Hayyim 111
Juvenal 171, 172
Maccabean martyrs 321–322
Kaminsky, Joel S. 121, 127n31 Maccabees 280–282, 307–308
Karo, Joseph 97–99, 110, 111, 112 Mack, Burton 174n15
Keating, Daniel A. 46n13 MacMullen, Ramsay 196, 198–199
Kharlamov, Vladamir 47 MacRae, George W. 259
Kimelman, Reuven 253n161 maggidim 111, 112
King, J. Christopher 229–230 Malkho, Solomon 98
Klauser, Theodor 322n24 Marcion and Marcionites 200–220
Klinghardt, Matthias 206n24 community life 200–202
Knohl, Israel 35 context for his ideas 211–220
Koch, Dietrich-Alex 192n92 dualism 203–205, 215–216
Kolbet, Paul 47n18, 72n88 on Jews and judaizers 209–211
Kraabel, A. Thomas 172–173, 181 scriptures 205–209
Kroll, John H. 185n63 Markschies, Christoph 213n45, 216n59
marriage imagery 76–77, 107–110, 111,
lament 302–313 222–223, 225–232, 233–240, 251–252
Lampe, G. W. H. 187n74 Marshall, John W. 214n48, 301–302
Lampe, Peter 215n55, 218 martyrdom 282–288, 291–292, 298
Laor, Dan 99–100 and afterlife beliefs 11, 12
Last Supper 148–150 lament of the martyrs (Rev
law 6:10) 300–313
Marcion’s view of 203–205 of Stephen 76, 291
works of the 42–43, 61–62, 64 translation of relics 323–327, 331n50, 332
see also Torah Martyrdom of Polycarp 177
Leon, Moses de 108–109 Martyrdom of Saint Irene 177–178
Levenson, Jon D. 123n18, 126–128 Masada 292–299
Levinskaya, Irina 181, 185–186n67, 188, 190 Mason, Steve 285n17, 285n19
Leviticus 337–339 Mattathias 175, 281, 307
Leviticus Rabbah 58–59, 65, 68–69 Matthews, Shelley 179
Lieberman, Saul 107 May, Gerhard 215
Liebes, Judah 96 Mekhilta of Rabbi Ishmael 68
life after death 8–12, 38, 149n23, 304–306 see Melito of Sardis 177
also immortality memory and forgetting 64, 101, 108, 113
Life after Death (Segal) 8–12, 149n23, 255, Menahem the Essene 35
300 Merkavah mysticism 6–7
Lifshitz, B. 186 Metatron 38
Linder, Amnon 193–194 Midrash on Lamentations 346–359
literature of destruction 306–313 Miletus: inscriptions 189
Logos/Word Millar, Fergus 181n44
Origen and 232–233, 234, 235–238, 239, Miller, Patricia Cox 245
242, 243–249, 252 Minorca 196
Torah similar to 65, 66–67 Mitchell, Stephen 211n39
Löhr, Winrich 204n18 Moll, Sebastian 204n16, 212n44
408 Index
Moorthy, Asha 15 Paul

