The Hebrew Bible Contains the Oldest Surviving History

022

The extraordinary achievement of the Hebrew Bible as history is rarely remarked on, but it is worth considering. For the Hebrew Bible contains the oldest surviving historical work as such and perhaps the earliest history ever written.

We tend not to appreciate this achievement because we simply assume that this is the way reality is perceived—historically. That the Bible does so therefore seems not unusual.

The fact is the Bible has imposed on us—our so-called Western or Judeo-Christian culture—its way of perceiving reality, that is, historically.

Not all cultures are equally conscious of their past, however. Some are history-minded, some are not. And there are differences of style and degree. To grasp the startling innovation that the introduction of history constituted we must, as it were, pull ourselves outside of our own historically oriented culture. Perhaps a metaphor will help us do this: A man sits at a window in a moving train, his back to the engine, looking at the landscape. You might think he does not care where he is going, as long as he can see where he was. In this particular train, however, the seats are so arranged that one can’t look ahead; seeing where one has been is the only way of finding out where one is. This is what fascinates the man at the window. He tries to tell what he sees to others in the compartment, and they are polite enough to listen occasionally, though not really interested. Because they all expect to reach their several destinations, it does not really matter to them where they are or where they have been or what the landscape is like that they have passed. So they spend their time reading, playing cards, chatting and eating hard-boiled eggs.

Ancient Israel is the man at the window: it is preoccupied with its past. That is why about half of the Hebrew Bible is historical narrative.

The Greeks and Romans were also peoples who were very conscious of their history. Europe of the last 1,200 years or so has inherited both the Jewish and Roman historical traditions, making the historical writings of the Hebrew Bible doubly unremarkable—perhaps its most obvious and therefore trivial feature.

To locate, for comparison’s sake, a contemporary culture not particularly aware of its past, I had to look far afield. The most instructive example I found is this: There is no proper Indian history of India. As Rawlinson’s classic India¹ demonstrates quite clearly, the inhabitants of the subcontinent have many remarkable achievements to their credit through the ages—in politics and empire building, in art, in architecture and, of course, in religion and philosophy. These impressive achievements are either part of a living tradition or are crumbling somewhere in some jungle. But no Hindu, Buddhist or Jain^a has bothered to write down that 023king X (son of Y) took the town of N, or built the temple of P, or that in his time the Enlightened Teacher T started the religion R. Some kings have engraved some of these things on stones, but they were forgotten nevertheless. Documentation is no substitute for the awareness of history itself, that is, for the feeling that the march of events is somehow significant and must be noticed. As a result of the near-complete absence of a historical consciousness in India, Rawlinson has had to piece it all together from archaeological finds, engrained ritual custom and sacred stories. Occasionally, he notes that there was another “Dark Age,” of which nothing is known; then, for the next chapter, “the curtain rises” again. It has stayed up only since the appearance of the Moguls, who as Moslems were fully aware of history in the sense that we have been discussing it.

Our own sensitivity to the past has recently wavered somewhat. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, especially in Europe, scholars were very historically minded. Major works of political (and general) history were produced, plus histories of philosophy, of literature, of religion and of practically everything else. Every subject was studied in the light of its historical development. It seems rather likely that this academic habit was somehow linked with the belief in the progress of mankind to moral perfection. Two world wars shattered this confidence, depriving scholars of a ground for their optimism. The historically oriented style of academic thinking is going—or gone. As a student, I was taught History of Literature; the present generation is taught Theory of Literature, or Poetics. We, as a culture, are still conscious of our past, but in a less exclusive way.

Before the Israelites, there apparently were no peoples with a honed historical consciousness. As we now know, Mesopotamian culture dominated the Near East for thousands of years. Today we know enough about this culture to say that it is not merely possible but practically certain that no history in the sense I am using it here was written in ancient Mesopotamia.² Kings boasted about their conquests; scholars knew quite a lot about ancient events; precedent was powerful and the past honored. But stories about one thing leading to another in the distant past were not told. Some myths told about developments among the gods, but not about human history.

Egyptian civilization was as ahistorical as Mesopotamian civilization. As for other cultures of the region, we do not know enough about them to assess their historical consciousness. It is conceivable that the Phoenicians or Moabites or Edomites understood their past in a manner similar to the Israelites, but if they did, their histories have not survived.

