Cognitive Linguistic Explorations in Biblical Studies 9783110350135, 9783110349788

Table of contents :
Contents
Introduction
Motivating Biblical Metaphors for God.Refining the Cognitive Model
Looking beyond the Tree in Jeremiah 17:5-8
“Don’t think of a voice!”. Divine Silence, Metaphor, and Mental Spaces in Selected Psalms of Lament
The Fruit of the Tree of Life. Ritual Interpretation of the Crucifixion in the Gospel of Philip
Pauline Rhetorical Invention. Seeing 1 Corinthians 6:12—7:7 through Conceptual Integration Theory
Sapiential Synesthesia. The Conceptual Blending of Light and Word in Ben Sira’s Wisdom Instruction
The Cognitive Structures in Galatians 1:4
Who Is in Charge?. Mental Space Analysis and Visualization in a Textual Study, Applied to 1 Samuel 28:3-25
Cognitive Grammar at Work in Sodom and Gomorrah
1 John 1:5-10: Conditionals and Performativity
Translating “Thinking” and “Believing” in the Bible. How Cognitive Linguistic Analysis Shows Increasing Subjectivity in Translations
List of Contributors
Author Index
Subject Index

Citation preview

Cognitive Linguistic Explorations in Biblical Studies

Cognitive Linguistic Explorations in Biblical Studies Edited by Bonnie Howe and Joel B. Green

DE GRUYTER

ISBN 978-3-11-034978-8 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-035013-5 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-038415-4 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A CIP catalog record for this book has been applied for at the Library of Congress. Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2014 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Munich/Boston Cover: Book cover artwork © Nadine Stefan Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck ♾ Printed on acid-free paper Printed in Germany www.degruyter.com

Contents Joel B. Green and Bonnie Howe Introduction � 1 Eve Sweetser and Mary Therese DesCamp Motivating Biblical Metaphors for God Refining the Cognitive Model � 7 S. J. Robinette Looking beyond the Tree in Jeremiah 17:5-8 � 25 William A. Andrews Jr. “Don’t think of a voice!” Divine Silence, Metaphor, and Mental Spaces in Selected Psalms of Lament � 47 Hugo Lundhaug The Fruit of the Tree of Life Ritual Interpretation of the Crucifixion in the Gospel of Philip � 73 Robert H. von Thaden Jr. Pauline Rhetorical Invention Seeing 1 Corinthians 6:12—7:7 through Conceptual Integration Theory � 99 Greg Schmidt Goering Sapiential Synesthesia The Conceptual Blending of Light and Word in Ben Sira’s Wisdom Instruction � 121 Jesper Tang Nielsen The Cognitive Structures in Galatians 1:4 � 145 Miranda Vroon-van Vugt Who Is in Charge? Mental Space Analysis and Visualization in a Textual Study, Applied to 1 Samuel 28:3-25 � 169

VI � Contents

Ellen van Wolde Cognitive Grammar at Work in Sodom and Gomorrah � 193 David Parris 1 John 1:5-10: Conditionals and Performativity � 223 José Sanders Translating “Thinking” and “Believing” in the Bible How Cognitive Linguistic Analysis Shows Increasing Subjectivity in Translations � 253 List of Contributors � 277 Author Index � 279 Subject Index � 285

Joel B. Green and Bonnie Howe

Introduction

Writing, reading, and the interpretation of texts are acts of human minds, requiring complex cognition at every point. These claims are axiomatic for the work presented in this volume of twelve essays from the first six years of the Cognitive Linguistics in Biblical Interpretation section of the Society of Biblical Literature. A bit of history might orient the reader. Over the last several decades, the fields of cognitive science and cognitive studies have grown exponentially as scholars across a broad range of disciplines – psychology, neuroscience, and computer science, as well as linguistics and literary studies – developed increasingly refined tools for investigating various aspects of cognition. Now, early in the 21st century, subfields under the broad cognitive umbrella have proliferated and interdisciplinary work is proving both necessary and fruitful. Practitioners of cognitive linguistics, the particular subdiscipline in focus here, analyze connections between cognition and language. They study the links between language and thinking, the meaning-making we do when we write and talk, read and listen. This volume represents some of the first fruits of cognitive linguistic study as scholars of sacred texts – the Bible and related extra-biblical materials – have begun to practice it. We can trace biblical scholars’ earliest appropriations of cognitive linguistics – both its analytical methods and basic understandings of the nature of language – to journal articles and convention papers employing cognitive metaphor study and cognitive grammar that appeared in the 1990s and early 2000s. Much of the earliest work was done with Hebrew Bible / Old Testament texts. Marc Zvi Brettler discovered and applied George Lakoff and Mark Johnson’s metaphor theory and used their metaphor-mapping methods.1 If that was the first wave of impact on biblical studies, then this present essay collection comes out of a second wave that began in 2006, when the Society of Biblical Literature opened a three-year consultation, “The Use of Cognitive Linguistics in Biblical Interpretation.” The consultation’s purpose statement reflected the founders’ intuitions and hopes about the potential significance for biblical scholarship of this line of inquiry:

�� 1 Mark Z. Brettler, God Is King: Understanding an Israelite Metaphor (JSOTSup 76; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1989).

2 � Joel B. Green and Bonnie Howe The emerging field of cognitive science is reshaping longstanding assumptions about selfunderstanding, epistemology, and metaphor. This Consultation will apply cognitive linguistics to biblical studies with a focus on how language makes meaning, how a text evokes authority, and how contemporary readers interact with ancient texts.

As the consultation assembled, it developed some guiding questions: How do biblical texts employ language to make meaning and evoke authority? What can cognitive linguistics tell us about how reading works, especially when readers and texts differ in provenance – culture, time, geography, worldview? Such questions underlie the work in the essays presented in this book. Each essayist takes as axiomatic the grounding of all cognition in embodied human experience, the importance of attending to cultural and conceptual framing, and the dynamics of reading and interpretation, especially of distant texts.

How to Navigate This Book Cognitive linguistics offers biblical scholarship new perspectives on ancient texts and “dead” languages. All of the essays in this volume exhibit this new cognitive perspective on ancient texts, but newcomers will find that the essay by Eve Sweetser and Mary Therese DesCamp, and the one by Ellen van Wolde, provide especially helpful entrées and explanations. For many readers, the most attractive gateway into this volume will be an essay addressing a particular text or biblical studies sub-field or interest area. Thus, Hebrew Bible / Old Testament scholars will be interested in Will Andrews’ essay on psalms of lament, S.J. Robinette’s work on Jer 17:5-8 and Ps 1, Miranda Vroon-van Vugt’s exploration of divine-human dialog in 1 Sam 28:3-25, and Ellen van Wolde’s argument about the characterization of the core problem in Sodom and Gomorrah story (Gen 1819). New Testament scholars may want to enter the collection via themes – the chapters whose focal texts concern Paul’s argument concerning sexual comportment and the Christian body in 1 Cor 6 (Robert von Thaden) or the meaning of Christ’s death in Galatians (Jesper Nielsen). Other readers will enter the collection via one of the two essays presenting corpus study surveys, Sweetser and DesCamp’s work on metaphors for God, and Sanders’ consideration of translation issues. Finally, readers might enter by way of essays that explain and demonstrate particular cognitive linguistic methods of analysis. We have clustered the essays loosely in three broad sections.

Introduction � 3

Conceptual Metaphor and Metonymy Cognitive linguistic approaches to metaphor study invite biblical scholars to adopt an understanding of language firmly grounded in the embodied nature and social-relational contexts of languages, cognition, and interpretation – and provide a set of methods and a vocabulary for describing and analyzing those dynamic interactions. Sweetser and DesCamp introduce those methods and the terminology of cognitive metaphor study in their essay, which refines their earlier investigation of biblical metaphors for God. In her study of Jer 17:5-8, Robinette works with a combination of rhetorical criticism and cognitive linguistics to demonstrate how cognitive approaches can shed light on an unclear text. In this case, ambiguity surrounds the translation of ‫( ערער‬arar) in v. 6. Does the prophet refer to a “shrub,” as in the NRSV (similarly, “barren bush” in the NAB, or “bush” in the TNIV)? This reading fits well with traditional approaches that read Jer 17:5-8 against the backdrop of Ps 1 – and, thus, as an exemplar of the Doctrine of the Two Ways. Drawing on the rhetorical structure of this text as well as cognitive approaches to metaphor mapping, however, Robinette demonstrates that this apparently possible reading is implausible after all. Rather than documenting the nature and destination of two behavioral paths, Jer 17:5-8 effectively presents its audience with such trust issues as need, dependence, and the ground of one’s faith. On whom – YHWH or humankind – does one places one’s ultimate trust for human wellbeing and flourishing? Robinette’s essay demonstrates the utility of cognitive linguistics in discussions concerning unclear or disputed passages by providing explicit structural analysis of metaphors and yielding clearly traceable insights.

Mental Space Blending and Conceptual Framing Cognitive linguistics offers biblical scholars new analytic models for reading texts – and firmer grounding for claims about what reading is, so that our theoretical postures might be supported by more recent scientific evidence about how readers process and respond to texts. Cognitively oriented literary scholars (e.g., Mark Turner, Barbara Dancygier, David Herman, Patrick Hogan, and Elena Semino) approaching narrative and poetic texts with cognitive linguistic theories of language and methods of analysis find them yielding finer-tuned explications of intertextual play and coherence (and clash). New lines of inquiry open up. Now some biblical scholars are finding that Turner’s (and Fauconnier’s, Sweetser’s, and Dancygier’s) methods are compatible with particular narratological, literary, and rhetorical approaches to biblical texts.

4 � Joel B. Green and Bonnie Howe Andrews shows how cognitive theories of frames and mental spaces, conceptual metaphor and metonymy, can be used to support and refine insights from earlier, non-cognitively oriented narratological analyses. He turns our attention to a neglected topic: divine absence and silence. Looking at five psalms of lament, Andrews argues that noticing precisely what is not said provides useful insights into the conceptual world of the psalmist. When the petitioner says, “Do not keep silent” (Pss 28:1; 35:22; 39:13; 83:2; 109:1), he evokes a negative mental space in which God is silent, but simultaneously calls to mind a positive space in which God speaks. Andrews argues that it is this implied positive space that may enable the movement from complaint to praise that typifies psalms of lament. Lundhaug demonstrates how cognitive linguistics methods, especially the Conceptual Blending model, can elucidate textual interpretation. Arguing against the view that the Gospel of Philip provides nothing by way of a soteriology grounded in the cross of Christ, he shows that conceptual input from Scripture and ritual practice leads to an interpretation of the crucifixion as having both soteriological and mystagogical significance. Along the way, he shows the utility of framing to address methodological concerns with intertextuality within blending theory, a methodological move that is not only central to his argument, but suggestive for NT and other textual studies more generally. Von Thaden demonstrates how the Fauconnier-Turner conceptual integration theory – and analytical methods – complement and provide grounding for Vernon Robbins’ socio-rhetorical models. Looking at Paul’s rhetoric in 1 Cor 6:12-7:7, von Thaden demonstrates that this section of Paul’s letter is less a Pauline engagement with Corinthian slogans and more a unified argument of Paul’s own making. Von Thaden is able to give a fine-grained socio-cultural and sociorhetorical analysis of Paul’s argument as he identifies particular rhetorolects from Robbins’ model as cultural frames – a cognitive linguistics concept / model – in concert with conceptual integration and blend analysis. Goering’s interest is in the visual and verbal imagery – a confluence of light and word – the Jewish sage Ben Sira (ca. 185 BCE) uses to describe his teaching activity. If, as cognitive theories of metaphor argue, metaphor is specifically considering one frame or domain in terms of another, it is crucial to know what cultural frames are involved in a particular metaphoric mapping. Goering interprets Ben Sira’s description of his wisdom instruction in light of local cultural assumptions regarding how eyes and ears worked, thus also giving us elegant evidence that “physical” domains such as vision and hearing are understood in terms of culture-specific models. But more than attending to cultural assumptions, Goering shows us the conceptual framing, mental space blending, and metaphorical dynamics at work in the text. Nielsen employs cognitive theory to clarify something of the apostle Paul’s theological creativity. More traditional approaches to Pauline scholarship have

Introduction � 5

traced the background of each of the two soteriological claims in Gal 1:4 – the one regarding Christ’s voluntary sacrifice and the other regarding opposing aeons. The problem is that the backgrounds of these two expressions do not overlap. Paul himself seems to have brought together two heretofore disparate expressions. Working both with the model of conceptual blending put forward by Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner and with a theory of narrative structures, Nielsen traces the cognitive process by which Paul was able to claim that Jesus’ self-sacrifice was none other than God’s intervention marking the turning of the ages. Jesus’ death both liberates from sins and snatches believers from the present evil age. Having providing a detailed demonstration of the character of Paul’s argument in Gal 1:4, Nielsen proceeds to show not only how the argument of Galatians turns on this innovative interpretation of the cross, but also to suggest the fecundity of this blend for subsequent Christian theology. Here, then, is a case study in the explanatory power of cognitive theory. Vroon-van Vugt’s work engages us in the particular joys and challenges of analyzing dialogue and narrative material. Vroon-van Vugt wants to do conceptual blend / mental space analysis, but finds Fauconnier and Turner’s blend diagrams (the circles and links) cluttered and cumbersome – and static – for working with complex narrative material. Building on José Sanders and Gisela Redeker’s work on cognitive analysis of communicative spaces in dialog and narrative, Vroon-van Vugt’s study of the story of Saul’s visit to the “witch” or medium at Endor (1 Sam 28) offers us a new Mental Space Theory-Text visual display model that allows interpreters to indicate and track shifts in narrative spaces, viewpoints, and temporality, all at once. Dynamics of narrative flow – and embeddedness of spaces – are highlighted.

Construction Grammar and Cognitive Grammar The subfield of Construction Grammar consists of a number of models (Adele Goldberg, Charles Fillmore, Paul Kay, Ronald Langacker), all of which view grammatical constructions themselves as meaningful. In her essay on the Sodom and Gomorrah narrative in Gen 18-19, van Wolde introduces key features of Langacker’s Cognitive Grammar as she integrates linguistic, grammatical analyses with cultural contextual study. As van Wolde demonstrates, Cognitive Grammar analyzes how meaning is expressed in grammar and focuses on particular features of word classes (like nouns and verbs, adjectives and prepositions), features that traditional “word studies” often missed. Van Wolde shows us what certain Langackerian methods reveal about Gen 18-19 in its wider textual and conceptual context. Here she concentrates on cultural categories and

6 � Joel B. Green and Bonnie Howe cognitive domains, and especially on three words, namely, “outcry,” “to cry out,” and “city gate.” The results of her cognitive analysis have profound implications for meaning construal; in the process Van Wolde systematically shows how mistakes in translation and interpretations can be exposed. Parris uses Langacker’s model in concert with Mental Space Blending and Conceptual Metaphor models to analyze conditional constructions and hone his interpretation of 1 John 1:6-7 (“If we say that we have fellowship with him while we are walking in darkness …”). Parris shows how contrast between conditionals works at grammatical, lexical, and metaphorical levels, and how the mental spaces evoked via grammatical constructions push the reader to participate actively in the author’s reasoning process. Finally, Sanders investigates the trend in newer Bible translations toward heightened subjectivity and less ambiguous causal structure. Using a Basic Communicative Spaces Network model, she performs a corpus analysis of causal connectives and expressions of cognitive activity, such as “think” and “believe,” in both Dutch and English translations. This data clarifies how subjectification in new translations is established. Sanders then offers a comparative analysis of old and new translations of five narrative fragments from the Hebrew Bible and NT Gospels. She has chosen texts with causal content and cognitive verbs – verbs like thinking, knowing, and believing – to demonstrate how the newer translations add interpretive words and phrases that shift the focus toward the internal subjective thoughts and feelings of speakers in the narratives. From a cognitive linguistic perspective, the very reason why translators think they need to do translation is that they intuit that as readers encounter texts, mental spaces are evoked, but that readers also cannot help but bring their own worldviews to the reading. Modern readers’ mental spaces will differ in many ways from those of the ancient texts, so Bible translators try to guide readers’ understandings of the ancient texts. Paradoxically though, these newer translations result in readings that objectify the content more where the original texts and earlier translations allowed freer play. This volume showcases some of the wide range of methods that cognitive linguistics can bring to bear on texts – and the wide range of aspects of texts they can elucidate. Metaphor studies, perhaps the best-known subdiscipline of cognitive linguistics among literary and textual analysts, is only one interlocking part of a complex model of language. Frame semantics, category theory, mental spaces theory, construction grammar, and the cross-linguistic study of semantic systems can all contribute to our understanding of texts. Biblical scholars have begun to employ a range of these methods, but perhaps most crucially, have begun to adopt cognitive understandings of language and of texts, as well as of the nature of reading and interpretation.