moral ambiguity 12–14 conversion of 5, 6–8
murders 288–292, 298 and food 144, 144n, 149–150
murder-suicides 295–296, 298–299, 310 and “god-fearers” 174n15
mystical experience on human deification 46, 62–63
and ascetism 248 and idol-food 141n7
Marcion 213–214 Marcion’s view of 203–205, 205–206,
Origen and the Song of Songs 226–228, 207, 208, 210, 214, 215
232–234, 235–243, 244–245 and resurrection 11
Paul 6–7, 11 and universalism 119, 120, 124, 126,
Qumran Self-Glorification Hymn 25–40 127–128, 129–130, 133–134
Shavuot (Feast of Weeks) 76, 96–101, 102, Paul the Convert (Segal) 6–8
103, 107–113 Pentecost 76, 106–107
performance, reading as 224–225, 228–230
Nathan of Gaza 110 personal beliefs, effect on
Neusner, Jacob 134–135 scholarship 154–165
Norelli, Enrico 215n55 Pesiqta de Rab Kahana (PRK) 315–316, 323,
Noy, David 178, 182n46, 183n50, 184n55 324, 325, 326, 327, 328
nuptial imagery 76–77, 107–110, 111, 222–223, Pesiqta Rabbati 67–68
225–232, 233–240, 251–252 Peter the Iberian 327n40
Petuchowski, Jakob J. 311n46
Odgers, J. E. (in Encyclopaedia of Religion and Pharisees 104–106, 158–160, 163, 164–165
Ethics) 119, 126, 132n48, 133 Philo 3, 66n71, 125, 136–137, 231, 232
Onias (H̱ onyo ben Simeon) 85–86 Pilate, Pontius 287
openness see universalism and particularism Platonism 10, 45n9
Origen and the Song of Songs 221–254 Pliny the Younger 211n39
absence and intimacy 234–239 Poe, Edgar Allen 270
allegory 245–249 poetry, translation of 255–275
Caesarean context 250–253 Poirier, Paul-Hubert 257–258n11, 264n39,
the interpreter as Bride 225–232 266n43, 268, 268n47, 273n60
passivity and loveliness of the Pola inscriptions 182–183
Bride 233–234 Poppaea Sabina the Younger 178–179,
spiritual senses and the text/ 178–180
Word 244–245 prayers of complaint 302–306
the text as mediation of the “priests of wickedness” 86, 93
Logos 232–233 proselytism 126–130, 173–174n15, 174–175
use of autobiographical writing 223– Psalm 82 59–61
224, 249–250, 254 psalms of thanksgiving 31
the wound of love 239–243 Pseudo-Clementine Homilies 176
Orthodox Judaism 156, 157, 158, 159–161, 162, Ptolemy 208
163 Puech, Emile 36n44
ossilegium 318–319 puns 271–274
particularism see universalism and Qumran community and texts

particularism angels and angelification 26, 28, 32–37,
Passion of Sergius and Bacchus 323–325, 38, 40, 44n6
328–329 apocalypticism 161, 162
Passover 147, 148–149 chosenness 125, 132
Index 409
community as temple 309 Sadducees 104–106

and date of Day of Atonement 87 salvation 123–124, 129–135
rhyme in Songs of the Sabbath Samson 281–282, 293
Sacrifice 268–269n50 Samuel (Shmuel) ben Nachman 355
Self-Glorification Hymn 25–40 Sanders, Jack T. 173n15
Shavuot (Feast of Weeks) 75–76, 82, 84, Sardis: inscriptions 184–185, 194
86, 91–92, 93–95, 97 Saul 282, 293
Schäfer, Peter 43–44n5
rabbinic Judaism Schechter, Solomon 347
anti-theodicy 344–359 Schiffman, Lawrence H. 154–158, 159–161,
attitude to martyrdom 287–288 162, 163
diversity in 48–50 Schmid, Ulrich 203–204n14, 205, 206n22
the Golden Rule 335–343 Schoedel, William R. 209n32
suppression of Shavuot (Feast of scholarship, effect of religious beliefs
Weeks) 77–80, 106, 107 on 154–165
theosis through works of the law 41–73 Schopenhauer, Arthur 262n35
Rajak, Tessa 282n11 Schuller, Eileen 26, 29
Rashi 331 Schwartz, Seth 197n103
Ratzinger, Joseph 47n16 scriptures
Razis 283, 293 Marcion’s use of 205–209
reading as performance 224–225, 228–230 Origen’s approach 226–228, 232–233,
Rebecca’s Children (Segal) 4–6, 154–158, 160, 241, 244–249
162–163, 164–165 translation of 261n25, 261n26
reburial 318–320 see also Logos/Word; Torah
Reform Judaism 156, 157, 158, 160, 162–163, Segal, Alan 1–16, 344–345
164–165 academic service 14–15
Regul, Jürgen 211n38 mentorship and friendship 15–16
relics, translation of 323–327, 332 on universalism 133n55
religious beliefs, effect on works
scholarship 154–165 Life after Death 8–12, 149n23, 255, 300
religious experience see mystical experience Paul the Convert 6–8
remembering and forgetting 64, 101, 113 Rebecca’s Children 4–6, 154–158, 160,
resurrection 9–10, 11 162–163, 164–165
Revelation, book of 300–313 Sinning in the Hebrew Bible 12–14
Rhodes: epitaph of Euphrosyne 186 Two Powers in Heaven 2–4
rhyme 268–271 Semaḥot 319
rhythm in poetry 267–271 Sergius (Christian saint) 323–325, 328–329
rites of passage 146, 147–148 Servant Songs in Isaiah 28, 29, 33–34,
Robinson, Thomas A. 173n15 39–40
Roddy, Nicolae 239n87 seven-based cycles of the covenant 82,
Roskies, David G. 310–311 84–85, 87–90
Rufinus of Aquileia 231–232 Severus of Minorca 196
Runesson, Anders 136n64 Shavuot (Feast of Weeks) 74–113
Russell, Norman 44n8, 46, 59–61, 69 and the chariot of the cherubim 95–96,
103–104, 107
Sabbath 87–88, 105 date of the holiday 78, 81–85, 104–106
sabbatical years 84–85 as festival of receiving the Torah 93–95,
sacrifices 140–141 108–109, 111
410 Index
Shavuot (Feast of Weeks) (cont.) Tacitus 284n14

