Bible Books
014
The Story that Would Not Die
The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son: The Transformation of Child Sacrifice in Judaism and Christianity
Jon D. Levenson
(New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993) 272 pp., $27.50.
Jon Levenson, professor of Jewish studies at Harvard Divinity School, is one of the brightest and most eloquent biblical scholars active today. Like his earlier books, Sinai and Zion: An Entry Into the Jewish Bible (1985) and Creation and the Persistence of Evil: The Jewish Drama of Divine Omnipotence (1988), his most recent book presents commentaries on key biblical themes and texts for both the scholar and the interested cleric or layperson. Levenson’s clear and accessible writing is a rarity among biblical scholars. As in his earlier works, many of his readings are informed by classical Rabbinic interpretations. Furthermore, theological reflection is never far from the surface, creating an interpretive blend that is fascinating, even when the argument is weak.
The thesis of this book is that the practice and ideology of child sacrifice is one of the central influences on biblical religion and narrative, encompassing the Hebrew Bible, the New Testament and rabbinic Judaism. Levenson constructs a series of arguments in support of this rather large—and on the face of it, rather dubious—claim and presents a number of illuminating readings of biblical texts.
But is Levenson’s thesis convincing? I would say no. His construction of a widespread “mythic-ritual complex” relating to child sacrifice in ancient Canaan and pre-Exilic Israel suffers from a lack of clear-cut evidence. Levenson himself concedes that “neither the archaeological nor the textual data suggest any such widespread practice.” Nonetheless he proceeds to read a number of stories as if they were “inversions” or “variants” of myths and rituals of child sacrifice.
The oldest of the texts relating to this “mythic-ritual complex,” according to Levenson, is the ancient Ugaritic myth in which the god El hands over his son Baal to be prisoner to the god Yamm (Sea), whom Baal subsequently defeats. If the practice of child sacrifice could be demonstrated for Late Bronze Age Canaan (1550–1200 B.C.), which it cannot, Levinson might have a point, both Baal and Yamm are El’s sons, and he sacrifices neither. In fact there are no archaeological or textual data for child sacrifice until roughly five hundred years later, in the Phoenician colonies, and later still in the writings of Philo of Byblos—in which El does sacrifice a son, though not Baal!
At least one sacrifice of a first-born son is recorded in the Hebrew Bible: that of Mesha, king of Moab (2 Kings 3:26–27). (In the condemnation of his reign, the evil king Ahab of Judah is accused of “passing his son through the fire” [2 Kings 16:3].) There is also the statement of Exodus 22:29: “You shall give me the first-born among your sons,” which seems to acknowledge a theoretical ideal of “sacrificing,” whether literally or symbolically, the first-born son. Other biblical texts make it clear that the first-born was to be “redeemed,” apparently by a monetary payment of five shekels (see Exodus 13:13–15, 34:20, Numbers 18:15–16). But the classical prophets often include child sacrifice (possibly to the god Molech) among the heinous sins of the people. Did any worshipers of Yahweh regularly sacrifice their children or their first-born sons to Yahweh, or believe it legitimate to do so? We simply don’t know.
Many scholars have argued that the story 015of Abraham’s near-sacrifice of Isaac in Genesis 22 refers to a pre-Israelite practice of child sacrifice, which the story implicitly condemns. Levenson argues, to the contrary, that this crucial story presumes the acceptability of child sacrifice in Yahwistic religion, since God commands it (Genesis 22:2). Abraham is not portrayed as a “knight of faith” (in Kierkegaard’s phrase) who is able to obey this absurd command by faith alone, Levenson argues, but as a “knight of observance,” who places his “obedience to God not above ethics…but above his love for Isaac.” The greatness of Abraham in this story is that he puts “obedience to God ahead of every possible competitor.”
Yet if the sacrifice of the first-born son was commonly accepted in Israel, then where is Abraham’s greatness? He would be no greater than any other child-sacrificer. Here lies the weakness of Levenson’s reading of the story. The greatness of Abraham requires that he be willing to do what ordinary men are incapable of doing (compare the test of Job). In this heroic endeavor lies the angelic confirmation that he has passed the divine test: “Now I know that you fear God” and are worthy of the promises of Yahweh (Genesis 22:12–18). If the sacrifice of the first-born son were an ordinary act, then Abraham would be an ordinary man. The drama and tension of the story, well-depicted by Levenson, surely exclude this mundane reading.
In the last section of the book Levenson describes nicely the debt New Testament conceptions of Jesus owe to early Jewish exegesis of the story about the binding of Isaac. Levenson overstresses this theme to the detriment of others, however. The portrait of Jesus in the New Testament is a product of more than just midrashic reflections on the “beloved sons” of the Hebrew Bible.
Is Levenson right that the major narratives of Canaan and Israel, including much of Genesis and the New Testament, pay homage to an “ancient, protean, and strangely resilient story of the death and resurrection of the beloved son” sacrificed by his father? I would counter that Levenson is following in the footsteps of an earlier generation of “myth and ritual pattern” seekers, who sought out the origins of these texts in various dying and rising gods of vegetation, whether Osiris, Dumuzi, Attis or Adonis. To state the matter simply, quoting Levenson on another theory: “This conclusion, though logical, goes beyond the data in our hands.” Nevertheless this book is fascinating, filled with well-won insights into the Bible and its religious legacies.