Eve Sweetser and Mary Therese DesCamp

Motivating Biblical Metaphors for God Refining the Cognitive Model Is God a Father, a Shepherd, a King, a Judge, or a living water source for plants? Both the Hebrew Bible and the Greek New Testament provide rich metaphoric repertoires for the understanding of the relationship between monotheistic humans and God. Scholarly analysis of these metaphors is of major interest for a number of reasons. One, of course, is the importance of these specific texts to a large readership, making their meaning and interpretation important. Another is that metaphors for God provide a particularly fascinating laboratory for examining the relationship between language and conceptual structure – a subject of great interest to linguists, to cognitive scientists, and often to curious languageusers in general. Divinity is an engrossing conceptual structure, since a great many authors see God as a truly inexpressible being – humans can only very partially experience or understand God, and even that limited experience is said to transcend verbal expression. Yet, largely undeterred by these daunting claims, humans have gone on talking about Divinity throughout history, in metaphoric language that is elaborate, systematic, and culturally grounded. So the speakable, spoken conceptual structure of Divinity is pervasively present for us, even if theologians and mystics agree that our language does not catch that inexpressible essence. That is not a major problem for many of the theologians in question. As a rabbi once said to Eve Sweetser, “Every time we call God great or good in human language, we commit sacrilege. But it would be more sacrilegious not to talk about God.” But there is more. Even most of the same people who claim that Divinity is ineffable – that we humans are misrepresenting, even lying, whenever we talk about God in human languages – still feel very strongly that particular metaphoric God-language can be judged acceptable or unacceptable. Many of them might feel that calling God Mother or Queen or She is a misrepresentation of a very different order than metaphors such as Father and King; some others might feel exactly the reverse. They may agree that God is absolutely not a human being (of either sex) — or any kind of biological being with sex, or even a social being with human gender roles – and yet still feel strongly about this contrast between masculine and feminine metaphoric God language. This is striking testimony to the strength of the human-gendered language, and its relationship to our conceptualization of the Divine.

8 � Eve Sweetser and Mary Therese DesCamp Meanwhile, alongside those who say Divinity is ineffable, there are those who argue in favor of the literal truth of holy texts. Genesis, for example, literally means creation happened in six days. But even literalists constantly use metaphor when reading biblical texts. They generally base their discourse about Divinity squarely in the kinds of metaphors just mentioned – God as Father, God as King – which, if God is not construed as a human being, are clearly metaphoric. They also accept metaphoric statements in scripture as expressing profound truths. For example, they would be extremely unlikely to think that Jesus’ admonition not to hide your light under a bushel basket (Matt 5:15) is an admonition about literal candles and containers. Nor would descriptions of the God-trusting man as a tree planted by water (Ps 1:3; Jer 17:8) make much sense without the appropriate metaphoric mappings between the tree’s physical persistence and fruit-bearing, and the prosperity and progeny of the man, and of course between water’s essential physical life-giving role, and God’s essential role in human existence. It would be fair to say that nobody reads biblical texts entirely literally – unsurprisingly, since the texts are written in human languages, which are permeated by metaphor. Major questions are raised by this situation. Supposing that biblical texts are understood to express truths – deep human truths – what does it mean to say a metaphor is true or false? As Lakoff and Johnson and others have made clear, everyday metaphoric language certainly expresses statements that can be true.1 If people need more money to buy things than they did last year, then – whatever logicians may say – it is true to say that prices have risen or gone up, and false (a lie) to say that they have fallen or gone down, even if nothing literally physically moved either upwards or downwards, and only abstract changes in quantity happened. So we ask, what do God metaphors express that could be judged true or false? We ask also a related question: What motivates the particular cultural system of metaphors in a given text or group of texts? Why Father, King, Judge, Shepherd, and not Mother, or Student? It seems obvious that for a God-metaphor to be judged as true, the beliefs about the source and target domains have to be appropriately matched. Particular cultural beliefs about fathers, for instance, have to be structured appropriately for mapping onto a particular cultural model of Divinity.

�� 1 George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, Metaphors We Live By (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980); idem, Philosophy in the Flesh (New York: Basic, 1999).

Motivating Biblical Metaphors for God � 9

The central answer to these questions is fairly obvious, and has been stated many times, as well as discussed in detail by ourselves in an earlier paper.2 That is, “good” or appropriate metaphors for the Divine-human relationship certainly express power differential, and that power differential (at least) is understood as “true” of God. Hence God is King, Judge, Shepherd, while humans are subjects, people being judged, and sheep – thus, not God as Student, but GOD IS OUR TEACHER. (Note that throughout this paper we will be using initial capital letters to indicate names of frames, and capitalization of whole words to express metaphors, as is now conventional in cognitive linguistics.) In ancient Jewish and early Christian societies, gender roles also had a strong power differential attached to them – a differential which has of course changed to varying degrees in different modern situations, but is certainly not fully erased, much less reversed, in modern European or American society. Hence God IS FATHER, not Mother. Or – in long-standing metaphoric interpretations of Song of Songs – GOD IS OUR MALE LOVER, while God’s people are the female lover. In this paper, we would like to put our past analysis into the context of recent work in cognitive metaphor theory and Mental Spaces blending theory, which have proposed constraints on consistency between metaphoric mappings, and on experiential motivations for metaphoric mappings. One claim we make is that, as we suggested in our earlier paper, simply looking at power asymmetry is too easy an answer. Metaphors involve real mappings from one specific frame to another: there is more than power differential being mapped onto our understanding of God from human frames. We would also like to differentiate between different kinds of experience of the Divine, and their relationship to metaphor. It is extremely common for worshipers to feel a relationship to God that can be expressed linguistically by the kinds of metaphors canonically used in their linguistic community. For JudeoChristians, the common metaphors are Father, King, and Shepherd. Mystical experience and prophetic visions are well established as a different kind of experience of the Divine: one experienced by fewer people, often accessed through meditative or contemplative practice, and famously harder to express in conventional language. Yet these experiences too are described metaphorically.

�� 2 Mary Therese DesCamp and Eve Sweetser, “Metaphors for God: Why and How Do Our Choices Matter for Humans? The Application of Contemporary Cognitive Linguistics Research to the Debate on God and Metaphor,” Pastoral Psychology 53, no. 3 (2005): 207-38.

10 � Eve Sweetser and Mary Therese DesCamp

What Does Metaphor Do? Theories of metaphor have been many and varied; since Aristotle’s time at least, scholars have wondered why humans so often say things that are not literally true (e.g., Prices went up), sometimes to convey things that are true (e.g., Prices increased). In our earlier paper, we discussed some of the models of metaphor most frequently engaged by analysts of religious texts.3 Here we will concentrate on recent cognitive linguistic models, following the work of scholars such as Lakoff and Johnson, Lakoff and Turner, and Dancygier and Sweetser.4 The first major point we would like to make here is that, although followers of Lakoff and Johnson have repeatedly cited them as saying that metaphors map between a more concrete meaning (such as going up or down) and a more abstract one (change in quantity of money), this is an oversimplification of their analysis. This oversimplification makes a huge difference to our analysis of religious language and religious experience. Lakoff, Johnson, and other cognitive linguists have noted that there are not only frequent metaphoric mappings between relatively abstract social domains, but also between relatively concrete ones. For example, the ATOM IS A SOLAR SYSTEM metaphor maps one physical structure onto another. Similarly, no one could argue that the domain of human social relationships is purely concrete and physical – so mapping Father (or King) onto God is not simply a concrete-to-abstract mapping either. But, as Sweetser has said,5 it makes more sense to think of metaphor as typically conceptualizing a relatively less intersubjectively accessible domain or frame in terms of a more intersubjectively accessible domain or frame. Of course, very concrete domains are often more intersubjectively accessible than very abstract ones; for example, physical warmth or coldness is more verifiable, and more likely to be assessed similarly by different people, than social affection (as in warm personality). But in the ATOM IS A SOLAR SYSTEM metaphor referenced above, the solar system is a physical system that is significantly more intersubjectively accessible than the physical structure of an atom. Because we �� 3 Janet Martin Soskice, Metaphor and Religious Language (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987); Sally McFague, Metaphorical Theology: Models of God in Religious Language (Minneapolis, Fortress, 1982). 4 Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By; idem, Philosophy in the Flesh; George Lakoff, and Mark Turner, More Than Cool Reason: A Field Guide to Poetic Metaphor (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989); Barbara Dancygier and Eve Sweetser, Figurative Language (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014). 5 Eve Sweetser, From Etymology to Pragmatics (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1990); also Dancygier and Sweetser, Figurative Language.

Motivating Biblical Metaphors for God � 11

can see the sun and other planets, it is no accident that the heliocentric model came earlier in science than our understanding of electron orbitals. Similarly, although there is a great deal of abstract social structure involved in an understanding of Fatherhood or Kingship – a baby could not have all the cultural models in question – nonetheless it seems likely that such models are shared between members of a culture, via concrete everyday experiences, making them more intersubjectively shared. As a result, some basic models of Fatherhood would be learned extremely early by children, well ahead of concepts of God. When people say that Divinity is ineffable or inexpressible, part of the problem to which they refer is that Divine vision and revelation experiences are at the far end of the spectrum of intersubjective inaccessibility. One person cannot actually feel another person’s physical sensations. But not only do we presume that a prick from a needle feels the same to someone else as it does to us, we even physically wince in empathy when we see someone else pricked for a blood sample. Subjective experiences of shared worship may often be presumed to be shared, by regular practitioners within a community who, for example, share the experience of singing and chanting together.6 But even these sensations are difficult to explain to people who have not experienced them. Guessing someone else’s emotions in a love relationship is more complicated, and imagining someone else’s ecstatic or prophetic religious vision is even harder. After all, most of us have experienced some human relationships, but not all of us have had a religious vision. Metaphor should therefore be expected to be a primary component of language about religious experience, both everyday worshippers’ experience and mystics’ or prophets’ experience. The impoverished literal linguistic models for Divinity are a natural result of the fact that the human experience of God is relatively intersubjectively inaccessible.7 Our rich metaphoric models, we would argue, come into existence because this relatively intersubjectively inaccessible experience is rich, complex, and important to the experiencers – who are therefore eager to express it. We may further note that a significant proportion of biblical texts were written or recorded by people who had mystical experiences (e.g., Paul, or Jeremiah), which would further weight the textual metaphors for God away from those based in everyday experience of ritual observance. Before we move on to a closer examination of metaphors for the Deity and for the Divine-Human relationship, we need to emphasize a few basic points.

�� 6 See, Björn Vickhoff et al., “Music Structure Determines Heart-rate Variability of Singers.” Frontiers in Psychology 4 (9 July 2013): 334, who found heart rate influenced by group singing. 7 DesCamp and Sweetser refer to these in “Metaphors for God.”

12 � Eve Sweetser and Mary Therese DesCamp One of these, which hardly needs to be stressed in the context of pervasive religious metaphors, is that we are speaking about cognitive structures, not just ways of talking. Second, a metaphor is not “dead” (cognitively inactive) simply because it is conventional. There is a huge body of accumulated evidence for the active cognitive status of conventional metaphor. Gibbs’ pioneering work showed that source-domain imagery was involved in processing extremely conventional metaphoric idioms (let the cat out of the bag, spill the beans).8 Subsequent work has shown the pervasive cognitive connection between source and target domains of conventional metaphors.9 For example, source-domain experiences “prime” subjects for particular conventional metaphoric construals of target domains. Investigating AFFECTION IS WARMTH, Williams and Bargh found that subjects handed a warm drink before being introduced to someone subsequently judged the new acquaintance as more likable than subjects who had been handed a cold drink.10 Boroditsky and Ramscar show that a subject’s motion situation (self-moving vs. something else moving towards you) strongly influenced the likelihood of construing Time as moving (as in Spring break is coming) vs. Ego as moving through Time (as in We’re coming up on spring break).11 We should thus be fully aware that we are talking about cognitive construal of a Target-domain frame in terms of a Source-domain one. For a deeply conventional metaphor, in fact, the cognitive link is stronger than in some quirky or unusual metaphor. Finally, strongly conventionalized metaphors are typically more pervasive in our everyday language and thought – they are truly Metaphors We Live By, in Lakoff and Johnson’s words.

Metaphors for Human Relationship to God As we have said, some metaphors appear to be vastly more acceptable and productive than others. In the domain of Human-Divine Relationship in the JudeoChristian tradition, there is no doubt of the dominance of particular metaphors �� 8 Raymond W. Gibbs Jr., The Poetics of Mind: Figurative Thought, Language, and Understanding (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1994). 9 See reviews in Ben Bergen, Louder Than Words (New York: Basic, 2012); Dancygier and Sweetser, Figurative Language. 10 Lawrence E. Williams and John A. Bargh, “Experiencing Physical Warmth Promotes Interpersonal Warmth,” Science 322, no. 5901 (2008): 606-7. 11 Lera Boroditsky and Michael Ramscar, “The Role of Body and Mind in Abstract Thought,” Psychological Science 13 (2002): 185-89.

Motivating Biblical Metaphors for God � 13

over others. As DesCamp and Sweetser argued, the preferred metaphors for God in both Hebrew Bible and Greek New Testament texts share crucial features.12 The source domains chosen involve frames of a strongly Power-asymmetric Relationship between two human or animate beings. Father, King, and Shepherd seem pervasive, and have survived into the 21st century as basic to Jewish and Christian traditions of worship (we might note that they even interact; Kings are traditionally described as Shepherds, and Fathers, of their people). Why should these metaphors be so basic? Let us first consider the Father metaphor. Given that humans have a particularly dependent, fragile, and extended infancy, every human has early and ongoing experience of vulnerability, and of someone else protecting us or nurturing us when we could not survive on our own. (We further experience ongoing social (inter)dependence, once we are not necessarily unable to fulfill our basic physical needs.) This early nurturance and support is necessarily inconsistent: no actual parent is (or could be perceived by the child as) fully consistent in protection. From a very early stage, we also experience relationship as part of this ongoing support; we are not passive objects of parental nurturance, but are also able to influence caregivers. Additionally, we experience physical aspects of nurturance as correlated with social ones. Thus the experience of physical closeness is pervasively correlated with the social experience of intimacy, and physical warmth is correlated with social affection. INTIMACY IS CLOSENESS and AFFECTION IS WARMTH are Primary Metaphors, in the sense that they are based on deep, early Primary Scenes of correlation between physical and social experience.13 These scenes and metaphors appear to be widely shared cross-culturally. Parental care is thus our first and deepest experience of positive power-asymmetric relationship. We also experience, from birth, positive and negative assessment of situations: we respond positively to pleasurable experiences, and negatively to pain. This gradually develops into an embodied experience of Morality– some things are Good and others are Bad.14 We have a natural desire for good things to happen to good people, and for bad actions to be punished – because this is a

�� 12 DesCamp and Sweetser, “Metaphors for God.” 13 Christopher Johnson, “Metaphor vs. Conflation in the Acquisition of Polysemy: The Case of SEE,” in Cultural, Typological, and Psychological Issues in Cognitive Linguistics (ed. Masako K. Hiraga, Chris Sinha and Sherman Wilcox; Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 1997), 155–69; Joseph Grady, “Theories Are Buildings Revisited,” Cognitive Linguistics 8 (1997): 267-90; idem, “The ‘Conduit’ Metaphor Revisited: A Reassessment of Metaphors for Communication,” in Discourse and Cognition: Bridging the Gap (ed. Jean-Pierre Koenig; Stanford: CSLI Publications, 1998), 1-16. 14 Mark Johnson, Moral Imagination: Implications of Cognitive Science for Ethics (University of Chicago Press, 1993); Lakoff and Johnson, Philosophy in the Flesh.

14 � Eve Sweetser and Mary Therese DesCamp meaningful and satisfying pattern that we can often influence by our behavior. This may, in a small way, be reflected in a small child’s world of nurturance; for example, we set the table and are rewarded by praise; a sibling is reproved for striking us. But in the broader world we cannot bring such moral balance about by ourselves – nor can even our parents or political leaders control it entirely – so we would need a higher nurturant and protective power to make it happen. A nurturant and protective (as well as mutual and asymmetric) relationship is thus perhaps the most apt metaphor for the God whom we hope will exert control and bring about moral balance. Specifically in a monotheistic tradition, a single Deity has to be simultaneously ultimately good and entirely powerful – metaphorically, the perfect parent or ruler. Of course, experience of the real world tells us that bad things actually do happen to good people, which constitutes a challenge to belief in a fully beneficent and omnipotent Deity. This is particularly true if, as humans necessarily must (we do not directly access the Deity’s viewpoint), we persist in meaning good as in our own understanding of what is good. So rejection of God is common when natural disasters or other uncontrollable events occur, or when humans succeed in perpetrating major wrongs on innocents (child abuse, the Holocaust). Ideally, what worshippers seem to be seeking is a Deity with whom they can build a relationship, and whom they can influence – or who will at least predictably respond to good moral behavior and obedience to scriptural law, by making good things and not bad things happen to good people. This is Job’s dilemma. And, if the model is really the ideal Parent, then the Deity should at least love us and be merciful sometimes, even when we do bad things. Monotheism also pushes for a single mapping between the Divine-Human relationship and any one particular source frame. From the Parenting frame, the role of Father is traditionally understood as a more powerful (though less nurturant) one than Mother; polytheistic traditions often have different deities who are understood as Father and as Mother, but the Jewish and Christian traditions could not do this. It seems as if, at the times these scriptural metaphors were being established and used, the need to map power and authority trumped the need to map greater nurturance. (This gap in mappings from the Parenting frame may have been filled in Orthodox and Catholic traditions by the Virgin Mary.) DesCamp and Sweetser list metaphors found in Hebrew Bible texts and in Greek New Testament texts in order of frequency, showing the subframes that motivate the metaphors.15 It is immediately obvious that God as Father is the single most dominant metaphor in both lists. They argued that this is because it �� 15 DesCamp and Sweetser, “Metaphors for God.”