as festival of renewal of covenant 76–77, Talmud 48–49
78–79, 87–89, 91–93, 102–104, 106, 107, Babylonian Talmud (Bavli)
111, 112 death of Eleazar b. R. Shimon 315,
as festival of the church 316–318, 326, 327, 328, 329, 330, 331
(Pentecost) 106–107 and the Golden Rule 341–343
mystical tradition 76, 96–101, 102, 103, human divinizing 70–71
107–113 veneration of the dead 320
and the Sinai revelation 93–95, 102–104 Jerusalem Talmud (Yerushalmi) 319
suppression by Rabbinic sages 77–80, Teacher of Righteousness 32–35, 36–37, 38
106, 107 Temple
Shekhinah 76, 108, 109, 111, 112 Agrippa II and 179–180
Shepkaru, Shmuel 285n19 destruction of 97, 163–165, 306–313,
Shimon bar Yohai 327–328, 330n49, 332n52, 355–357
332n53, 347 Jesus and the sacrificial cult 140–141
Shimon ben Lakish 58 priestly service cycle 84, 85
Shmuel ben Nachman 355 Tertullian: Adversus Marcionem 201n5,
Sicarii 290, 292–293, 295–298 201n6, 202, 203, 206, 207, 210, 211, 212
Sifrei 59–61 Testament of Levi 36
Simeon (Shimon) bar Yohai 327–328, text(s) see Logos/Word; scriptures; Torah
330n49, 332n52, 332n53, 347 theodicy 344–359
Simeon Stylites 325–326, 329, 330 Theodoret of Cyrrhus 326–327, 329, 330
Similitudes of Enoch 39 theology, effect on scholarship 154–165
Sinai event Theophilus of Antioch 60–61
and human deification 67–69 theosebes (god-fearing) 175–181, 184–192, 198
and Shavuot (Feast of Weeks) 76–77, theosis (divinization, deification) 41–73
93–95, 102–104, 107 Abraham and the angels 52–54
Sinning in the Hebrew Bible (Segal) 12–14 Adam’s nature 50–52, 58–59, 62, 64
Smith, Morton 26, 32, 34, 37, 40 vs. angelification 40n59, 43–45, 60
snail metaphor for Adam 64 being clothed in divine glory 63–64
Song of Songs in Christian thought 41–43, 45–48,
and Sinai covenant 77, 107–108 60–65, 69–70, 72n88
see also Origen and the Song of Songs consubstantiality 62–63
Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice 268–269n50 and immortality 60–61
Son of Man 39 implanted Torah as divine nature 66–71
“sons of light” vs. “sons of darkness” 86 Jacob (Israel) 54–58, 65
Sozomen 328 partners in creation 64–65
speech-acts 229–230 rabbinic arguments against 49
spirits, food offerings to 142 in rabbinic thought 50–60, 61, 62, 63–65,
Stephen, death of 76, 291 66–73
Strabo 175 through Torah observance 60–62
suicide 283, 292–298 Thomassen, Einar 201n6
synagogue(s) thrones and enthronement 39, 55–56, 69
Orthodox, Conservative and Reform The Thunder: Perfect Mind 255–275
views of 158 context 257–259
Sardis inscriptions 184–185 as a Coptic poem 260–264
Tralles inscriptions 186–187, 187n74, 188 sound features 264–274
Index 411
tiqqun leil shavuʿot 76–77, 96, 97–99, Weeks, Feast of see Shavuot