As these examples illustrate, there is no real need for a person, or a community, to achieve historical awareness. It does not satisfy any physical need. Mental and emotional needs are served equally well by religion or music or spectator sports.

But the Israelites preferred to understand themselves in terms of their past. Today we tend to take this for granted. We know that the reality that surrounds us is determined by past events. The economic circumstances that enable me to earn a living, the laws I live by, are all the result of past political developments. Mentally and emotionally, I am the product of a particular cultural history. The shoes on my feet are a product of progress in the manufacture of footwear. All this is true of individuals, no less than of towns, churches, communities and nations. Their very essence is shaped by past events. To understand ourselves we must first be aware of our past

That became clear, however, for the first time in the Hebrew Bible. In this respect, the Hebrew Bible is unique in its time and place—and that because of its historiography.

As we shall see, there is a historiography—an established craft of history-telling—embedded in the biblical narrative. It also reflects a theory of history. We can best understand this by looking at an example from the biblical text itself. In 1 Samuel 8–12, we learn how Saul became the first king of Israel. Samuel—prophet, seer, priest and judge—is old, and his sons, who have been installed as judges, are disappointing (1 Samuel 8:1–3). The people, we are told, want a king to rule over them. God then instructs Samuel to appoint a king, but Samuel, God tells him, is to warn the people of the inevitable tyranny of kingship (1 Samuel 8:4–9). Samuel 024does so in detail, but the people remain unconvinced (1 Samuel 8:10–22).

The scene changes. Saul is introduced—handsome and tall. His father has sent him to find some lost she-asses (1 Samuel 9:1–5). Unable to find them, he accepts his companion’s advice to consult Samuel. God has forewarned Samuel of Saul’s arrival and instructs Samuel to anoint Saul king of Israel in order to deliver the people from the hand of the Philistines. When Saul arrives at Ramah, Samuel tells him that the she-asses have been found, and then invites Saul to a formal meal where he is honored (1 Samuel 9:6–24). On the morning after the meal, Samuel anoints Saul privately (1 Samuel 10:1).

This is the first of three appointments Saul will receive as king.

After some time passes, Samuel calls a general assembly of the people at Mizpah. There he briefly addresses them and makes them choose their king by casting lots. The procedure results in Saul’s being chosen and he is duly installed (1 Samuel 10:17–24)—a second time.

Most of the people accept Saul as king, but some remain skeptical (1 Samuel 10:27). Then an Ammonite attack on Jabesh-Gilead (1 Samuel 11:1–4) provides Saul with an opportunity to demonstrate his military capability; he saves Jabesh-Gilead (1 Samuel 11:5–12). Samuel then calls another assembly, this time at Gilgal. Saul is again declared king—for the third time. This time there is general rejoicing (1 Samuel 11:14–15).

Samuel then delivers an impressive farewell speech (1 Samuel 12), explaining why it was wrong to ask for a king but also declaring that now that the monarchy has been duly established all will nevertheless be well, provided Israel serves the Lord sincerely (1 Samuel 12:20–25).

Although God speaks to Samuel, giving instructions to him, and although God’s will is also revealed by means of drawing lots, the story can easily be translated into secular language. The people are dissatisfied with being ruled by charismatic leaders called judges, especially in light of the Philistine threat; they request a properly instituted king with sufficient powers to defend them; opposition to the monarchy is gradually worn down by Samuel’s political skill, by Saul’s patience and by his military victory at Jabesh-Gilead. The story is plausible enough. On the ideological level it conveys the notion that a free tribal society, led as the need arises by inspired judges, although embodying the ideal of a people ruled by God, is difficult to maintain. Kingship is evil because it implies tyranny, but necessary because it provides security. This makes excellent sense in terms of political theory, especially in the face of Philistine encroachment. Even a critical reader can accept the text as a whole at face value.

On the other hand, one gets the feeling that three elevations of Saul to kingship are a bit much. The critical reader will notice, moreover, that some parts of the account praise Saul, while other parts oppose him (or kings in general). At one point Israel is suffering from Philistine domination (1 Samuel 9:16), but later we learn of an Ammonite danger (1 Samuel 11:1–4). The early denunciation of kingship in chapter 8, when the people first request a king of Samuel, makes sense as a protest against experienced hardships; so it can be persuasively argued that this material dates to a period much later than Saul’s time. The reservations about kingship in Samuel’s farewell speech in chapter 12 seem superfluous as a restatement of what was said earlier in chapter 8, and this entire speech sounds a bit confused and confusing; it is difficult to discern its purpose.