Motivating Biblical Metaphors for God � 15

is exceptionally apt. As the tables show, this metaphor maps the largest number of crucial sub-frames between the two larger frames. The frame of Fatherhood involves subframes of Protection/Sustenance, Mutual Asymmetric Relationship, Authority, Physical Control, Power to Punish, and ontological control over Change (in the case of a parent, the parent physically brings the child into being, as well as being a formative influence on development). These frames map extremely well onto the motivations discussed for the Deity model above – the nurturant, protective, all-powerful Deity who brings about true moral balance. This is no accident. Because our models of parenting feed so profoundly into our models of God, the former feel like particularly suitable metaphors for the latter. That is, it seems likely that the Fatherhood frame has a unique and circular relationship with our models of the Deity. God is not regularly intersubjectively accessible in the same tangible ways that parents are. In trying to flesh out our models of Deity, we are probably bringing in our models of ideal parenting – and once these are imported, they add to the shared structure and the ease of metaphoric construal of God as Father. The frame of Kingship of course shares most of the sub-frames listed above. A ruler is not ontologically prior to his subjects, but he is supposed to provide them Protection and Sustenance, he is in a Mutual Asymmetric Relationship with them, he has Authority and Control and Power to Punish them. Also, both the Father-Child relation and the King-Subject relation are normally unique relationships for the child and the subject, though not for the King or necessarily for the father: a given person has only one father, a given subject has only one King. This fits monotheistic models well: there is only one God, though many worshippers. Even these two partially similar metaphors, which share significant mappings, have clear differences as well. A father is assumed, for example, to have a level of emotional attachment to his child that a king would be unlikely to have towards a subject; and as we said, the Deity we are modeling is one who cares and nurtures, and even forgives. The Physical Progenitor frame involves shared genetics, including physical similarity: this maps onto the idea of humans being made in God’s image (Gen 1:26), whatever that may mean (e.g., that we are or were somehow spiritually similar to God, or have a natural affinity for God). However, subjects do not resemble rulers. The Father-Son relationship frame in these cultures would also have included the idea of ongoing inheritance of familial property: subjects do not inherit from rulers. A king, on the other hand, is assumed to have a uniquely high degree of authority, even compared to very authoritative Ancient Near Eastern models of fatherhood. Even if a father could execute a child for disobe-

16 � Eve Sweetser and Mary Therese DesCamp dience, it seems unlikely that he would do so with as little compunction as a monarch ordering an execution. Another crucial point is that mapping is selective: what is not mapped is at least as important as what does map.16 It feels “obvious” that GOD IS A FATHER, and that that metaphor highlights our dependence on God. But in the FatherSon Parenting frame, sons were expected to support and care for their fathers in old age or infirmity; we do not, however, map this into the metaphoric blend of God as a Father. God will not need our support in old age, since God is both omnipotent and immortal. We earlier suggested that our models of an ideal parent shape our model of Divinity; in this case, it is clearly the concept of the Deity that shapes the mapping from parenthood. We shall return to some of the other metaphors in the next sections of the paper; but let us first look at some of the mappings found in Luke’s use of Greek πάτηρ, patēr, “father.” Generic Space Agent 1 Characteristics of Agent 1

Agent 2 Characteristics of Agent 2

Relationship between Agents

Uniqueness of relationship

Input Space: Father Father * Progenitor * Physical control and authority * Provides nurture, sustenance, protection, instruction * Provides inheritance within social structures * Physical resemblance

Blend: GOD IS FATHER God * Maker * Moral control and authority * Provides nurture, sustenance, protection and instruction through scripture and prophets * Provides inheritance of land and/or tradition * Humans made in image of God Child Jewish people * Descendant * Subject to * Chosen people * Subject to parental control and authority God’s control and authority * Need care, sustenance, in* Need care, sustenance, instruction and protection * struction and protection * May inherit * Bear special May inherit * Usually bears physical resemblance to parent resemblance to God * Mutual * Asymmetric power * Mutual *Asymmetric power * Father is forgiving, extrava- * God is forgiving, extravagantly generous gantly generous * Child has only one father; * Jewish people are chosen father can have multiple chil- but not only (in NT) dren

Table 1: GOD IS FATHER mappings (Luke 15:11-32). �� 16 Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner, The Way We Think: Conceptual Blending and the Mind’s Hidden Complexities (New York: Basic, 2002).

Motivating Biblical Metaphors for God � 17

The reader will note that we have not included a column in this diagram for the second input space, God. (Metaphorical blend diagrams necessarily include a generic space, two input spaces, and the blended space.) We made this decision because virtually everything that would have been in that column could potentially be said to result from blends found in the biblical text, or from importation of the kind discussed earlier – the fleshing out of our basic models of God from our frame of Fatherhood. But in general, many of our understandings of God appear to be inherently blends. For instance, the understanding of God as creator results from the metaphoric blends of the creation story in Gen 2:7, where God makes Adam from earth. And worshippers’ understanding of the Deity’s authority, or protection of humans, is necessarily filtered through (or derived from) our various authoritative and protective metaphoric models. This is not to say that these qualities are not true of the Divinity. It is to point out that the way we learn about them is through conceptual mapping, by connecting our deeply intersubjective experience of God to the structures and experiences of everyday life. Other scriptural metaphors for the Divine have quite different inferential structures. For example, Hebrew Bible texts call God a Rock. Rocks are just there; you cannot influence them or build relationships with them – they cannot change their behavior to you. They do not even have any moral judgment. But, unlike a human authority figure, they are reliable; the rock remains solid underfoot, or provides a solid barrier against attack. The Potter metaphor for God, found in Jer 18:1-6, contains more worrisome implications.17 A potter’s clay is material to be shaped as desired; pots, once made, may be broken and discarded as trash if they do not fulfill the potter’s standards or intended uses. Furthermore, the potter has no reason to be sorry about destroying unsuccessful pots. The clay itself does not have any active role in determining its own fate. This suggests a Deity who has immense authority over every aspect of human life, and who has no motivation even to sustain the existence of morally unsatisfactory humans, let alone to forgive and protect them. Although this metaphor strongly highlights Divine Authority – a central and crucial aspect of models of the Deity – it clearly does not bring in the frames of mutuality, protection and nurturance, which our previous research indicated are also central to Judeo-Christian understandings of God.

�� 17 DesCamp and Sweetser, “Metaphors for God,” found other craftsman metaphors, notably Weaver and Smelter/Refiner, in Hebrew Bible texts.

18 � Eve Sweetser and Mary Therese DesCamp Generic Space Agent Characteristics of Agent Second Entity Characteristics of Second Entity

Input Space: Potter Volitional Human Physical Control

Input Space: God God ?

Clay Malleable

Israel Subject to Divine influence

Interaction between Agent and Second Entity

God influences and Human shapes and fires clay; judges use- judges humans fulness of vessel; can break and throw away vessels if not useful

Blend: God is Potter God is potter God has desires for Israel Israel is clay Israel should be malleable to God’s desires If Israel not appropriately malleable, God can destroy and throw out.

Table 2: Mapping for Potter Metaphor, Jeremiah 18:1-6.

Equally interesting are sexual relationship models of the Divine-Human relationship. Jewish tradition sees Israel as a bride, and God as the husband; Christian tradition sees the church as the Bride of Christ. Some aspects of the Marriage frame are particularly apt for the Divine-Human relationship. In particular, the exclusivity of a woman’s relationship to her husband (the Ancient Near East had polygamy, but a woman had only one husband) maps well onto a monotheistic worshipper’s unique relationship to the Deity. Particularly in the Hebrew Bible, there may be other gods; but the crucial thing is that Jews cannot worship them. Since Ancient Near Eastern and Roman era models of marriage were also far more authority-asymmetric than most modern Western ones, that aspect of the Marriage frame maps well onto the model of the DivineHuman relationship as well: indeed, a wife (and children too) were property of the husband. Hosea (1:2 and elsewhere) and other prophets accused Israel of “whoring,” meaning worshipping false gods and thus committing metaphoric adultery. Song of Songs, which is not just about the legal relationship of marriage, but explicitly about physical sexual relations (though a “betrothed” is mentioned), has long been interpreted as an expression of the Divine-Human relationship. Here we can see some of the complications of the sexual relationship metaphors for the Divine-Human bond. The authority relationship is de-profiled here (although God is still the male lover), while the mutuality is highly profiled. Further, the kind of physical passion, sexual pleasure, and emotional yearning expressed by the lover’s voice in Song of Songs suggests that both God and humans passionately desire and find deep pleasure in relationship with each other. This does not map easily onto everyday ritual observance in worship of a Deity. But it does map well onto mystical and visionary experience of the Divine. Indeed, in the prophetic voice of Jeremiah (20:7), we also find God being said to “seduce” or “entice” (patah) Jeremiah, who is successfully attracted. (“I

Motivating Biblical Metaphors for God � 19

let myself be seduced” would be an appropriate translation for Jeremiah’s complaint to God.) Sexual love is indeed a more apt metaphor for mystical experience than it is for many of the aspects of religious experience discussed so far. Sexual love is deeply emotional, and highly intersubjectively inaccessible. Not only are the emotions involved unavailable to others, but the physical sensations of sexual activity are profoundly personal (even one lover cannot communicate his/her physical sensations to the other) and extremely strong. Mystical experiences are also private, highly emotional, often deeply pleasurable, and regularly said to be ineffable – that is, they are so intersubjectively inaccessible as to be almost impossible to express in words. And they are typically experiences of intimacy and union with the Deity. Not surprisingly, therefore, accounts of mystical experiences often include physical sexual imagery – as in Teresa of Avila’s and Hildegard of Bingen’s visions, but also male Jewish Kabbalists who saw union with God as suckling the Deity’s breasts.18 Further, although Song of Songs presents a very positive image of sexuality, both Jewish and Christian traditions have morally ambivalent evaluations of sex. Sexual impurity (for example, male contact with female menstrual blood) is an important Jewish legal issue; and ritual prostitution is something that Jewish tradition forbids as morally corrupt. Christianity inherited and retained much of this model. This metaphor thus adds the negative moral associations of sex and the taboo nature of sexual imagery to the potentially difficult inferences of relatively equal intimacy between lovers, and the passionate emotional character of the lover relationship. It is easy to see why GOD IS A MALE LOVER, THE WORSHIPPING COMMUNITY IS HIS FEMALE LOVER never became a dominant metaphor for the everyday worshipper’s Divine-Human relationship, although it recurs in mystical settings. Even the Husband-Bride relationship never dominated as a metaphor for individual worshippers’ relationship to the Deity, but was only used to express the faith community’s relationship to God.

�� 18 Ellen Davina Haskell, Suckling at My Mother’s Breasts: The Image of a Nursing God in Jewish Mysticism (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2012).

20 � Eve Sweetser and Mary Therese DesCamp

Thoughts on New and Old Metaphors, and on Directionality Interestingly, these biblical metaphors – all in some form “alive” and regularly used by modern Jews and Christians – probably have quite different statuses in modern usage. The Father-Child metaphor for the Divine-Human relationship still has all the developmental and experiential bases mentioned above. Naturally, however, it has changed as models of parenthood have changed; in particular, the absolute authority of fatherhood has changed. A modern European or American father cannot sell his children into slavery to pay debts, nor is disobedience to a parent punishable by death (which it officially was in Jewish law). In Lakoff’s terms,19 even today’s Strict Father models of parenting are less strict and more nurturant than the ones evoked in Hebrew scripture. This would be predicted: the actual models of parenting available will be the ones that will be mapped onto the Divine. Modern frames of Shepherd and King, however, do not have the same status. It appears that some idealized mythic models are evoked, not those of actual modern rulers or sheep-ranchers. God is not understood as a modern constitutional monarch with limited powers (this would not map onto omnipotence), nor as an autocratic despot (since we would not view this person as benevolent). But do we really think Ancient Near Eastern monarchs were more benevolent than modern despots? Only by distancing this model and refusing to consider the likely social realities can modern Western Jews and Christians continue to use the GOD IS KING model. Similarly, literal shepherds not only herd and shear, but also frequently slaughter and eat their sheep. We might perhaps say that Ancient Near Eastern worshippers thought of themselves as “nourishing” the Deity through sacrifices (though certainly not human sacrifice in the Jewish tradition). But modern Christian use of GOD IS SHEPHERD seems to focus only on the shepherd’s role in caring for, nurturing, and protecting the sheep (and not letting them “stray from the flock”). The mapping of this metaphoric blend suppresses the utilitarian and bloody realities of sheep farming. Finally, it has been emphasized many times that metaphor is a unidirectional cognitive mapping. That is, understanding X as Y does not mean we are understanding Y as X. For example, if I think of revealing a secret as spilling �� 19 George Lakoff, Moral Politics: How Liberals and Conservatives Think (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996).

Motivating Biblical Metaphors for God � 21

beans, that does not mean that I consider the beans in my cupboard metaphorically as secret information. However, as Fauconnier and Turner emphasize, all blending depends on analogical alignment – that is, identification of roles in one frame which are mapped onto the roles in another frame.20 So we have an established conventional metaphoric mapping between the Father-Child frame and the Divine-Human relationship frame, with Father-Child as source and Divine-Human as target. This means we have alignment of the two frames; we know that the Child role is the counterpart of the Worshipper role, and the Father role is the counterpart of the Deity role. We have also profiled alignment between inferences: e.g., paternal authority maps onto Divine authority, paternal protection onto Divine protection. And we have not mapped non-aligned inferences, such as the inference that children support fathers in old age (inferences that conflict cannot be aligned across domains). There are two likely cognitive results of such a pervasive cultural alignment between frames. One is that the aligned aspects of the frames will be more frequently evoked than the non-aligned ones. The second, more interesting, observation is that even though this metaphor is unidirectional, the constant evocation of the alignment between the two frames would surely facilitate the reverse direction of mapping as well. So GOD IS FATHER could make FATHER IS GOD easier to process or maintain as a metaphor.

Conclusions In our earlier paper, we examined a wide range of Hebrew and Greek biblical metaphors – some of them ubiquitous and some of them occurring only once – and we suggested that Father and King were particularly apt metaphors for culturally conventional models of God. Our research indicated that the frames of Kingship and of Fathering contained virtually all of the centrally relevant inferences for mapping onto Divinity. In this paper, we have focused on a smaller group of metaphors, and we examined more closely the complexities involved in such mappings, with particular attention to what may have motivated the preferences we found earlier. What overall conclusions can we draw from this examination? First, we emphasize that the metaphors for the Divine-Human relationship, like other metaphors important to humans, are motivated by experience. Lakoff

�� 20 Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think.

22 � Eve Sweetser and Mary Therese DesCamp and Johnson said this early on; since then we have learned more about the ways in which basic bodily and social experience are correlated in Primary Scenes,21 and result in deeply embodied metaphors for abstract experience. We have further learned that, in general, intersubjectively inaccessible experiences – including religious experience, and even more strongly mystical religious experience – are normally understood metaphorically in terms of more intersubjectively accessible frames of experience. All of these findings help to explain and understand why the most common metaphors for the Deity are Father and King, rather than Potter or Mother. They also help to explain why everyday metaphors for the Divine-Human relationship in ritual and worship shy away from sexual models, though mystical texts abound in sexual metaphors for experience of the Deity. We need to be aware of our mappings, and of the inferences from them. And we need to be further aware of the inferences that are left out of the blend (such as children supporting fathers in old age) when we make metaphoric mappings. Further, conventional and constant alignment of two frames in a onedirectional metaphor is only that (a GOD IS FATHER metaphor is not a FATHER IS GOD metaphor) – and yet such alignment could potentially facilitate the reverse mapping as well. None of the metaphors we have examined were, or are, unchanging. Metaphors change inevitably as source domains change in real life. Ancient Near Eastern models of Parenthood or Kingship were not the same as Roman-era ones, and neither are the same as modern European or American models of parents or rulers. Therefore GOD IS FATHER and GOD IS KING cannot mean the same thing to these very different populations of speakers and readers. Models of shepherds accessible to modern Europeans and Americans are not modeled on the kind of everyday experience which people once had of sheep-herding, and hence a good deal of the original structure is not available for mapping. In addition, it is inevitable that metaphors will change as the target domains change. Ideas of what constitutes a good Deity have changed radically over time; ideas of divine punishment, including hell, are still culturally alive, but nonetheless a model of the Deity has developed that is kinder and more forgiving than we see in Hebrew Bible texts. This is of course partly due to changing frames of parenthood towards more nurturant models. But also, as we mentioned, moderns would feel uncomfortable metaphorically seeing God as a modern ruler, even an all-powerful autocratic despot. Metaphoric models will �� 21 Cf. Grady, “Theories Are Buildings Revisited”; idem, “‘Conduit Metaphor Revisited”; C. Johnson, “Metaphor vs. Conflation.”