Matthew’s Christian-Jewish Community
Anthony J. Saldarini
(Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1994) 317 pp., $55.00, $17.95 paper
Correcting the view that the Gospel of Matthew reflects anti-Judaism, Anthony Saldarinia argues that Matthew’s group is composed of Jews who believe in Jesus as the Messiah, the Son of God, and who identify with the Jewish community and hope to make their program normative for the Jewish community. Saldarini asserts that Matthew and his group wish neither to abrogate the Law nor to surpass it. They wish to fulfill the Law through obedience to the teachings of Jesus. Most of the book is composed of proofs, demonstrations and implications of this thesis.
According to Saldarini, the author of the first Gospel makes a sharp distinction between the people of Israel and their leaders, attacking only the leaders and their allies (such as the crowd that calls for the crucifixion) as perverters and distorters of true Judaism. Having earlier been disciplined and expelled from the larger Jewish community, Matthew attacks the leaders in order to legitimate his own status and teachings. Matthew and his group accept the Jewish people as a whole. In no sense have they given up on Israel. Their mission is primarily to win Israel to the Matthean brand of Judaism, that is, Judaism as interpreted through the teachings of Jesus.
Matthew is no Gentile nor his group Gentile, although the Gentiles do appear occasionally on the fringes of Matthew’s account. With no independent status, Gentiles may gain access into the kingdom through Israel by faith in Jesus and obedience to his teachings. But the primary message of the First Gospel is to the people of Israel.
Saldarini believes that the social situation of the Matthean group is reflected by the Gospel story. The group emerges as a deviant segment of Judaism, but still very much within Judaism. It probably met in a house and modeled itself after a household. The frequent references to disciples in the text suggest household schooling and a close teacher-student relationship. The group’s message is one of reform and redemption for Israel as a whole. Its assemblies were called ekklesiai in order to distinguish them from the opponents’, called synagogues. The group was not highly institutionalized nor did it have a strong leadership other than divine authority. It tended toward millenarianism and, despite its lofty Christology, fit well into the parameters of first-century Judaism.
The book is an eye-opener. Those who have argued that the author of the First Gospel is a Gentile and his community made up primarily of Gentiles will be hard pressed to withstand Saldarini’s heavily documented argumentation. It is an important read for those interested in Matthew’s Gospel. Future studies should begin with Saldarini; none will be complete without him.
Hebrew Maps of the Holy Land
E. and G. Wajntraub
(Vienna, Austria: Bruder Hollinek, 1992) 277 pp., $50 (available through Map Collector Publications, 48 High Street, Tring, Herts. HP23 SBH, England)
The Bible contains a remarkable amount of geographic information that comes to us 016entirely in the form of verbal descriptions. The Bible has no maps.
Why is this so? In Babylonia, maps were in use as far back as 2000 B.C.E., and a clay map from Nippur (c. 1500 B.C.E.) showing land ownership was recently on exhibit at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. The Second Commandment prohibition against “graven images” did not include graphics. As the Wajntraubs point out, the prophet Ezekiel was commanded to “take a brick and…[on] it portray a city, Jerusalem…” (Ezekiel 4:1). In fact, virtually every important medieval Jewish exegete made biblical maps, some of which resembled and influenced similar efforts by Christian interpreters of the Bible.b
Yet, until recently, these Hebrew biblical maps were almost entirely neglected. The reason is understandable: They have no scientific value and are little more than sketches. In fact, they are not geographic maps at all, but cartograms. Rather than laying out geographical areas in scale, they only show relative locations, and often none too accurately.
The Wajntraubs nonetheless have done a service in bringing before us these simple and fascinating maps. Consider the following example from their book. The graphic at top is a copper engraving of a 1603 map by Rabbi Mordechai Jaffe. The map is “oriented” with east at the top, as was common (but not universal) with biblical maps. At the bottom is the Mediterranean, and on the right the Red Sea. The top shows the Jordan River flowing directly into the Salt Sea, which in turn is shown (incorrectly) to flow into the Red Sea. A rectangle at the bottom right is labeled Egypt and from it a semi-circular path leads into, and out of, the Red Sea.
Rabbi Jaffe’s map is based on earlier sources. In the Talmud at Arakhin 15a (Hebrew editions with Tosephta), we find a similar map with a semi-circle in the Red Sea, possibly based on manuscript maps by Rashi (1040–1105). This semi-circle continues to appear on other printed Hebrew biblical maps at least until 1894. Why the semi-circle?
Clearly, according to these cartograms, it was unnecessary for the Israelites to cross the Red Sea to escape from Egypt. In the words of the commentator Hizkuni (mid-13th century): “They merely entered a short distance and described a semi-circle and returned to dry land.” One senses that even in that so-called “great age of faith” there was plenty of skepticism about the possibility of physical miracles.