There are numerous other incongruities and difficulties in the text. So, to this extent, it cannot be accepted at face value.

I have presented two interpretations of these chapters, an overall reading which can be accepted at face value and a critical reading inquiring into details which cannot be accepted at face value. When closely examined the story is too creaky in its joints to have been simply written down by a single author.

Scholars have suggested various theories concerning the components of the text that have been combined in the version that has come down to us. In general, modern critical scholarship has concluded that the redactor or editor of 1 Samuel 8–12 has collected several accounts about Saul’s elevation to kingship. The detailed suggestions are 025too numerous to be even mentioned. So, to keep things simple, here is a theory of my own. The author probably rejected the least likely accounts. He then based his narrative on three somewhat varying accounts. One (1 Samuel 9:1–10:16) told at Ramah, where he was possibly shown the house where Samuel held the banquet for Saul. This account bore witness to Saul’s origins and his first anointing in private. Since the ceremony was done privately, the author assumed that it prepared the way for the public assembly at Mizpah at which Saul was chosen by lot (1 Samuel 10:17–27). A third account claimed that Saul was made king at Gilgal. So the final author of the text decided that this must have been where Saul’s kingship was “renewed,” that is, finally accepted and acclaimed by all Israel (1 Samuel 11:14–15). This, he probably figured, must have happened after Saul’s victory over the Ammonites, so the battle of Jabesh-Gilead must have occurred between Saul’s appointment at Mizpah and the proclamation at Gilgal. Our author duly placed it in that time slot (chapter 11). In addition, two speeches of Samuel were available to the redactor, two theological statements about the meaning of these events. He used one them as an introduction to the process of king making (in chapter 8), the other as its postscript (in chapter 12).

If the process of composition was not exactly like this, it was certainly something like it, as all critical biblical scholars would agree.

In short, any critical examination of this text inevitably sees a historian struggling with his subject. For the most part, critical biblical scholars don’t stop to think about it, because they are too busy arguing about sources, traditions, redactions and all the rest. Thus, the founder of modern critical scholarship, Julius Wellhausen,³ doesn’t bother to spell it out because to him it is an obvious truism that all Old Testament narrative is history. He tacitly assumes that historians are rewriting history all the time, and that—in light of his attitude the Jewish scriptures—one must unmask the lies of the hypocrites to get the honest fellows’ true testimony. He therefore suggests that our text is a combination of two accounts: an early, realistic and reliable story, sympathetic to Saul (1 Samuel chapter 9, plus 10:1–16 and chapter 11); and late, preachy source that opposes him (1 Samuel chapters 8 and 12 and the Mizpah account in 10:27). For Wellhausen, only the first account has historical value.

That Wellhausen knew he was dealing with history, however, is clear from the very title of his key work of classical biblical criticism, Prolegomena of the History of Israel.

Wellhausen and his immediate followers in the 19th century flourished at the height of History’s reign. They were historians to the marrow of their bones. They knew that the authors of the biblical narratives were as much historians as they themselves, though writing in a different style and on a more primitive level. These scholars treated their ancient colleagues as all historians treat other historians: getting as much information out of them as possible, sifting it for reliability and throwing out the old benighted fellows’ ideas about meaning of it all. They then saw it as their task to identify the sources, to “clean” them and rearrange them to produce a radically new, “genuine” history of ancient Isael. The ultimate result of their effort was a new truth: Israel had reached the peak of its moral and intellectual development at the time of the prophets and the last kings of Judah (or a bit later). Judaism thereafter degenerated until rescued by Christianity. It was a radiant, Christian truth that they uncovered.

During the last hundred years all this has changed. The edifice Wellhausen and his followers built has become tarnished and shaky, but the critical method remains sound.

These considerations lead me to a new perspective on the historian’s task: The historian is essentially involved in a problem-solving activity. A historian wants to know what has actually happened. When confronted with several accounts, he has problem to solve; frequently he assumes that several things happened in a series of events.

Saul’s elevation as king is an example: The biblical historian accepts these accounts as true, and reconstructs a course of events to fit them all in. The important thing about his solution is that it makes sense as a political process. Only a close 038and skeptical examination shows that the apparent process described by the historian is in reality a construct.