Motivating Biblical Metaphors for God � 23

also shift as models of the universe change: non-literal interpretations of Genesis have been present in both Jewish and Christian communities for a long time, but would we want to say that a metaphoric interpretation of those Six Days means the same thing now that it would have meant before we had Big Bang theory? The fact that some metaphors are more apt than others – or were more apt in traditional cultural models – does not mean that they are the only ones we can or should have. We have mentioned that monotheistic models had to choose between GOD IS FATHER and GOD IS MOTHER. But Deut 32:18 refers to God having “given birth to” us (yalad), and having “been in labor/travail” with us (chalal) – so the choice was not complete. This tells us something about the nature of human thinking about the Divine that is often not obvious. The relative stability of some metaphors (such as GOD IS FATHER) reflects the stability of some inferential structures even through major changes in source-domain and target-domain frames. The contrast between “everyday” worshipper experience and mystical experience, however, appears to be particularly stable over time – an aspect of human embodied neural experience. Sexual pleasure is apt as a model for religious ecstasy, not for ritual worship. But this work also suggests that metaphors are likely to shift with communal practice. If faith communities begin to employ different practices – shifting from ritual worship or text-reading to contemplative practices – then communal metaphor usage will likely shift to metaphors that are more apt for expressing mystical experience. Metaphors for the Divine-Human relationship are therefore cognitively much like other metaphors used by humans. They are motivated by embodied experience, and they change as culturally shaped embodied experience changes. This does not mean that experiences of God are solely material, but simply that humans have no other way to experience the Divine than through their living bodies. Cognitive science and cognitive linguistics can thus motivate the patterns we find in biblical texts’ metaphors for the Divine-Human relationship – as well as the patterns we do not find.

24 � Eve Sweetser and Mary Therese DesCamp

S. J. Robinette

Looking beyond the Tree in Jeremiah 17:5-8

My goal in this chapter is primarily to offer a new reading of Jer 17:5-8, which I believe has been misunderstood because of surface resemblances to other texts, such as Ps 1. To tackle this disputed text, I combine aspects of a rhetoricalcritical approach with a cognitive approach. In the last few decades, the fields of cognitive science and cognitive linguistics have given us new empirically based theories of human language. These theories focus on the cognitive categories and structures involved in meaning construction and text comprehension. A cognitive linguistic approach to meaning focuses on the interaction between reader and text, so it can readily be used alongside a rhetorical-critical approach. Cognitive linguistics can be particularly useful in discussions concerning unclear or disputed passages because its analytical tools provide explicit structural analysis of metaphors and yield clearly traceable insights. Jeremiah 17:5-8 is a difficult passage, partly because it contains an enigmatic Hebrew word, ‫( ערער‬arar), in v. 6. Since the meaning of this word is uncertain, an important metaphoric figure in the first half of this passage is unclear. Most modern versions translate this word as some kind of desert plant, but this decision is based largely on this word’s relative position to the prominent tree figure in the final verse of the passage. I will argue against the traditional translation of ‫( ערער‬arar) as a desert plant, in favor of its less-popular rendering as a destitute person. For many readers, the tree figure in Jer 17 bears a strong resemblance to the tree in Ps 1:3.1 Here are the verses in question: They are like trees planted by streams of water, which yield their fruit in its season, and their leaves do not wither. In all that they do, they prosper. (Ps 1:3 NRSV) They shall be like a tree planted by water, sending out its roots by the stream. �� 1 William L. Holladay, Jeremiah: A Fresh Reading (New York: Pilgrim, 1990), 99; Patrick D. Miller, “The Book of Jeremiah,” in NIB 6:707-08; Jack R. Lundbom, Jeremiah: 1-20: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 21A; New York: Doubleday, 1999), 781.

26 � S. J. Robinette It shall not fear when heat comes, and its leaves shall stay green; in the year of drought it is not anxious, and it does not cease to bear fruit. (Jer 17:8 NRSV)

The similarity in phrasing between these two passages has led some scholars to interpret Jer 17:5-8 in light of Ps 1 and to view the Jeremiah passage as an example of the ANE doctrine of the Two Ways.2 I will argue against this interpretation and in favor of understanding the passage through its three embedded metaphors for trust. First, I discuss the problems with interpreting Jer 17:5-8 through the doctrine of the Two Ways, the theme of Ps 1. Then I outline and analyze three metaphors for trust embedded in the Jeremiah text. In particular, I discuss the difference between translating ‫( ערער‬arar) as “destitute” versus translating it as a type of desert plant, in light of the metaphors for trust in the passage. Throughout this analysis, I demonstrate how cognitive approaches provide useful tools for analyzing biblical texts and contributing to the discussion of difficult passages, how cognitive linguistic methodologies produce clearly traceable insights, and how these can be used in conjunction with a rhetorical-critical approach.

Interpreting the Passage via the Two Ways Doctrine Some scholars view Jer 17:5-8 as an example of the ANE doctrine of the Two Ways.3 According to this doctrine, which is part of the ancient Israelite wisdom tradition, a person can leave the blessed way of the righteous at any time and start following the cursed way of the wicked.4 The doctrine of the Two Ways relies on a universal path metaphor, LIFE IS A JOURNEY, in which people are travelers, purposes are destinations, means to achieve goals are paths, purposeful activity is movement along a path, and choices are forks in the road.5 Table 1 provides a source domain-to-target mapping for this conventional metaphor. �� 2 Holladay considers Jer 17:5-8 a variation of Ps 1 (Jeremiah, 99); cf. Peter C. Craigie et al., Jeremiah 1-25 (WBC 26; Dallas: Word, 1991), 225, 227; Miller, “Book of Jeremiah,” 708. 3 E.g., Miller, “Book of Jeremiah,” 708. 4 Richard J. Clifford, The Wisdom Literature (Nashville: Abingdon, 1998), 8-12. 5 For elaboration on the LIFE IS A JOURNEY metaphor, see George Lakoff and Mark Turner, More Than Cool Reason: A Field Guide to Poetic Metaphor (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), 3-6.

Looking beyond the Tree in Jeremiah 17:5-8 � 27

LIFE IS A JOURNEY Source Domain: Journey/Path Journey Start of journey End of journey Traveler Destinations Roads, paths, ways

→ → → → → →

Motion, traveling Crossroads, forks in the road Being aimless or wandering Guides Provisions

→ → → → →

Target Domain: Life Life Start of life End of life Living person Purposes or goals Behaviors and means for achieving purposes Purposeful action Choices in life Lacking purpose or goals Helpers, counselors, and instructions Resources (materials, skill)

Table 1: LIFE IS A JOURNEY Metaphor Mapping

In the doctrine of the Two Ways, this metaphor is blended with the contrast between the wicked and the righteous. The result is another path metaphor, LIFE IS A JOURNEY OF TWO WAYS (Two Ways metaphor), which cues for some strong mental compressions. In this metaphor, moral choices are compressed into only two categories, the way of the wicked, which leads to death, or the way of the righteous, which leads to life. Similarly, people, who map to travelers in the LIFE IS A JOURNEY metaphor, are compressed into either the wicked or the righteous in the Two Ways metaphor. This metaphor is set out in Table 2. LIFE IS A JOURNEY OF TWO WAYS Source Domain: Journey/Path Journey, path, course Traveler Roads, paths, ways Travel, motion on a path Forks in the road Destinations Final destination of the wicked Final destination of the righteous

→ → → → → → → →

Target Domain: Moral Life Moral life Person (righteous or wicked) Righteous or wicked acts to achieve goals Purposeful action Moral choices in behavior Purposes or goals Death Life

Table 2: LIFE IS A JOURNEY OF TWO WAYS Metaphor Mapping

In this metaphor, choices in the domain of the moral life map onto forks in the road in the domain of the journey along a path, whereas life purposes and goals map onto destinations along a path. Through compression, the importance of moral choice is emphasized by mapping the consequences onto two ultimate destinations, which metaphorically represent life or death. Indeed, a choice of

28 � S. J. Robinette paths normally indicates a choice between destinations; therefore, the purposes and goals of both the righteous and the wicked not only determine which path they will choose at any given fork, but also determine their final destination. An important inference of this metaphor is that the purposes, plans, and moral choices of the wicked ultimately lead to death even if the wicked do not intend them to. Since both Jer 17:5-8 and the doctrine of the Two Ways share a common structure, namely, the contrast between two types of people and the consequences of their differences, the Jeremiah passage can be integrated into the Two Ways metaphor through identity mapping.6 If this passage is understood through the doctrine of the Two Ways, then the cursed person who trusts in some kind of human power (v. 5) is identified with the wicked, and the blessed person who trusts in YHWH (v. 7) is identified with the righteous. To mentally perform this identity mapping, readers must either redefine the topics of the passage as the wicked and the righteous (or visa versa), or they must group them correspondingly as members of the same category, like the good or bad people or those who do or do not manifest faith in YHWH.7 Since trust in YHWH is part of the larger cognitive frame of the Righteous, this identity mapping can be easily achieved through part-whole frame metonymy. The person who trusts in YHWH in v. 7 figuratively represents the righteous, who are the implied subject of the verse. Likewise, the wicked are viewed as the subject of v. 5. This substitution process naturally suppresses the cognitive frame of trust in favor of the cognitive frame of the Righteous and the Wicked. The cognitive frame of the Righteous and the Wicked reinforces the associated cognitive frame of the Two Ways doctrine while the cognitive frame of trust, with its roles, dependence relationships, and scenarios, goes unnoticed.

�� 6 Identity mapping refers to identifying two objects as the same object; see Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner, The Way We Think: Conceptual Blending and the Mind’s Hidden Complexities (New York: Basic, 2002), 6, 95-96. 7 When Miller attributes the issue of “those who trust in the Lord” versus “those who trust human resources” to both passages, he essentially equates the person who trusts YHWH from Jer 17:7 with the righteous in Ps 1 and the person who trusts in human power from Jer 17:5 with the wicked in Ps 1 (“Book of Jeremiah,” 708). Holladay and Lundbom group these corresponding types from both texts together and then focus on what the grouped members have in common. Holladay refers to them as “the good and bad people” (Jeremiah, 100), whereas Lundbom frames them in terms of those who do or do not manifest “faith in YHWH” (Jeremiah, 781).

Looking beyond the Tree in Jeremiah 17:5-8 � 29

In the Two Ways metaphor, the bleak situation in v. 6 maps to the final destination of the wicked. The wicked will end up like an ‫( ערער‬arar) in the desert, inhabiting a scorched, barren, uninhabitable land. The contrasting prosperous situation in v. 8 – a tree planted by water, having luxuriant leaves, and bearing fruit even in drought – maps to the final destination of the righteous.

Cognitive Contraindications to the Two Ways Interpretation Although Jer 17:5-8 can be understood through this ANE doctrine of the Two Ways and its corresponding path metaphor, I do not think the Jeremiah text actually supports this reading. If a biblical text is an example of the ANE doctrine of the Two Ways, then it should have sufficient cues for evoking this cognitive frame. Since the doctrine of the Two Ways is based on the LIFE IS A JOURNEY OF TWO WAYS metaphor, the text should contain language from the journey/path domain. These are basic adequacy conditions that should be met if we are to accept the validity of an interpretation. Unlike Ps 1, however, Jer 17:5-8 contains few textual cues for evoking the cognitive frame of the Two Ways. Although Jer 17:5-8 does contrast two types of people as cursed and blessed, these people are not identified as the righteous and the wicked in the passage.8 In fact, there is no mention of the righteous, or sinners, or the wicked, or the ungodly in this passage. Nor do we find language from the domain of journeying or paths. Although Jer 17:5-8 has been classified as a wisdom psalm and beatitude along with Ps 1, its word for “blessed” is not the one typically associated with this type of literature.9 A problem with relying on the path metaphor to understand Jer 17:5-8 is that every metaphor necessarily highlights and suppresses different aspects of its target domain. The quality of the land is emphasized in v. 6 by its many ref-

�� 8 “Jer 17:5-8 is not manifestly about righteousness and unrighteousness and has nothing explicit in it of the belief that the righteous are rewarded and the wicked are punished” (J. Clinton McCann Jr., “Psalms,” in NIB 4:392. 9 Instead of using ‫( אשרי‬asre, “happiness”), which is characteristic of Hebrew wisdom psalms and beatitudes, it uses ‫( ברוך‬baruk, “blessed”). For classifications and characteristics of beatitudes and wisdom psalms, see Peter C. Craigie, Psalms 1-50 (WBC 19; Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1983), 225; Marvin A. Sweeney, Isaiah 1-39: With an Introduction to Prophetic Literature (FOTL 16; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996), 515-16; Bernhard W. Anderson, Out of the Depths: The Psalms Speak for Us Today (3rd ed.; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2000), 188-89.

30 � S. J. Robinette erences to its harshness, but in the Two Ways metaphor, the references to the quality of the land only function as descriptions of the final destination of those who trust in a human power. Although the path metaphor highlights choice and its consequences, life or death, when the topics of vv. 5, 7 are equated with the wicked and the righteous, these choices about trust become moral choices. Thus Jeremiah casts the human choices in question as choices about relationship with God, rather than just about good or bad action. Although some of the inferences will not change – it is still better to be blessed than to be cursed – a reading of Jer 17:5-8 in terms of its trust metaphors produces a different reading experience than reading it in terms of the doctrine of the Two Ways metaphor. This difference is not trivial because it makes a difference whether one imagines one of two moral paths while walking down a road or choosing between two different powerful agents to depend on for one’s well-being. When dependence choices are equated with moral choices, choices and their consequences are highlighted, but trust issues like need, dependence, and the suitability of one’s trusted agent are suppressed. This obscures the emphasis on trust that I will show is central to understanding Jer 17:5-8. The Two Ways interpretation does not suffice to reveal the full import and thrust of the Jeremiah passage.

An Alternative Reading of Jeremiah 17:5-8 I offer an alternative reading of this Jeremiah text. Although framed by what we know about the text’s rhetorical genre, its cultural setting, and its intended audience, this reading is closely based on the textual cues provided by this particular passage. It therefore wrestles with problems in the translation of the text’s vocabulary, in particular the contested word, ‫( ערער‬arar).

Structure Jeremiah 17:5-8 opens with a messenger formula followed by an intermittent series of roughly parallel expressions between the two halves of this passage that set it apart as a literary unit and function to invite comparison between the two half units. The contrasting verbs of cursing and blessing at the beginning of each unit indicate that the comparison type is that of contrast. Each unit opens

Looking beyond the Tree in Jeremiah 17:5-8 � 31

with an introduction and proceeds to a scenario that begins with a simile and contains some nearly identical phrasing across both units.10

�� 10 The exact meaning and translation of these nearly identical phrases are disputed because of the variation in meaning allowed by the Hebrew words and figures. Although translations may use very different English words for these nearly identical phrases, this does not diminish the force of the visual and auditory similarity in the original language. One translational choice for Jer 17:6b depicts the subject in the cursing scenario as not surviving to see good when it comes. This translation uses frame metonymy to interpret “see” as something like “living to experience.” It has the advantage of using a temporal clause like the highly-probable temporal clause in v. 8c, “when heat comes.” Another possible translation for v. 6b depicts the inner experience of not comprehending or believing that good will come. In this translation, “see” metaphorically represents some kind of cognitive awareness like knowledge, comprehension, or belief. This inner experience precedes a surprising event, namely, settling the scorched, barren, uninhabitable land in v. 6c-d. This translation has the advantage of contrasting nicely with the inner experience in v. 8c, of not being afraid when heat comes, which precedes its own surprising event, luxuriant growth and fruitfulness during times of drought in v. 8e-f. For a more detailed explanation of these variations using a cognitive approach, see Susan J. Robinette, “A Combined Cognitive and Rhetorical-Critical Approach to Biblical Hebrew Poetic Texts: Psalm 1 and Jeremiah 17:5-8” (M.A. Thesis, Graduate Theological Union, 2008).

32 � S. J. Robinette

Structure and Function of Jer 17:5-8 Messenger Formula: 5. Thus said YHWH Cursing Unit:

Blessing Unit:

Introduction

Introduction

Cursed is the man (strong man) who trusts in mankind And makes flesh his strength (arm) And from YHWH, his heart turns

7. Blessed is the man (strong man) who trusts in YHWH And is, in YHWH, his trust ---

Cursed Scenario:

Blessed Scenario:

Simile 6. For he is/will be like an arar in the desert --Scenario And he does/will not see that/when good comes But/for he settles the scorched places in the wilderness A land of barrenness (saltiness) And uninhabited (you will not inhabit). ---

Simile 8. For he is/will be like a tree transplanted beside water That (and) toward a stream, stretches out its roots Scenario And it does/will not fear that/when heat comes But/for its leaves become luxuriant And in the year of drought (cut off), it does not worry For (and) it does not cease (depart) from producing fruit.

Figure 1: Dashes indicate deviations in structure where cola are unequal. Subheadings show functional organization. Slashes indicated likely alternate translational possibilities. Parentheses indicate a more literal rendering of a Hebrew word. The translation tries to preserve Hebrew word order.