108–109, 111, 112 Werblowsky, R. J. Zwi 135
Torah Westermann, Claus 303
and the calendar 81–82 Wijnhoven, Jochanan H. A. 169n1
compared to Logos 65, 66–67 Wisdom 69–70
God accused of disobeying 346–359 Wise, Michael O. 28, 29–30, 31–32, 32n31, 33,
and the Golden Rule 336–343 34–35, 37
implanted divine nature 66–71 women
Shavuot and receiving the 93–95, and angelification 44n7
108–109, 111 and conversion 174–175, 174n15, 179, 195
at Sinai 67, 68, 76–77, 93–95 and fasting 146
synagogue as place for reading and Jesus, food and 142, 146–147, 148–149,
interpreting 158 151–152
theosis through works of the law 41–73 see also bride and bridegroom imagery;
Tralles: inscription of Capitolina 186–188 gender
translation 255–275 Word see Logos/Word
translation of relics 323–327, 332 wordplay 264–265, 271–274
Trebilco, Paul R. 187n74, 188–189n80 works of the law 42–43, 61–62, 64
Two Powers in Heaven (Segal) 2–4 wound of love 239–243
Tyson, Joseph B. 206n24
Yadin, Yigael 294n51
universalism and particularism 117–137 Yehudah b. R. Shimon 348–351
chosenness 121–126 Yerushalmi 319
Philo and 136–137 Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement) 87,
proselytism 126–130 145–146n16
salvation 123–124, 129–135
in varieties of modern Judaism 156 Zabin, Serena 182n48
Upanishads 56–57n48 Zadokite priests 80–81, 82, 84–85, 86–87,
92–93, 95, 97, 105
Valentinus and Valentinians 212–213, 216, Zechariah (prophet, son of Jehoida) 289,
251–252 290, 291
van Henten, Jan Willem 293n45 Zetterholm, Magnus 173n15
vegetarianism 144–145 Zohar 108–109, 112
veneration of the dead 320–322
Veyne, Paul 173–174n15

STRATTON Kimberly B and LIEBER Andrea Eds 2016 Crossing Boundaries in Early Judaism and Christianity Essays in Honor

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STRATTON Kimberly B and LIEBER Andrea Eds 2016 Crossing Boundaries in Early Judaism and Christianity Essays in Honor

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Crossing Boundaries in Early Judaism and Christianity

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

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

A.M. Berlin – K. Berthelot – R. Bloch – G. Bohak

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

Kimberly B. Stratton and Andrea Lieber

Copyright 2016 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands.