The Wajntraubs’ book will appeal mainly to specialists. Much more work by scholars will need to be done before these maps can be fully appreciated by a broader audience. Unfortunately, some of the reproductions are not as clear as they might have been, and the book’s price is fairly steep. Still, university libraries serving Hebrew and biblical studies departments will find that it fills an important niche.
Private Women, Public Meals: Social Conflict in the Synoptic Tradition
Kathleen E. Corley
(Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1993) 217 pp., $19.95
Until recently most feminist scholars have claimed that Jesus’ radical Christian movement offered women equality, which was absent from Judaism and most other religions of the Mediterranean world. This claim is both inaccurate and also dangerous, because it supports anti-Semitism. Such negative comparisons between Judaism and Christianity are particularly hurtful when made by feminist scholars, who are themselves protesting prejudice against women.
In Private Women, Public Meals, Kathleen Corley counters this claim of Christianity’s uniqueness by presenting evidence from the “actual situation of women during the New Testament Period.” Rather than present ideas drawn from legal texts and other material written about women, Corley investigates depictions of women in art, funeral inscriptions, comedy and novels, and the practices of philosophical groups. She concentrates on meal practices and etiquette, asking who is invited for dinner and how they behave when they get there.
Corley offers evidence that in the first century “respectable” women began attending public dinners and banquets and conducting themselves in ways that had formerly been restricted to men and their courtesans. This new behavior began to undermine basic social contracts in the first-century Mediterranean world and to disrupt power relations based on gender, rather than race.
Women who attended public meals were accused of being sexually immoral, because formerly only lower class women, prostitutes, slaves and former slaves attended public meals. Religious and philosophical groups that accepted or encouraged women’s attendance at meals were accused of moral impropriety and their female members were called “prostitutes.&rd 017Scholars once thought such accusations meant that “respectable” women remained secluded. Corley argues, however, that this slander attempted to limit a new practice—women’s attendance at public meals—that was becoming more common. Such attendance probably meant that women were enjoying social and economic freedom in other aspects of their lives as well.
According to Corley, the New Testament gospel writers show awareness of the changing roles of women and of the reactions against these changes. She discusses the meal stories in Matthew, Mark and Luke, devoting one chapter to each of these Gospels, in order to investigate their attitudes toward women and social change.
Women in Mark’s Gospel, writes Corley, are present at some meals, but only those held in private homes. Mark’s meal stories primarily emphasize theological ideas, but they also reinforce the social conservatism of the Greco-Roman world. For instance, the healing of Peter’s mother-in-law’s fever in Mark 1:29–31 shows her serving Jesus and his friends at a private meal after being healed. This makes her appear not as a liberated or libertine disciple of Jesus, but as a traditional Hellenistic woman: private and silent.
Luke-Acts also depicts women in traditional roles. In fact, Luke, commonly considered the most liberated of the Gospels regarding women, demonstrates the most conservatism toward women and meal practices. For instance, Luke’s depiction of the healing of Peter’s mother-in-law casts the meal in an even more familial and private setting than Mark’s by implying that only Peter and Jesus are present (see the context of Luke 4:38–39).
Like Mark, Luke never depicts women reclining at the table with Jesus or his disciples. Although Luke-Acts contains many stories about women, and Corley’s argument becomes rather complex here, her case is convincing and it coincides with a growing consensus that the Gospel of Luke is not as liberating for women as it initially seems.
Corley’s discussion of Matthew proves most surprising. She concludes that only Matthew depicts women reclining with men at meals. Further, Matthew portrays such meals as Eucharistic, non-hierarchical, family gatherings. Matthew also characterizes women, including prostitutes, as true followers and model disciples, despite public opinion.
Matthew’s egalitarian stance suggests to Corley that Matthew’s community descends directly from an earlier community that provided one of Matthew’s sources, known as Q.c Corley speculates that the Q community characterized Jesus and John the Baptist as Cynics, a philosophical group that welcomed women into their circles.
This kind of historical speculation exemplifies one major drawback of Corley’s otherwise excellent book. While it is written from a feminist perspective and makes use of the most modern sociological tools, it still demonstrates a weakness of the historical-critical method in its use of complex technical principles and terms not easily understood or accepted by those not trained in historical criticism.
Corley’s conclusions are weakened by such technical argumentation and vocabulary, which are understandable only by those with specialized training—mostly men. Her use of them works against her own feminist liberation purposes by alienating the untrained reader.
The Story that Would Not Die
The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son: The Transformation of Child Sacrifice in Judaism and Christianity
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Footnotes
The Five Scrolls has been published in three editions: The congregational edition (reviewed here) includes both the translation of the five books and prayers to accompany the reading of the books in the synagogue on the holidays when it is traditional to do so; the next version, without prayers, in a larger format than the congregationnal ($60), and the special limited edition in large format printed on rag paper with a hand-pulled Baskin etching, signed and numbered by the artist ($675). In all three versions, Baskin’s 37 watercolor illustrations are included.