Genre Although many scholars classify Jer 17:5-8 as a wisdom psalm,11 the literary features of the text suggest a mixture of several generic forms. The book of Jeremiah itself belongs to the genre of prophetic literature, and v. 5a opens with a �� 11 E.g., Lundbom, Jeremiah, 780.

Looking beyond the Tree in Jeremiah 17:5-8 � 33

prophetic-sounding messenger formula, “Thus said YHWH.”12 This formula is immediately followed by a two-part, contrasting poem that contains features characteristic of wisdom psalms, including the use of parallelism, contrasts, and figurative language. As noted earlier, the passage also shows some similarities to Ps 1, itself a wisdom psalm and a beatitude.13 These similarities include a statement of blessing (Ps 1:1; Jer 17:7), a statement of the contrast between two types of people, and an extended metaphor that begins with the image of a tree transplanted beside water (Ps 1:3; Jer 17:8). However, the verb of blessing in Jer 17:7, when paired with the cursing formula in 17:5, is more reminiscent of the ANE legal treaty genre than a beatitude form.14 Jeremiah 17:5-8 is an address that contains a mixture of generic forms and uses contrasting scenarios to admonish and exhort.

Purpose, Audience, and Situation The purpose of Jer 17:5-8 is to persuade its audience toward specific actions or beliefs. For readers familiar with ANE literature, the opening messenger formula generates an expectation of an important warning or announcement.15 For the same readers, the wisdom literature features evoke the wisdom frame and generate an expectation for didactic counsel related to successful living. Similarly, the cursing and blessing forms that open the two contrasting units evoke the �� 12 Sweeney, Isaiah, 523-33. 13 Beatitude is a literary form that is common in ANE wisdom literature. According to Sweeney, it is a “short formulaic speech form that extols the fortunate or blessed state of an individual or whole people group.” In biblical Hebrew texts, beatitudes are typically introduced by the word ‫( אשרי‬asre), frequently translated as “happy,” “fortunate,” or “blessed” (Isaiah, 515-16). 14 The word for “blessing” in Jer 17:7 is not ‫( אשרי‬asre), the usual Hebrew construct noun used in beatitudes. Instead, it is the participle ‫( ברוך‬baruk), from the verb ‫ברך‬, the most common biblical Hebrew word for “bless.” Although this participle often expresses the concept of benediction or evoking a blessing upon someone, it is also used in opposition with ‫( ערור‬arur “cursed”) in the establishment of ANE treaties and covenants. This word for bless is used for declaring the negative consequences of breaking a covenant, and for declaring the benefits of faithfulness to a covenant agreement. Therefore, in Jer 17:5-8, the use of ‫( ברוך‬baruk) in opposition with ‫( ערור‬arur) potentially evokes the cognitive frame of ANE treaties; see Sweeney, Isaiah, 515-16; George E. Mendenhall and Gary A Herion, “Covenant,” in ABD 1:1181-83. For more information about the biblical uses of blessing and cursing, see also Kent Harold Richards, “Blessing,” in ABD 1:753-55; Douglas Stuart, “Curse,” in ABD 1:1218-19; William J. Urbrock, “Blessings and Curses,” in ABD 1:755-61. 15 Sweeney, Isaiah, 529-46.

34 � S. J. Robinette legal genre and, to a target audience of Jeremiah’s Judean contemporaries, potentially evoke the consequences of both breaking and keeping a covenant relationship with YHWH. In doing so, they invite this audience to apply the general teaching in this passage to specific behaviors or beliefs related to their current situation, the threat of exile. Since Israel’s covenant with YHWH relates to a people group that spans generations and supercedes individuals, the trust issue in vv. 5-8 may have less to do with individual prosperity and more to do with Israel’s survival as the people of God through exile. Although the subject of vv. 5-8 is presented in the singular as a “strong man” in vv. 5b, 7a, the target audience need not be an individual. Through the universal metaphor A PEOPLE GROUP IS A PERSON, the singular topic in the introduction to each contrasting unit can readily refer to a people group. Some source-to-target domain mappings for this metaphor are in Table 3: A PEOPLE GROUP IS A PERSON Person (Source) Relationship with a person Promises made to a person Promises made by a person Actions of a person Consequences due a person

→ → → → → →

People group (Target) Relationship with a people group Promises made to a people group Promises made by a people group Actions of a people group Consequences due a people group

Table 3: A PEOPLE GROUP IS A PERSON Metaphor Mapping

Although this passage does not clearly indicate who the trusting party is or what need requires trust, the prophet Jeremiah’s Judean contemporaries facing exile to Babylon are likely candidates. Words relating to combat in v. 5 suggest that the need involves a military threat like the one posed by the Babylonian army. The treaty language of cursing and blessing in the introductions potentially evokes the ramifications of a covenant with YHWH. These ramifications include the threat of exile, a consequence of covenant violations that is a recurring theme throughout the book of Jeremiah, including the verses that immediately precede this passage.16 If the situation of vv. 5-8 is the threat of exile and if the human agent in v. 5 refers to foreign nations, then the parallelism in v. 5 equates trusting in foreign nations in the face of exile with forsaking YHWH. This �� 16 Jeremiah 17:3-4 reads, “O mountain of Mine in the countryside, I will give over your wealth and all your treasures for booty, your high places for sin throughout your borders. And you will, even yourself, let go of your inheritance that I gave you; and I will make you serve your enemies in the land which you do not know; for you have kindled a fire in My anger which will burn forever” (NASB).

Looking beyond the Tree in Jeremiah 17:5-8 � 35

also echoes a similar connection in the rib in Jer 2, where the Judean Israelites are first indicted for their covenant violations.17

Difficult Vocabulary: ‫( ערער‬arar) Jeremiah 17:5-8 is a difficult passage partly because it contains an enigmatic Hebrew word, ‫( ערער‬arar), in v. 6. Since the meaning of this word is uncertain, an important metaphoric figure in the first half of this passage is also unclear. Most modern versions translate ‫( ערער‬arar) as some kind of desert plant, largely based on this word’s position relative to the metaphoric tree figure in the final verse of the passage.18 I will argue against the traditional translation of ‫ערער‬ (arar) as a desert plant, in favor of its less-popular rendering as a destitute person. Jeremiah 17:6 opens with a simile, “he is like an ‫( ערער‬arar) in the desert,” that likens the trusting party in v. 5 to an ‫( ערער‬arar). However, the source domain for this word is difficult to identify because its meaning is uncertain. Most scholars read ‫( ערער‬arar) in this verse as a defective form of the word ‫( ערוער‬aroer), the meaning of which is also a matter of speculation. Proposed renderings of ‫( ערוער‬aroer) usually relate to some kind of desert plant species, like a shrub or juniper bush, precisely because ‫( ערער‬arar) in v. 6 is in a parallel position to the “tree” simile in v. 8.19 However, there is no other specific plant language in v. 6 to support this rendering. Furthermore, portraying the trusting party as a plant in v. 6 obscures the TRUSTING IS SETTLING A LAND metaphor evident throughout the verse since, as I shall show, quite different reasoning patterns are evoked by the two metaphors. In the MT, ‫( ערער‬arar) takes the exact form of an adjective that refers to “destitute” or “stripped.”20 This sense fits well within the reasoning structure of

�� 17 Jeremiah 2:18-19 reads, “‘But now what are you doing on the road to Egypt, to drink the waters of the Nile? Or what are you doing on the road to Assyria, to drink the waters of the Euphrates? Your own wickedness will correct you, and your apostasies will reprove you; know therefore and see that it is evil and bitter for you to forsake the LORD your God, and the dread of Me is not in you,’ declares the LORD GOD of hosts” (NASB). 18 The NIV, Good News, and NASB translate ‫( ערער‬arar), “bush,” while NRSV and Common English Bible render it “shrub.” The KJV reads, “a heath in the desert.” In The Message, Eugene Petersen renders it, “a tumbleweed on the prairie.” 19 For a brief survey of the proposed botanical candidates for 17:6, see Lundbom, Jeremiah, 783. 20 BDB 792.

36 � S. J. Robinette TRUSTING IS SETTLING A LAND. Since an adjective can refer metonymically to a person or persons with the qualities of that adjective, “destitute” can stand for the settler in this metaphor as a quality that the settler possesses. Since this alternative translation is consistent with the metaphor that runs throughout the verse, unlike the more popular botanical definition, this alternate translation of ‫( ערער‬arar) as a “stripped” or “destitute” person initially meets best-fit criteria for the most reasonable choice. This translation potentially evokes the image of someone stripped of their clothing, who “has no protection against the unrelenting sun and scorching heat,” with the implication that such a person could not possibly survive.21 Even without this extreme image, a destitute settler is not equipped to survive in a desert wilderness where there are no inhabitants, no water, and no vegetation. An inference of the metaphor TRUSTING IS SETTLING A LAND is that the desert environment in v. 6 is clearly unsuitable for settlers who lack essential survival resources of their own. Therefore, rendering ‫( ערער‬arar) as “destitute” highlights the utter vulnerability of those who trust in certain human agents over YHWH and augments the unsuitability of these human agents as objects of trust. The decision to settle this land or trust in this human agent – possibly foreign powers in the face of exile – is profoundly dangerous and profoundly unwise.

Theme Trust is a major theme in Jer 17:5-8. It is highlighted by both repetition and position, appearing once in the introduction to the Cursing Unit and twice in the introduction of the Blessing Unit. Together these introductions identify two contrasting objects of trust and establish the concept of trust as a focal theme of the passage. As I will show, elements from the semantic frame of trust are referred to repeatedly through three metaphors for trust, TRUSTING IS SETTLING A LAND, TRUSTING IS MOTION TOWARDS, and TRUSTING IS BEING PLANTED. The semantic frame of trust includes three roles, a relationship of dependence, and a scenario with two possible outcomes. The roles include a trusting party, a trusted agent, and an object put into trust. This object can be specific, like keeping a promise, or something general like promoting the well-being of the one who trusts. The one who trusts depends on a trusted agent, who either acts sufficiently or insufficiently regarding the object put into trust. Whenever �� 21 Craigie et al., Jeremiah, 226.

Looking beyond the Tree in Jeremiah 17:5-8 � 37

trusted agents act sufficiently, they are deemed trustworthy. If they fail, they are deemed untrustworthy. Applied to the notion of wisdom, readers can conclude that it is unwise to trust an untrustworthy or unsuitable agent. In Jer 17:5-8 it is the trusted agent who differentiates the person (“strong man”) in the cursed situation from the one in the blessed situation. The Cursing Unit contains three parallel synonymous cola relating to the trusted agent. The trusted agent is identified as a human agent by the term ‫( אדם‬adam, “man/humankind”) in v. 5b and by the metonymic use of ‫( בשר‬basar, “flesh”) for “human” in v. 5c. Since arm strength is associated with physical combat, the phrase “makes flesh his strength” (“arm”) in v. 5c potentially evokes the cognitive frame of battle, and the idea that the human agent in the Cursing Unit refers to military might or help from foreign powers. The use of frame metonymy of “flesh” for “human” in v. 5c functions to highlight human weakness or frailty and begins a series of figurative images that portray the insufficiency this human agent as an object of trust. In the final colon of the Cursing Unit, the trusting party turns from YHWH (v. 5d). This colon uses a metaphor that I call TRUSTING IS MOTION TOWARDS. This metaphor is a natural extension of the Primary Metaphor TRUST IS NEARNESS. Some source-to-target domain mappings for TRUSTING IS MOTION TOWARDS are: TRUSTING IS MOTION TOWARDS Motion (Source) Motion toward Motion away

→ → →

Turning away

→

Turning toward

→

Trust Relationships (Target) Trusting, depending on, acting in trust Distrust, not depending on, not acting in trust Rejecting or forsaking trusting dependence on Establishing or renewing trusting dependence on

Table 4: TRUSTING IS MOTION TOWARDS Metaphor Mapping

Movement that promotes proximity (motion toward) maps to trusting, and movement that creates distance (motion away) maps to distrusting. The concept of turning from something depicts a change in direction from one that promotes proximity (trust) to one that promotes distance (distrust). Therefore, it metaphorically depicts a rejection (change from trust to distrust) of a potential trusted agent. The synonymous parallelism in the introduction to the Cursing Unit equates trusting in the human agent or human might with not trusting YHWH (Figure 1).

38 � S. J. Robinette The inference is that YHWH in v. 5d is rejected as a trusted agent in favor of the human agent in v. 5b-c. In contrast, the Blessing Unit identifies YHWH as the appropriate trusted agent in v. 7 and emphasizes this idea through repetition and chiasm: a

a’

who trusts b in YHWH b’ and YHWH is his trust.

Cursing Unit The language in 17:6 contains verbs for settling and inhabiting and includes many references to the land and the quality of the land (“desert,” “scorched places,” “wilderness,” “barren/saltiness”). All of these words fall within the general domain of settling or inhabiting a land. Therefore, the person who trusts in the human agent of v. 5 is figuratively depicted in v. 6 as settling an uninhabitable desert wilderness. This figurative depiction is achieved through an embedded metaphor whereby the person doing the trusting is the settler, the trusted human agent is the land, and trust itself maps to settling or inhabiting a land.22 Some mappings of this metaphor, which I call TRUSTING IS SETTLING A LAND, are given in Table 5.23 TRUSTING IS SETTLING A LAND Source: Settling Lands Settler Settling, dwelling, inhabiting Land Dependence on the land Quality of the land Sufficiency of the land Dependability of the land Results of settling the land Decision to settle a certain land

→ → → → → → → → →

Target: Human Trust Relationships Person (or people group) Trusting Trusted agent Dependence on the trusted agent Quality of the trusted agent Sufficiency of the trusted trusted agent Dependability of the trusted agent Results of relying on the agent Decision to trust a particular agent

Table 5: TRUSTING IS SETTLING A LAND Metaphor Mapping

�� 22 Embedded metaphors, also referred to as abusio, occur when language from one domain is used in reference to another domain; see Lundbom, Jeremiah, 129. 23 I orient this metaphor and the ones in 17:8 around the notion of trust instead of the trusting party because I think that trust is the focus of the passage and its controlling cognitive frame, and because this orientation better reflects the parallel nature of the two contrasting halves and thus makes comparing them easier.

Looking beyond the Tree in Jeremiah 17:5-8 � 39

This metaphor uses the Primary Metaphor, TRUST IS NEARNESS, whereby the spatial relationship of proximity, like the proximity of a land to those who settle it, metaphorically represents a relationship of trust. People in agrarian societies depend directly on the land they inhabit to produce the things they need for everyday survival. The metaphor TRUSTING IS SETTLING A LAND depicts dependence on a trusted agent as dependence on land and depicts the dependability or sufficiency of that trusted agent as the quality or sufficiency of the land. In doing so, the metaphor highlights the dependence aspect of trust relationships in this passage. Since people are so dependent on the land they settle, the quality and fertility of the land they choose to settle is vitally important to their survival. People are mobile and potentially have some ability to choose where they will dwell. Therefore, the TRUSTING IS SETTLING A LAND metaphor likens a decision to trust to a decision to settle a land. In doing so, this metaphor emphasizes both the possibility of choice in what or whom one trusts and the consequences of that choice.

Blessing Unit The language in 17:8 contains botanical references throughout, including “tree, “leaves,” “fruit,” and other environmental references relevant to this domain. The person who trusts in YHWH in v. 7 is metaphorically portrayed as a “tree planted by water” in v. 8. In this botanical metaphor, which I call TRUSTING IS BEING PLANTED, the tree maps to the person who trusts in YHWH, the water maps to YHWH, and being planted maps to trust. Plants are dependent upon their immediate environment for sustenance. This important connection between proximity and dependence mirrors that of the Primary Metaphor TRUST IS NEARNESS from the human relations domain. This metaphor helps the relationship between a tree and its environment to be used metaphorically in TRUSTING IS BEING PLANTED to depict a relationship of trust between a person and their trusted agent. The emotional reactions of “fear” and “worry” in 17:8 are human characteristics that have no correlates in the botanical domain. Therefore, TRUSTING IS BEING PLANTED in this verse is a conceptual blend with multiple input spaces. One input space contains botanical and agricultural information and the other input space contains information about humans, trust relationships, and YHWH. The generic space for this conceptual blend contains the concepts of proximity, needs/dependence, ways of accessing sources that meet needs, and life cycle.