This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Alan F. Segal: A Life in Perspective 1

Introduction to the Volume 17

1 The Self-Glorification Hymn from Qumran 25

2 Theosis through Works of the Law: Deification of the Earthly Righteous

4 Some Particulars about Universalism 117

5 Imagining Jesus, with Food 138

6 Antiquity’s Children: History and Theology in Three Surveys 154

7 Giving Up the Godfearers 169

8 Marcion and Boundaries 200

9 The Interpreter as Intertext: Origen’s First Homily on the Canticle

10 Translation and Transformation: The Coptic Soundscapes of

11 Maccabees, Martyrs, Murders, and Masada: Noble Deaths and Suicides

12 The Lament of the Martyrs and the Literature of Destruction

13 A Rabbinic Translation of Relics 314

14 The Golden Rule in Classical Judaism 335

15 From Theodicy to Anti-theodicy: Midrashic Accusations of God’s

Appendix: Complete List of Publications 361

1 Apol. Justin, Apologia i = First Apology

4Q529 Qumran text: Words of Michael ar

b. Pesaḥ. Babylonian Talmud Pesaḥim

Deut Rab. Deuteronomy Rabbah

JSPSup Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha Supplement

SC Sources chrétiennes. Paris: Cerf, 1943–

WMANT Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen

Rabbi Jonah C. Steinberg

This volume began as a Festschrift to honor the scholarly contributions and

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���6 | doi ��.��63/9789004334496_002

4 Segal, Two Powers, ix–x.

14 Segal, Rebecca’s Children, 87.

witness to developing Jewish mysticism. Furthermore, ideas such as the Body

21 Segal, Paul the Convert, 22, 35.

be persuasive.24 Importantly, Alan broke down barriers between Judaism and

28 Segal, Life after Death, 10.

32 Segal, Life after Death, 188.

36 Segal, Life after Death, 404.

It follows that in investigating “the Undiscover’d Country” of the after-

39 Segal, Life after Death, 344.

41 Segal, Sinning in the Hebrew Bible, 9.

in one place an informative and thought-provoking study of ancient Israel.

Throughout his professional life Alan actively participated in and contributed

3 Mentorship and Friendship

Part 1 Two Powers in Heaven

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���6 | doi ��.��63/9789004334496_003

early Christian literature. In contrast with the Christian concept of theo-

Part 2 Rebecca’s Children

Part 3 Paul the Convert

compelling evidence to support this meaning of the term theosebes as referring

older Greek version. What is the political or cultural significance of translating

Part 4 Life after Death

Part 5 Sinning in the Hebrew Bible

The Self-Glorification Hymn from Qumran

1 The Textual Evidence

The discussion of the Self-Glorification Hymn involves four fragmentary texts,

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���6 | doi ��.��63/9789004334496_004

This was published by Maurice Baillet in Discoveries in the Judean Desert 7

Stegemann she also discovered another fragment pertaining to this manu-

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��6 | doi ��.��63/9789004334496_002

4 Segal, Two Powers, ix–x.

14 Segal, Rebecca’s Children, 87.

21 Segal, Paul the Convert, 22, 35.

28 Segal, Life after Death, 10.

32 Segal, Life after Death, 188.

36 Segal, Life after Death, 404.

39 Segal, Life after Death, 344.

41 Segal, Sinning in the Hebrew Bible, 9.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��6 | doi ��.��63/9789004334496_003

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��6 | doi ��.��63/9789004334496_004

14 Wise, “‫מי כמוני באלים‬,” 180.

22 Wise, “‫מי כמוני באלים‬,” 203.

27 Wise, “‫ ”מי כמוני באלים‬218.

36 Exod 15:11.

47 Alexander, The Mystical Texts, 89.

58 See further Collins, “A Messiah Before Jesus?” 33–4.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��6 | doi ��.��63/9789004334496_005

43 Fossum, “The Son of Man’s Alter Ego,” 144.

1) The human being is originally a convincing likeness of God, and

3) It is not enough for the human being to envision or contemplate

57 As quoted by Russell, The Doctrine of Deification, 73.

66 E.g., Tanḫuma Koraḫ 12, b. Menaḥ. 43a.

89 m. Ḥag. 2:1.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��6 | doi ��.��63/9789004334496_006

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��6 | doi ��.��63/9789004334496_007