The enormous complexities of the Sinai account contained in Exodus 19–34 can be accounted for by a similar problem-solving technique, although on a much larger scale. To take just one detail from this narrative, there were apparently two accounts of the fate of the Tablets of the Law: (1) they were broken because of Israel’s sin in worshipping the golden calf; and (2) they were preserved for Israelite posterity. In the account that has come down to us there is no contradiction between these versions: There were two sets. Moses smashed one when he witnessed Israel’s depravity (Exodus 32:19), and he was given the other at the final reconciliation (Exodus 34:28–29; cf. Deuteronomy 9:17, 10:1–5).^b A historian built a reasonable sequence of events out of two contradictory bits of information.

Or take the story of Caleb. It is clear from Joshua 14:13–14 that Caleb (actually, his tribe) took possession of Hebron. He would have had to have conquered it from the south, no doubt in Moses’ lifetime. But in the story of the Israelite conquest of Canaan as a whole, the view prevails that there was no conquest from the south (Numbers 14:45). That was why the Israelites had to go around and come in from the east via Jericho. But what to do about Caleb’s successful conquest of Hebron from the south? Caleb, according to the narrative, was one of two spies (out of 12, the other was Joshua) who were not frightened by the Canaanites; Caleb and Joshua helped suppress a rebellion of those Israelites who were fearful of the inhabitants of Canaan (Numbers 14:6–9). So the biblical narrative has Caleb simply given Hebron as a reward for his assistance (Joshua 14:13–14).

These examples illustrate how the biblical narrator faced and solved professional problems in the manner of historians everywhere.

But we see here a manifestation of deeper, essential phenomenon: the very thought, or perception, of reality was determined by a historical sensibility.

We cannot know how much the final result conveys pure, hard, factual truth, because we do not have enough information to check it. The amount of information available increases only gradually and much more is needed for reliable verification. Where available, such information does occasionally reveal minor inaccuracies, but meshes easily with the overall framework provided by the biblical text. A shoddy job would not stand this test. The narratives in the Hebrew Bible are honest, never covering up the faults of their heroes, and explicitly state awkward truths. These narratives also face bravely the difficulties with theodicy—the presence of evil in a world created by a just God. These are rare qualities.

While the Bible imposes its own constructs on the data, as we have seen, such constructs are a necessary part of the historian’s job: You cannot understand the events themselves without a point of your own to view them from.

The historical narratives in the Bible certainly do not rank with Livy or Trevelyan. The Bible gives us no detailed description of battles, no rich minutiae of court intrigues, no long-winded discussions of the practical or moral lessions to be drawn from such events. But it nevertheless explains the present by interpreting the past. It does so without imposing a strict pattern on the past, nor does it project the meaning of the past to the future, creating an eschatology based on a historiosophical concept.⁴ For its time and place, the biblical narrative is an extraordinary feat of scholarship—this because it does one thing extremely well: it Shows how one event leads to another until a given situation is reached.

Relating events in sequence means stringing them together in a tale. You cannot take the story aspect out of history; if you do, it loses its soul. That is why many great historians have also been great storytellers; and that is why even today people read history for enjoyment. Finding out what happened, pointing out its significance and putting it all together in a properly fashioned tale is a singular art. The various aspects of that art have been fused in the biblical narrative; the storyteller’s imagination and skills are used to recreate the past.

Scholars have of course found this narrative to be full of gaps, contradictions, discrepancies and so on. But read in big chunks, or as a whole, the text imposes its own understanding of Israel’s existence as shaped by a long historical process. The reader is able to see a single chain of events, from Adam to Nehemiah; it all makes sense as God’s work in the world. This mighty lesson is presented in a volume thinner than an Edwardian novel, stripped of detail but retaining what is necessary to convey the actual complexity of events.

One dominant school of theology asserts that the Lord has revealed Himself by His acts through the ages. I would not quarrel with this. But I do not think that this sensitivity to His work has made my forefathers see History. On the contrary, it was the other way round. The way they were able to find a sequence of past events made them realize that God’s will or plan can be discerned in these events. Theologically speaking, the Lord has chosen to reveal Himself through history to a people who are able to receive this particular mode of revelation.

The extraordinary achievement of the Hebrew Bible as history is rarely remarked on, but it is worth considering. For the Hebrew Bible contains the oldest surviving historical work as such and perhaps the earliest history ever written.