40 � S. J. Robinette The inferences derived from this conceptual blend are based on elements from both input spaces. Plants and humans share the fact that they require nourishment and hydration to survive. Basic survival needs in the plant domain map to human needs, including relational needs. These human needs are highlighted and elevated to the level of survival through the TRUSTING IS BEING PLANTED metaphor. Since plants do not readily change their environments, they are immediately dependent upon their environments for the vital substances they need to survive, flourish, and reproduce. The vital substance that plants require most is water. In the metaphor TRUSTING IS BEING PLANTED, this vital water source maps to YHWH in the domain of human trust relationships (v. 7). Some sourceto-target domain mappings concerning this relationship are: TRUSTING IS BEING PLANTED Source: Settling Lands Plants (Source) Being planted / transplanted Plant Dependence on environment Environment Water source (stream, water)

→ → → → → →

Target: Human Trust Relationships Human Trust Relationships (Target) Trusting Person, (people group) Dependence on trusted agent (YHWH) Trusted agent (YHWH) YHWH

Table 6: TRUSTING IS BEING PLANTED Metaphor Mapping

The simile that introduces the metaphor TRUSTING IS BEING PLANTED in the Blessing Unit is longer than the corresponding simile in the Cursing Unit. This is a reversal of the length inequality found in the introductions to these contrasting units. The word order of the extended simile in v. 8 forms a second chiasm with words that map to YHWH (water and stream) in its center. Therefore, the inequalities in cola between the Cursing Unit and Blessing Unit in both places allow for two back-to-back chiasms in which YHWH is doubly emphasized as the desirable object of trust. Early in life, people get their basic needs met by caregivers, but later in life, they learn to acquire things themselves. This progression in human trust relations is suppressed by the metaphor TRUSTING IS BEING PLANTED in favor of a plant’s continuous dependence upon its immediate environment for water. An inference of this metaphor is that, even though humans outgrow their dependence on early caregivers, they remain in some way utterly dependent upon YHWH for their survival and well-being. For those Judean Israelites who continue in the covenant relationship that their ancestors began with YHWH, this meta-

Looking beyond the Tree in Jeremiah 17:5-8 � 41

phor suggests that they are fundamentally dependent upon YHWH for their own survival as the people of God. Since roots are associated with stability in plants, the mention of roots in v. 8b can potentially symbolize stability in this passage. However, roots are also associated with a plant’s connection to its vital source of water and nutrients. This association fits the TRUSTING IS BEING TRANSPLANTED metaphor where the water source maps to YHWH. The plant stretching out its roots toward the stream in v. 8b, evokes an image of motion toward its water source, which reactivates the TRUSTING IS MOTION TOWARD metaphor already in play in the introduction to the Cursing Unit (Table 4). Therefore, the idea that the roots represent motion and connection, rather than stability, fits better in this context. Plants are not typically associated with volitional motion, but they do naturally grow in the direction of the sources that they need. Motion of the roots toward the stream in v. 8b maps to volitional movement of a person toward a trusted agent via the TRUSTING IS MOTION TOWARD metaphor. When this movement is projected into the blended space of the TRUSTING IS BEING PLANTED metaphor, it implies the ability to reach out toward YHWH in some way. As an extension of the Primary Metaphor TRUST IS NEARNESS, TRUSTING IS MOTION TOWARD might also evoke early childhood experiences with caregivers. Therefore, this image of the tree stretching out its roots can evoke the sensation of a person (or child) stretching out their arms toward their trusted agent (or caregiver). Reflection upon the metaphoric images associated with the phrase “that toward a stream, stretches out its roots” (v. 8) can produce profound results; the image of a tree stretching out its roots toward water is superimposed upon the image of a child reaching out its arms toward a parent, which is superimposed upon the image of a people reaching out to YHWH with in prayer and worship, all in trusting need. One possible implication of this metaphoric image is that the water, which maps to YHWH, is both nearby and far enough away that it must be reached for. Therefore it might function as an encouragement to a people who are about to be distanced from YHWH in some way. Exile, where the Israelites will be distanced from their land and the temple they associate with the worship of YHWH, fits this criterion. The metaphor TRUSTING IS BEING PLANTED is based in part on a universal metaphor PEOPLE ARE PLANTS, which often depicts human life-cycles in terms of plant life-cycles. Some source-to-target domain mappings for this universal metaphor are in Table 7:

42 � S. J. Robinette PEOPLE ARE PLANTS Plants (Source) A plant Plant life-cycle Sprouting Seeds, fruit, shoots Withering Being cut down

→ → → → → → →

People (Target) A person Human life-cycle Birth, growth Reproduction, offspring, children, getting sick, getting tired, growing old Death

Table 7: PEOPLE ARE PLANTS Methapor Mapping

Since Jer 17:5-8 emphasizes survival and probably alludes to Israel’s covenant relationship with YHWH, it is possible that the word “fruit” in vv. 8-9 refers to physical offspring in the context of survival as a people in covenant relationship with YHWH. The concept of YHWH as a water source paired with the concept of being “cut off” from a usual water source through drought (v. 8e), might evoke the situation of being cut off from usual access to YHWH. This situation mirrors what will happen during exile. The Judean Israelites will be cut off from their temple, a primary means of participation in their relationship with YHWH. If this passage applies to the exile situation, then it encourages those who trust in YHWH to “not worry” (v. 8), for they will continue to produce offspring, even in drought (cut off from temple worship of YHWH), who can carry on this covenant relationship. This encouragement echoes the promise in 16:14-15 that YHWH will return the Israelites to their land after a period of exile.24

Discussion Desert Plant versus Destitute If ‫( ערער‬arar) in Jer 17:6 is translated as a desert plant, then the botanical metaphor, TRUSTING IS BEING PLANTED, presumably is operating in v. 6 as well as in v. 8. This is made possible because this botanical metaphor and the metaphor in the rest of the verse, TRUSTING IS SETTLING A LAND, share a common struc-

�� 24 “Therefore behold, days are coming,” declares the LORD, “when it will no longer be said, ‘As the LORD lives, who brought up the sons of Israel out of the land of Egypt,’ but, ‘As the LORD lives, who brought up the sons of Israel from the land of the north and from all the countries where He had banished them.’ For I will restore them to their own land which I gave to their fathers” (Jer 16:14-15, NASB); for a similar promise, see Jer 23:8.

Looking beyond the Tree in Jeremiah 17:5-8 � 43

ture. Trust is the target domain in both metaphors, and the generic space of each contains the shared concepts of dependence, proximity, and survival needs. In a metaphoric blend of these two metaphors, the desert plant in v. 6a and the settler in the rest of the verse become a blended plant-settler (Figure 2). When contrasted with the botanical metaphor in v. 8, however, the inferences that emerge from this new blend cause the passage to lose much of its persuasive power. The issue of choice and its consequence, which is highlighted by the TRUSTING IS SETTLING A LAND metaphor, is diminished by the blend. Since choice falls outside the botanical domain (plants do not choose where they are planted), it may not be projected into the blended space by a reader. In this case, the concept of choice will be completely suppressed by the metaphoric blend of the plant-settler metaphor. If the idea of choice is projected into the blended space, the passage prompts the reader to consider the consequences and wisdom of a plant-settler deciding to grow-settle in a scorched, uninhabitable desert. However, the plant species proposed by most scholars are all drought-resistant and grow in harsh, dry environments. Therefore, the plant-settler is somewhat fit for the dry environment and will likely survive, even though it may not flourish the way a tree planted beside a dependable water source would. Unlike the inferences of the settler metaphor alone, when ‫( ערער‬arar) is translated as a juniper or desert shrub instead of a destitute person, the consequences of choosing a desert instead of a stream environment are not severe. The plant-settler’s decision to inhabit the land and, likewise, the person’s decision to trust in the human agent instead of YHWH in v. 5 does not seem as dangerous or as unwise as a destitute person’s decision to settle an uninhabitable desert wilderness. Therefore, botanical comparison brought about by the plant-settler blend greatly weakens the persuasive strength of the passage.

44 � S. J. Robinette Generic Space

– Trusting person – Survival needs – Land as environmental source for meeting needs – Trusted agent as land – TRUST IS NEARNESS

Input 1: TRUSTING IS SETTLING A LAND

Input 2: TRUSTING IS BEING PLANTED

– Trusting person as a settler – Trusting as settling a land – Survival needs – Trusted human agent as land (environmental source for survival needs) – Suitability of trusted agent as suitability of land – Resources (shelter, clothing,water, supplies)

– People as plants – Trusting as being planted – Survival needs – Trusted human agent as land (environmental source for suvival needs) – Suitability of land depends on fit between plant species and land – Different plants are fit for different environments

Blended Space

– Trusting party as a plant-settler – Suitability of land depends on its fit with the particular species of plant-settler (trusting party) – Desert environment is least suitable for settlers without resources like shelter, clothing, water, and supplies – Desert environment is a better fit for settlers as desert shrubs

Figure 2: Plant-Settler Blend Diagram

Looking beyond the Tree in Jeremiah 17:5-8 � 45

Choosing the blended plant-settler metaphor over TRUSTING IS SETTLING A LAND also shifts much of the focus of comparison away from the differences between the environments as trusted agents. Since plants do not change species, readers can infer that the desert plant in v. 6 would not transform into a tree if it were transplanted to the well-watered environment of v. 8. Therefore differences between the two plant types become the focus of comparison. The luxuriant leaves of the tree, which represent abundance, are contrasted with the tiny leaves or scales of a shrub or juniper bush. The implication is that the drought-resistant desert plant has a meager existence while the more vulnerable tree thrives and prospers even in drought because of its sure water source (YHWH). A general conclusion of this comparison is that trusting in human agents or human might only takes one so far, but trusting in YHWH leads to an abundant, prosperous life even though one appears more vulnerable. This interpretation makes sense of much of the text, but it obscures the impact of some important literary cues in the text. The trusting party’s choice of trusted agent is precisely what differentiates the subjects of the two contrasting units. The word used for the human agent in v. 5, ‫( אדם‬adam), shares some assonance with a related word for land, ‫( אדמה‬adama) in v. 6, and the multiple references to the harsh quality of the land in v. 6 emphasize its importance to the meaning of the passage as a whole. Without the obscuring effect of the plant imagery in v. 6, the metaphor TRUSTING IS SETTLING A LAND clearly highlights these cues and augments their function. The human agent maps to the scorched, barren, uninhabitable land in this metaphor, and the multiple references to its harsh quality emphasize the unsuitability of the human agent as an object of trust. The trend to use a botanical meaning for ‫( ערער‬arar) in v. 6 of the Cursing Unit is motivated by this word’s parallel relationship to the tree simile in v. 8 of the Blessing Unit. Although a plant simile in the Cursing Unit uses the same domain language as its parallel simile in the Blessing Unit, it serves a very different function. The plant simile in the Blessing Unit helps to introduce its main metaphor for trust, TRUSTING IS BEING PLANTED. A plant simile in the Cursing Unit obscures its main metaphor for trust, TRUSTING IS SETTLING A LAND, instead of helping to introduce it. However, rendering ‫( ערער‬arar) as a destitute person in v. 6 creates a simile that serves the same function as its parallel simile in the Blessing Unit, to augment and help introduce its metaphor for trust that runs throughout the remainder of the unit.

46 � S. J. Robinette

Conclusion We have thus seen that cognitive linguistic methods can help us see both why Jer 17:5-8 has been read through the lens of Ps 1 and the Doctrine of the Two Ways, and also why another interpretation is ultimately a better fit with the Jeremiah text. Readers have been distracted by the tree figure mentioned in both Ps 1 and Jer 17:5-8 into a Two Ways reading of Jeremiah. Despite some surface similarities to Ps 1, however, the Jeremiah text does not mention paths or journeys, and it repeatedly emphasizes the theme of trust. By listening to Jeremiah’s own voice, rather than filtering our reading via the Doctrine of the Two Ways, we can see a whole new coherent network of meanings centered around the passage’s theme of trust – a network that was obscured by the Two Ways reading. Cognitive linguistic techniques help us better understand our rhetoricalcritical intuitions and evaluate alternative readings. We can notice that the tree figure is connected to the Two Ways doctrine by its presence in the prominent Two Ways text of Ps 1; however, the Two Ways metaphor itself is entirely independent of the tree figure. An added reason for connection between the two texts is the shared structure of rhetorical opposition between two kinds of people. As we have seen, however, that opposition can be understood very differently in the Jeremiah text. Finally, the tree figure from Ps 1, imported into Jer 17:5-8, has led readers to understand the word ‫( ערער‬arar) as a plant, further obscuring the alternative reading of “destitute person” which better fits Jeremiah’s text.

William A. Andrews Jr.

“Don’t think of a voice!” Divine Silence, Metaphor, and Mental Spaces in Selected Psalms of Lament In a brief discussion of ancient Israel’s awareness of divine absence after the destruction of the temple in 586 BCE, Samuel Terrien has this to say about the manner in which the psalmists lament God’s absence: “[T]hey sang the hidden God…their complaint amounted in effect to a confession of faith. To be aware of divine hiddenness is to remember a presence and to yearn for its return. The presence of an absence denies its negativity.”1 Terrien is not alone in asserting that lament and accusation can be daring acts of faith when directed to God. Indeed, “genuine covenant interaction” may not be possible without lament.2 Such bold and courageous prayers are honest expressions of a “fierce resolve to hold on to God against God.”3 These claims seem reasonable and might be confirmed by personal experience. However, an important question remains: Do the texts themselves provide any support for Terrien’s intuition? Speaking on quite unrelated matters, cognitive linguist George Lakoff describes an interesting pedagogical activity: When I teach the study of framing at Berkeley, in Cognitive Science 101, the first thing I do is I give my students an exercise. The exercise is: Don’t think of an elephant! Whatever you do, do not think of an elephant. I’ve never found a student who is able to do this. Every word, like elephant, evokes a frame, which can be an image or other kinds of knowledge…. The word is defined relative to that frame. When we negate a frame, we evoke the frame.4

Can a parallel phenomenon be demonstrated for expressions of divine silence found in the psalms? Does cognitive linguistics lay bare a dynamic by which acknowledging God’s silence strengthens a petitioner’s faith that the silence will break? Is the petitioner who utters the words “O God, do not be silent!” in effect, saying to herself, “Don’t think of a voice!”? �� 1 Samuel Terrien, The Elusive Presence: The Heart of Biblical Theology (San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1978), 321. 2 Walter Brueggemann, The Psalms and the Life of Faith (ed. Patrick D. Miller; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), 102. 3 Samuel E. Balentine, Job (Macon, Ga.: Smyth and Helwys, 2006), 182. 4 George Lakoff, Don’t Think of an Elephant! Know Your Values and Frame the Debate: The Essential Guide for Progressives (White River Junction, Vt.: Chelsea Green, 2004), 3.

48 � William A. Andrews Jr. My analysis considers a reference to divine silence that occurs in five psalms. Psalms 28, 35, 39, 83, and 109 all contain the petition ‫‘( אל־תחרשׁ‬ltkhrsh, “do not be silent”), which the psalmist speaks from within circumstances of distress, possibly illness or persecution by enemies.5 After brief comments on the role of silence in communication and the semantic field of silence in the Hebrew Bible, I turn to the Psalter and offer a couple of approaches to understanding these references to divine silence. First, I propose that silence functions as a metaphor and is best understood according to a cognitive theory of metaphor. Specifically, the psalmists’ use of silence is either metonymy or it corresponds to an orientational metaphor. Second, I use Mental Space Theory to explore the cognitive processes involved in these references to divine silence in general and in Ps 28:1 in particular. This suggests that the petition — that God not be silent — involves a complex set of mental spaces that imagine alternatives to the psalmists’ circumstances of distress.

Divine Absence as an Object of Biblical Research Although most contemporary Jewish and Christian traditions place great emphasis on the presence of the divine in history and in ongoing human life, a cursory reading of the Hebrew Bible reveals a curious fact. In the events and experiences transmitted through its pages, divine presence is more of an exception than a general rule.6 Studies that take for granted the greater importance of divine presence neglect a rich and mysterious facet of God’s character as well as Israel’s faith experience. Even so, the bibliography of scholarly treatments of this motif is rather short.7 Likewise, compared to the wealth of literature on

�� 5 Psalms 28:1; 35:22; 39:13 [ET 39:12]; 83:2 [ET 83:1]; 109:1. Psalm 50, which appears to be a composite of hymnic and forensic forms, contains a related expression, ‫‘(אל יחרשׁ‬l-ykhrsh, 50:3). If the verb is read as a jussive, this can be translated “May [God] not keep silent.” This occurrence may provide insight into the verb’s use but this essay is primarily concerned with negative expressions. 6 Joel S. Burnett, Where Is God? Divine Absence in the Hebrew Bible (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2010), 1. 7 A few significant examples are Terrien, Elusive Presence; Samuel E. Balentine, The Hidden God: The Hiding of the Face of God in the Old Testament (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983); Brian L. Webster, “Divine Abandonment in the Hebrew Bible” (PhD diss., Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion, 2000); Amelia D. Freedman, God as an Absent Character in Biblical Hebrew Narrative: A Literary-Theoretical Study (Studies in Biblical Literature 82; New York: Lang, 2005); Marjo C. A. Korpel and Johannes C. de Moor, The Silent God (Lieden: Brill,

“Don’t think of a voice!” � 49

divine speech or the divine “word,” there exist only a small number of partial treatments of divine or human silence in the Hebrew Bible and only two monographs attempting a comprehensive survey.8 The attribution of sensory perception to deities is well attested in Ancient Near Eastern art and iconography and on numerous pages of the biblical text we find a God who speaks and hears.9 Thus, as one facet of God’s absence, divine silence is a theme on which much work remains to be done. This essay is my most recent contribution to this dearth.

What Is Silence? Before proceeding too hastily, we first ought to ask the simple question, “What is silence?” One answer that immediately comes to mind is “the absence of sound or communication”; yet, although this is a common conception, it is not an entirely accurate description. This is the case on two levels: physiological and linguistic. Physiologically, at least for hearing individuals, a state of complete silence is not possible. Consider, for example, the experience recounted by composer John Cage: For certain engineering purposes, it is desirable to have as silent a situation as possible. Such a room is called an anechoic chamber, its six walls made of special material, a room with no echoes. I entered one at Harvard University several years ago and heard two sounds, one high and one low. When I described them to the engineer in charge, he informed me that the high one was my nervous system in operation, the low one was my

�� 2011). Also, for a more general audience: Jack Miles, God: A Biography (New York: Knopf, 1995); Richard E. Friedman, The Disappearance of God: A Divine Mystery (Boston: Little, Brown, 1995); Burnett, Where Is God. 8 E.g., U. Devescovi, “I silenzi di Jahvé,” RivB 10, no. 3 (1962): 225-39; Andre Neher, L’exil de la parole: du silence biblique au silence d’Auschwitz (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1970); idem, “Silence and the Hidden God in Prophecy,” in Proceedings of the Fifth World Congress on Jewish Studies 3 (Jerusalem, 1972): 259-62; P. Barrado, “El silencio en el antiguo testamento: Aproximación a un símbolo ambiguo” EstBib 55 (1997): 5-27; P. Torresan, “Silence in the Bible,” JBQ 31, no. 3 (2003): 153-60; idem, “Dumah, demamah e dumiyyah: Il silenzio e l’esperienza del sacro nella bibbia ebbraica,” BeO 220 (2004): 85-101; S. Báez, Tiempo de callar y tiempo de hablar: El silencio en la Biblia Hebrea (Rome: Teresianum, 2000). 9 Othmar Keel, The Symbolism of the Biblical World: Ancient Near Eastern Iconography and the Book of Psalms (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1997), 192-94.

50 � William A. Andrews Jr. blood in circulation. Until I die there will be sounds. And they will continue following my death.10

We are so constantly bombarded with sound that we are unconscious of most of it and “there is no real escape from the noisy vibrancy of life.”11 There is always sonic activity for human ears to perceive. On the linguistic level, the description of silence as the absence of communication is inaccurate with respect to the nature and function of language. Besides non-communicative silences, such as that associated with death, silence is not always the mere absence of language; rather, it forms an integral part of communication together with speech and the two categories overlap significantly in discourse.12 Silence precedes and follows any speech utterance. Silence also functions syntactically to structure and order segments of speech. Conversation, for example, is marked by intervals of varying lengths when talking ceases, perhaps to allow for turn-taking or to form ellipses.13 Silence may also carry meaning, which is often particular to cultures, and may vary widely from submission or acceptance to defiance or rejection.14 Furthermore, precisely because it may have meaning, silence can carry an illocutionary force. That is, just as speakers may do something through speech, such as give an order or persuade, they may also perform similar functions by not speaking. The meaning of silence, once interpreted, may also have a perlocutionary effect just as a speech act may have a desired effect upon the listener: fear, persuasion, compulsion to act in a certain way, etc.15 Thus, communication is filled with eloquent silence, which has a similar capacity for meaning and action as that which characterizes speech. As an element in the communication understood to take place in a psalm, the perceived divine silence marked by ‫‘( אל־תחרשׁ‬l-tkhrsh, “do not be silent”), is potentially pregnant with meaning. �� 10 John Cage, Silence: Lectures and Writings by John Cage (Hanover, N.H.: Wesleyan University Press, 1961), 8. Cage pressed the idea of the impossibility of silence to its limit in his composition “4' 33''.” With the aid of a stopwatch, the work is divided into three movements and requires that the musician or orchestra make no sound save for the turning of pages in the nearly blank sheet music. In this way, the listeners experience the sounds that remain around them. 11 S. Krieger, “A Time to Keep Silent and a Time to Speak: The Function of Silence in the Lawyering Process,” Oregon Law Review 80, no. 1 (2001): 206-7. 12 Adam Jaworski, The Power of Silence: Social and Pragmatic Perspective (Newbury Park, Calif.: Sage, 1993), 36-63. 13 Ibid., 16-17. 14 Muriel Saville-Troike, “The Place of Silence in an Integrated Theory of Communication,” in Perspectives on Silence (ed. D. Tannen and M. Saville-Troike; Norwood, N.J.: Ablex, 1985), 8-9. 15 Ibid., 6-7.

“Don’t think of a voice!” � 51

Silence in the Hebrew Bible and the Psalms Although the studies of this theme are few, two are invaluable for insight into the semantic field of silence and its presence in the Psalter. In the first, Silvio Báez gathers and analyzes all of the relevant Hebrew roots as well as the larger stock of contiguous language that includes the negation of sources or elements of sound and terms signifying the absence of non-discursive sounds or discursive sounds.16 As one might expect, this survey identifies hundreds of instances of language signifying silence. Therefore, in addition to producing a useful resource of data in the form of this lexical-semantic study, Báez demonstrates that silence is a theme in the Hebrew Bible with rich anthropological and theological implications.17 The second study, by Eleuterio Ruiz, narrows the focus to the Psalter as a single collection and the first book of the Psalter (Pss 1-41) as a more discrete corpus.18 Ruiz does not devote much space to a description of the semantic field of silence, but he catalogues the occurrences and works through the references in order, situating each in its immediate context with brief exegetical comments. In this fashion he traces the presence of silence from the beginning to the end of the Psalter. Ruiz then provides an elaborate two-part table in which each of the 52 silences he identifies in the Psalter is described according to location, subject, objects, expressions used, and several synthetic criteria.19 This visual representation of the data calls attention to a development of the silence motif in the Psalter and particularly in the first book (Pss 1-41).20 Like Báez, Ruiz demonstrates the prevalence of silence in the text; however, also like Báez, his analysis remains at the level of the text and its language. What is still needed, particularly in the Psalms, is a consideration of how the language functions and

�� 16 Báez, Tiempo de callar. For a treatment directed to a more general audience, and which extends theological reflection on silence into the NT, see, idem, Quando tutto tace: Il silenzio nella Bibbia (Assisi: Cittadella Editrice, 2007). 17 The second half of the study devotes a chapter each to the subjects of human and divine silence (Báez, Tiempo de callar, 109-201). 18 Published in two parts: Eleuterio Ruiz, “El silencio en el primer libro del salterio (primera parte),” RevB 67, nos. 1-2 (2005): 31-83; idem, “El silencio en el primer libro del salterio (segunda parte),” RevB 67, nos. 3-4 (2005): 163-78. 19 Ruiz, “El silencio,” 164-65, 172-73. The criteria include whether the silence is actual or negated, positive or negative (although Ruiz never qualifies this distinction), and whether the silence is set in relation to some other reality (e.g., sin, shame, death). 20 Ibid., 163.

52 � William A. Andrews Jr. what insight it provides into the experience of the psalmist. Cognitive linguistics provides helpful approaches to these matters. A few comments on the primary language used to express silence explicitly in the Hebrew Bible and the Psalter are still helpful. In alphabetic order, the Hebrew roots are ‫‘( אלם‬lm), ‫ דום‬/ ‫ דמה‬/ ‫( דמם‬dwm, dmh, dmm),21 ‫חרשׁ‬ (khrsh),22 and ‫( חשׁה‬khshh).23 Our primary concern is the root ‫( חרשׁ‬khrsh),24 which in the qal conjugation can mean “to be deaf” or “to be silent (voluntarily).”25 In the hifil it means “to cause (someone) to be silent” or “to become mute.” From it is derived the adjective ‫( ֶח ֶרשׁ‬kheresh), which means “deaf.”26 The root ‫( חרשׁ‬khrsh) is also the only root used to express silence in the context of wisdom.27 In the Psalter, the verb ‫( חרשׁ‬khrsh) is never used in the transitive sense and usually takes God as its subject. Furthermore, especially in the Psalter, there is ambiguity surrounding the meaning of the word. In the five instances that will be examined here, one can make a case for reading ‫( חרשׁ‬khrsh) as “to be silent” or as “to be deaf.” In Ps 28:1-2, the petition ‫‘( אל־תחרשׁ‬l-tkhrsh, “do not be silent”) stands in relation to the verbs “hear” (‫שׁמע‬, shm’), “cry out” (‫שׁוע‬, shw’), and “call” (‫קרא‬, qr’) as well as the nouns “voice/sound” (‫קול‬, qwl) and “supplication” (‫תחנון‬, tkhnwn). The psalmist asks that God hear (‫שׁמע‬, shm’) the sound (‫קול‬, qwl) of her cry (‫תחנון‬, tkhnwn) when she calls (‫קרא‬, qr’) and cries (‫שׁוע‬, shw’), which suggests ‫( חרשׁ‬khrsh) should be understood as “to be deaf.” However, the petition also stands in antonymous relation to the verb ‫( חשׁה‬khshh), which means “to be silent” or “to refrain from speaking,” and this suggests reading ‫( חרשׁ‬khrsh) as “to be silent.”28 Psalm 83:1 is equally ambiguous: ‫‘( אל־תחרשׁ‬l-tkhrsh, “do not be silent”) is parallel to ‫‘( אל־דמי־לך‬l-dmy-lq, �� 21 These three roots form a group that is difficult to differentiate. A. Baumann considers them together and recognizes that the meaning of each occurrence must be considered in context (“‫דמם‬, ‫דום‬, ‫דמה‬,” TDOT 3:261-65). 22 This root is distinguished as clearly as possible from its homonym, which means “to cut, engrave, plough, or devise” (Deut 22:10; Judg 14:18; 1 Sam 8:12; Isa 28:24; Jer 17:1; Prov 3:29, 12:20; etc.) 23 The roots ‫( רגע‬rg’), ‫( שׁמם‬shmm), and ‫( שׁטק‬shtq) are used in the Psalms and may carry a nuance of silence, but do not occur with the same frequency. Not considered in the descriptions or the tables to follow are the root ‫( סכת‬skt), which occurs only once in Deut 27:9; and the interjection ‫( הס‬hs), which occurs 6 times in the Hebrew Bible but never in Psalms. 24 For a comprehensive lexical-semantic study, cf. Báez, Tiempo de callar, 25-106. 25 “II ‫חרשׁ‬,” HALOT 1:357-58; “II ‫חרשׁ‬,” DCH 3:323-24. 26 Ruiz, 36; “‫ ֶח ֶרשׁ‬,” DCH 3:324. 27 Báez, Tiempo de callar, 48. 28 Ibid., 45.

“Don’t think of a voice!” � 53

“do not be silent,” “do not hold your peace”) and ‫‘( אל־תשׁקט‬l-tshqt, “do not be silent,” “do not be still”). These expression and the descriptions of God’s inactivity that follow indicate a sense of general passivity.29 In Ps 35:22 ‫‘( אל־תחרשׁ‬l-tkhrsh, “do not be silent”) is a response to the accusations of enemies, which God has seen (‫ראה‬, r’h) although God is distant (‫רחק‬, rkhq).30 Thus, the sense is more clearly “to be silent.” A similar conclusion can be reached in the cases of Ps 109:1-2, where ‫‘( אל־תחרשׁ‬l-tkhrsh, “do not be silent”) occurs in a context that emphasizes the words of enemies and God’s apparent inaction. However, in Ps 39:13 the petition seems to express deafness as it stands in synonymous relation to the plea “hear my prayer, YHWH, and give ear to my cry.” Although I favor “silence” over “deafness,” it is not essential that we resolve the ambiguity. The polysemy of ‫( חרשׁ‬khrsh) is not surprising given the tenuous nature of theological language and the overlapping metaphors identified in the subsequent discussion.

God-Language Mary Therese DesCamp and Eve Sweetser assert that from a cognitive linguistic perspective “the concept of God exhibits an impoverished non-metaphorical reality.” The non-metaphorical (“literal”) idea of God is rarely, if ever, expressed in concrete terms. Nearly all attempts result in negative statements (e.g., not human, not visible, not perceptible through the senses, etc.).31 Instead, most theological language relies on metaphors since abstract concepts, according to cognitive linguistics, are understood and conceived primarily in metaphorical terms.32 One ubiquitous example of this phenomenon is “time.” Consider common ways of expressing the passage of time and observe that every expression that comes to mind conceptualizes time in terms of something else: a resource, location or movement through space, a container in which events can be located, etc. Based on this and many other examples, Lakoff “raises the possibility that a great many, if not all, abstract inferences are actually metaphorical.”33 �� 29 Ibid., 46. 30 Ibid., 45. 31 Mary Therese DesCamp and Eve Sweetser, “Metaphors for God: Why and How Do Our Choices Matter for Humans? The Application of Contemporary Cognitive Linguistics Research to the Debate on God and Metaphor,” Pastoral Psychology 53, no. 3 (2005): 215. 32 George Lakoff, “The Contemporary Theory of Metaphor,” in Metaphor and Thought (2nd ed.; ed. A. Ortony; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 201. 33 Ibid., 216.

54 � William A. Andrews Jr. Thus, since the expression ‫‘( אל־תחרשׁ‬l-tkhrsh, “do not be silent”) takes God as its subject, it is likely to function in a way that cognitive linguists describe as metaphor.

Silence as Metaphor Closely related to metaphor, one possible interpretation of this silence language that should be mentioned briefly is metonymy. As we shall see shortly, metaphor involves understanding one thing in terms of another that belongs to a different conceptual space, whereas metonymy identifies one thing by reference to another within a common conceptual space. For example, “we need a new glove to play third base” is an instance of metonymy, whereas “that pitcher has a machine-gun arm” is a metaphor. The former substitutes a piece of sports equipment for the person using it while the latter describes an individual’s athletic ability in terms of a powerful firearm. Put another way, metonymy is based on a relationship of contiguity and metaphor on one of similarity.34 Common forms of metonymy include PART FOR THE WHOLE, PRODUCT FOR THE PRODUCER, and CAUSE FOR THE EFFECT. Thus, according to all three of these examples, we could conclude that references to divine silence might participate in a cognitive process of metonymy that understands GOD’S VOICE FOR GOD or GOD’S VOICE FOR DIVINE ACTS ACCOMPLISHED THROUGH SPEECH. The Hebrew Bible is replete with language that portrays God’s voice or word as the means of various actions: creation, establishing the divine-human covenant, pronouncing judgment, or announcing salvation. It has also been argued that in the Hebrew Bible and later literature the divine voice develops into a hypostasis that acts independently on God’s behalf.35 If this is the case, then the metonymy operative in the silence language being considered corresponds to the undesirable circumstances of illness or persecution experienced by the psalmist. As will be made clearer by the conclusion, the cognitive processes behind the metonymy may also evoke the divine action desired in response to the psalmist’s distress.

�� 34 Zoltán Kövecses, Metaphor: A Practical Introduction (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010), 171-73. 35 Azzan Yadin, “QWL as Hypostasis in the Hebrew Bible,” JBL 122 (2003): 601-26.

“Don’t think of a voice!” � 55

Although divine silence might be a case of metonymy, understanding silence as metaphor is another more likely and useful possibility.36 In fact, according to the theory of metaphor described below, the aforementioned metonymy may be more usefully and accurately understood according to the metaphor EVENTS ARE ACTIONS.37 Understood thus, expressions of God’s silence map features from the domain of knowledge about speech (speaking, not speaking, hearing, deafness, etc.) onto the domain of knowledge about actions (creation, covenant-making, judgment, salvation, etc.). At several points in his work Báez refers to divine silence as a metaphor without actually qualifying the term “metaphor.”38 Adam Jaworski also uses the term in this way in one work, though elsewhere he proposes a cognitive linguistic model of metaphor.39 On the basis of common usage in English and Polish, Jaworski identifies the conceptual metaphors SILENCE IS A SUBSTANCE (OR OBJECT) and SILENCE IS A CONTAINER (OR PLACE).40 This notation is taken from the theory of metaphor articulated by George Lakoff and Mark Johnson.41 Previously, as far back as Aristotle, metaphor was regarded as a feature of language through which one thing is signified in terms of another. Lakoff and Johnson assert instead that “metaphor is experiencing and understanding one kind of thing in terms of another.”42 Note their use of the terms “experiencing” and “understanding” rather than “signifying” or “representing.” Metaphor indicates a cognitive process that can be represented linguistically but which corresponds to the way in which humans structure thought. Consider the first metaphor that Jaworski observes in common statements about silence: SILENCE IS A SUBSTANCE (OR OBJECT). The first term, “SILENCE,” is the target domain; and the second term, “SUBSTANCE (OR OBJECT),” is the source domain. The conceptual metaphor SILENCE IS A SUBSTANCE (OR OBJECT) maps features of the source domain (knowledge about �� 36 Recent studies that apply contemporary metaphor theory to the Psalms: Alec Basson, Divine Metaphors in Selected Hebrew Psalms of Lamentation (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006); William P. Brown, Seeing the Psalms: A Theology of Metaphor (Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 2002). 37 Lakoff, “Contemporary Theory of Metaphor,” 231-32. 38 Báez, Tiempo de callar, 106, 206, 207. 39 Adam Jaworski, introduction to Silence: Interdisciplinary Perspectives (ed. A. Jaworski; New York: de Gruyter, 1997), 1; idem, The Power of Silence: Social and Pragmatic Perspectives (New York: Sage, 1993), 81-84. 40 Ibid. 41 George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, Metaphors We Live By (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980). 42 Ibid., 5.

56 � William A. Andrews Jr. substances or objects) onto the target domain (the abstract concept of silence). Such mappings can be represented graphically, as in Figure 1:

SILENCE IS AN OBJECT SILENCE

OBJECT

(target domain)

(source domain)

Experience of Silence:

Qualities of Objects:

Absence of sound Interrupted communication etc.

Density Firmness Volume Temperature etc.

Figure 1: Mapping of the Metaphor SILENCE IS AN OBJECT

Thus, we can speak of silence in terms of a substance or an object and we find common expressions such as The room was filled with silence. Jan met a wall of silence. A long and awkward silence fell. She was greeted by the teacher’s cold silence.43

In these expressions, silence is framed as something to which one can ascribe physical qualities such as volume, density, and temperature. Incidentally, the final example makes use of another conceptual metaphor: EVENTS ARE ACTIONS. An event (like the onset of silence) is understood in terms of an action (being greeted) by some agent (a wall of silence).44 Jaworski does not explore these conceptual metaphors in more depth, but we could easily show how both the SUBSTANCE/OBJECT and CONTAINER/PLACE source domains correspond �� 43 Adapted from Jawoski, Power of Silence, 81-82. 44 Lakoff, “Contemporary Theory of Metaphor,” 232; George Lakoff and Mark Turner, More Than Cool Reason: A Field Guide to Poetic Metaphor (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), 75.

“Don’t think of a voice!” � 57

to a higher level metaphor of Event Structure.45 Accord to Event Structure, various aspects of events — such as states, changes, causes, etc. — are typically expressed in terms of space, motion, and force. In the Hebrew Bible similar expressions about silence are not frequent. The Psalms may contain one example, which occurs twice, in which silence may be characterized as a place:46 Ps 94:17

Ps 115:17

‫לולי יהוה עזרתה לי כמעט שׁכנה דומה נפשׁי‬

lwly yhwh ‘zrth ly km’t shbnh dwmh nfshy If YHWH had not been my help, my soul would have rested in silence (‫)דומה‬.

‫לא המתים יהללו־יה ולא כל־ירדי דומה‬

l’ hmtym yhllw-yh wl’ kl-yrdy dwmh The dead do not praise YHWH, nor do any who go down in silence (‫דומה‬, dwmh).

In Isaiah we also find an expression that uses a form of the same root and corresponds to the Event Structure metaphor of STATES ARE OBJECTS OR PLACES: Isa 47:5a

‫שׁבי דומם ובאי בחשׁך‬

shby dwmm wb’y bkhshk Sit in silence (‫דומם‬, dwmm) and come into darkness.

Of course, these examples do not clarify the use of silence in the petition that is the focus of this study, but they do support the general thesis that silence is used metaphorically.47

“Do not be silent!” Let us consider the five occurrences of the expression ‫‘( אל־תחרשׁ‬l-tkhrsh, “do not be silent”) and the related expression ‫‘( אל־יחרשׁ‬l-ykhrsh) in their immediate literary contexts: Ps 28:1

‫אליך יהוה אקרא צורי אל־תחרשׁ ממני‬

‘lyk yhwh ‘qr’ ‘wry ‘l-tkhrsh mmny To you, YHWH My Rock, I cry. Do not be silent from me.48 �� 45 Lakoff, “Contemporary Theory of Metaphor,” 219-20. 46 Torresan, “Silence in the Bible,” 154; idem, “Dumah, demamah e dumiyyah,” 93. 47 Indeed, in all three instances the construction matches the metaphor SILENCE IS A PLACE, but “silence” may also be a metonymic expression for “death” or “defeat.” 48 See the alternative translations: “do not turn away from me in silence” (Artur Weiser, The Psalms: A Commentary [Philadelphia: Westminster, 1962], 225); “be not silent toward me”

58 � William A. Andrews Jr.

‫פן־תחשׁה ממני ונמשׁלתי עם־יורדי בור‬

qn-tkhshh mmny wnmshlty ‘m-ywrdy bwr If you are silent from me, then I will be like those who go down into the pit. Ps 35:22

‫ראיתה יהוה אל־תחרשׁ אדני אל־תרחק ממני׃‬

r’yth yhwh ‘l-tkhrsh ‘dny ‘l-tkrkhq mmny You have seen, YHWH. Do not be silent my Lord. Do not be far from me.

Ps 39:1349

‫שׁמעה־תפלתי יהוה ושׁועתי האזינה‬

shm’h-tflty yhwh wshw’ty h’zynh Hear my prayer, YHWH; and to my cry give ear.

‫אל־דמעתי אל־תחרשׁ כי גר אנכי עמך תושׁב ככל־אבותי׃‬

‘l-dm’ty ‘l-tkhrsh ky gr ‘nky ‘mk twshb kkl-’bwty To my tears, do not be silent; for as a sojourner I dwell with you, like all my ancestors. Ps 83:250

‫אלהים אל־דמי־לך אל־תחרשׁ ואל־תשׁקט אל׃‬

‘elhym ‘l-dmy-lk ‘l-tkhrsh w’l-tshqt ‘l O God, do not be quiet. Do not be silent. Do not be still, O God.

Ps 109:1

‫אלהי תהלתי אל־תחרשׁ׃‬

‘lhy thlty ‘l-tkhrsh O God of my praise, do not be silent.

From these translations we may observe several general tendencies. The verses are suffused with vocabulary belonging to four domains: intimate relationships, spatial orientation, sensory perception, and action. This is not surprising since it is typical that “silence appears in close relation with other concepts like immobility, passivity, tranquility, death, etc.”51 Thus, we find the following distribution of terminology:

�� (Mitchell Dahood, Psalms 1-50 [Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1966], 171); “turn a deaf ear” (Peter C. Craigie, Psalms 1-50 [Waco, Tex.: Word, 1983], 235); “do not be silent to me” (Erhard Gerstenberger, Psalms: With an Introduction to Cultic Poetry Part 1 [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1988], 128); “do not turn silently away from me” (Hans-Joachim Kraus, Psalms 1-59: A Commentary [Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1988], 339); “no te me hagas el sordo” (Luis Alonso Schökel and Cecila Carniti, Salmos: traducción, introducciones y comentario 1 [Estella: Editorial Verbo Divino, 1992-1993], 449); “do not keep silent from me” (Samuel L. Terrien, The Psalms: Strophic Structure and Theological Commentary [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003], 269). 49 ET 39:12. 50 ET 83:1. 51 Báez, Tiempo de callar, 63.

“Don’t think of a voice!” � 59

Ps

Relational

28

v. 1 “to You,” “My Rock” v. 2 “my supplication” “lift up my hands” v. 7 “my strength” “my shield” v. 8 “strength of his people” “his anointed” v. 9 “your people” “your heritage” “their shepherd” v. 22 “my lord” v. 23 “my God” “my Lord” “for my cause” “for my claim” v. 24 “my God” v. 13 “my prayer” “my cry” “my tears” v. 13 “my God”

35:2228

39 83

109

v. 1 “God of my praise” v. 21 “O YHWH my Lord” “on my behalf” v. 26 “O YHWH my God” v. 27 “You, YHWH”

Spatial Orientation v. 1 “from me”(2x)

Sensory Perception v. 2 “hear” “sound of my supplication” v. 6 “[YHWH] has heard” “sound of my supplication”

v. 22 “do not be far v. 22 “you have from me” seen”

v. 13 “a sojourner with you”

v. 31 “at the right hand of the needy”

Action v. 3 “Do not drag me away” v. 4 “Repay them” v. 5 “[YHWH] will break them” v. 7 “I am helped” v. 9 “carry them”

v. 23 “wake” “rouse yourself” v. 24 “Take up my cause”

v. 13 “hear” “give ear” v. 2 “do not be still” v. 10 “Do to them” v. 12 “Treat their nobles” v. 14 “make them like…” v. 16 “pursue them” v. 17 “fill their faces with disgrace” v. 21 “act on my behalf” “deliver me” v. 26 “save me” v. 27 “You, O YHWH, have done it” v. 31 “[YHWH] stands” “to save [the needy]”

Table 1: Relational, Spatial, Sensory, and Action Domains in Pss 28; 35:22-28; 39; 83; 109

60 � William A. Andrews Jr. Table 1 displays a high concentration of these four domains in laments that employ the petition ‫‘( אל־תחרשׁ‬l-tkhrsh).52 These are quite typical depictions of the human-divine relationship in the Hebrew Bible. In the religion of Ancient Israel, the act of invoking the divine presence is never carried out in a neutral manner.53 The psalmist, like all Israel, understands herself in relationship to God. In the Hebrew Bible that relationship to God is conceptualized and experienced in varying degrees within the structures of space and time that make up the created order.54 Thus, in addition to relational language marked by pronominal suffixes, we find expressions of separation indicated by prepositions as well as verbs of perception and action on behalf of the psalmist or against her enemies. The presence of these domains — relationships, spatial orientation, perception, and action — in relation to silence suggests that silence signifies a lack of intimacy that would result from divine non-communication, inaction, distance, or absence. This interpretation is supported by the presence of language of spatial orientation and movement. Furthermore, it is consistent with other psalms that contain similar language. In no less than ten verses in the Psalms a form of ‫( רחק‬rkhq) is used to refer to God or God’s action as “far away” or to plead that God not be “far away” in connection to some undesirable circumstance.55 In at least seven cases, the psalmist uses a form of the root ‫( קרב‬qrb) to indicate a “close” and favorable orientation between human and God.56 Finally, in at least twelve instances, we find expressions of God’s “hiding” (usually a form of ‫סתר‬ [str]).57 The majority of this language occurs in the context of petitions similar to those in which we find ‫‘( אל־תחרשׁ‬l-tkhrsh). In the case of language of “hiddenness” there is usually no clear cause given for God’s absence, but the consequence is often a disruption in human-divine communication indicated by peti-

�� 52 The single exception among the five selected psalms of lament is Ps 39, which contains none of the language beyond what appears in the immediate vicinity of the petition. This is likely a function of the distinct form and content of Ps 39. Rather than a lament in the usual sense, Ps 39 is a “reflection on death and creaturely limit” more reminiscent of Job or Qohelet than a call for deliverance from a particular circumstance of distress. Gianfranco Ravasi, Il libro dei Salmi: commento e attualizzazione (3 vols.; Bologna: EDB, 1981), 1:708-9. 53 Burnett, Where Is God, 4-5. 54 Terence E. Fretheim, God and World in the Old Testament: A Relational Theology of Creation (Nashville: Abingdon, 2005), 25. 55 Pss 22:1, 11, 19; 35:22; 38:21; 71:12; 73:27; 88:8, 18; 119:155. 56 Pss 34:19 [ET 34:18]; 69:19 [ET 69:18]; 73:28; 75:2 [75:1]; 85:9; 145:18; 148:14. 57 Pss 10:1; 13:2 [ET 13:1]; 27:9; 44:25 [44:24]; 51:9 [ET 51:11]; 55:2 [ET 55:1]; 69:18 [ET 69:17]; 88:15 [ET 88:14]; 89:47 [ET 89:46]; 102:3 [ET 102:2]; 104:29; 143:7.

“Don’t think of a voice!” � 61

tions that God “see” or “hear.”58 All of these data indicate that the language expressing divine silence participates in a network of metaphors, which include INTIMACY IS CLOSENESS, KNOWING IS PERCEIVING, RESPONDING IS PERCEIVING, and EVENTS ARE ACTIONS. The Psalms are a representation of divine-human communication and such a dialogue implies a relationship.59 Zoltán Kövecses identifies INTIMACY IS CLOSENESS as a prominent metaphor in everyday discourse about friendships and other intimate relationships.60 Intimacy involves an entire system of metaphors that likely arise from embodied experience and include EXPERIENCES ARE OBJECTS, COMMUNICATION IS SHARING (EXPERIENCES OR OBJECTS), and PEOPLE ARE CONTAINERS, among others.61 Consider expressions like, “friendship involves sharing” and “a friend is someone in whom you can confide.”62 According to the PEOPLE ARE CONTAINERS metaphor, the content of communication may be intimate, coming from “deep within” one’s self and received by another who “opens up.” This type of intimate communication requires a certain proximity, which gives rise to the metaphor INTIMACY IS CLOSENESS and expressions like “close friends” or “emotional distance.” This metaphor, according to Kövecses, is related to the higher-level metaphor A RELATIONSHIP IS A DISTANCE BETWEEN TWO ENTITIES.63 Metaphorical mappings are not isolated and independent of one another. On the contrary, they often reflect a hierarchical organization in which “lower” metaphors inherit structures from “higher” metaphors.64 Accordingly, the presence of the identified metaphors in these psalms is not arbitrary or coincidental. They fit into a hierarchy of metaphorical mappings: Level 1:

the event structure metaphor (STATES ARE LOCATIONS)

Level 2:

A RELATIONSHIP IS A DISTANCE BETWEEN TWO ENTITIES

Level 3:

INTIMACY IS CLOSENESS; KNOWING IS PERCEIVING, RESPONDING IS PERCEIVING, and EVENTS ARE ACTIONS

�� 58 Balentine, Hidden God, 56-57. 59 Samuel E. Balentine, Prayer in the Hebrew Bible: The Drama of Divine-Human Dialogue (OBT; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993), 261-62. 60 Zoltán Kövecses, Metaphor and Emotion: Language, Culture, and Body in Human Feeling (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 92-93. 61 Ibid., 88. 62 Ibid., 91. 63 Ibid., 92. 64 Lakoff, “Contemporary Theory of Metaphor,” 222.

62 � William A. Andrews Jr. When the psalmist utters the petition ‫‘( אל־תחרשׁ‬l-tkhrsh), it does more than evoke a sense of the absence of sound or speech. This language activates knowledge from the domain of intimate relationships that includes awareness of relative distance, perception, and movement. In turn, the quality of the divine-human relationship is a function of these realities. The negative circumstance from which the prayer arises is experienced as distance from God and the psalmist wishes that God be “close” and not “far” (INTIMACY IS CLOSENESS). The desired alternative is that God will “hear” or “see” (KNOWING IS PERCEIVING and RESPONDING IS PERCEIVING). Finally, any positive development in the psalmist’s situation is imagined as a divine action (EVENTS ARE ACTIONS).

Mental Spaces of Divine Silence Understood in this way, the divine silence expressed by ‫‘( אל־תחרשׁ‬l-tkhrsh) participates in a rich network of meaning that is not isolated from other characteristics or activity attributed to God by the psalmists; but the question of the language’s function still remains. Is it merely descriptive or is something more intended? Assuming that the Psalms are communication directed to God and given that the construction ‫‘( אל־תחרשׁ‬l-tkhrsh) is an imperative, more is certainly possible. Just as the Cognitive Metaphor Theory of Lakoff and Johnson demonstrates that metaphor is a feature of thought in which elements of two domains are related, so Mental Space Theory provides a way of representing the complex interplay of multiple domains in the cognitive processes that underlie language. This approach—which later gives rise to Conceptual Blending Theory—gives us a point of entry into the thought of the psalmist who cries ‫‘( אל־תחרשׁ‬l-tkhrsh). Mental spaces are “partial assemblies constructed as we think and talk for purposes of local understanding and action.” These “assemblies” contain elements that belong to various domains of knowledge; and the elements are structured or framed in ways that modify and create new spaces as thought develops.65 Vyvyan Evans and Melanie Green provide a useful summary: According to this theory, when we think and speak we set up mental spaces. Mental spaces are set up by space builders, which are linguistic units that either prompt for the construction of a new mental space or shift attention back and forth between previously con-

�� 65 Gilles Fauconnier, “Mental Spaces,” in The Oxford Handbook of Cognitive Linguistics (ed. Dirk Geeraerts and Herbert Cuyckens; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 351.

“Don’t think of a voice!” � 63

structed mental spaces. Space builders can be expressions like prepositional phrases (in 1966, at the shop, in Fred’s mind’s eye, from their point of view), adverbs (really, probably, possibly, theoretically), connectives (if…then…; either…or…), and subject-verb combinations that are followed by an embedded sentence (Fred believes [Mary likes bananas], Mary hopes…, Susan states…) to name but a few. What is ‘special’ about space builders is that they require the hearer to ‘set up’ a scenario beyond the ‘here and now’, whether this scenario reflects past or future reality, reality in some other location, hypothetical situations, situations that reflect ideas and beliefs, and so on.66

Gilles Fauconnier offers a simple example with the sentence: “Maybe Romeo and Juliet are in love.” The sentence activates a frame from background knowledge in which “x is in love with y,” where x and y represent two individuals. In a base space, the elements a and b are associated with the names “Romeo” and “Juliet,” which are in turn associated with any other background knowledge from a larger context. The word “maybe” is a space-builder and sets up a possibility space that contains new elements a’ and b’, which are associated with Romeo and Juliet by transfer.67 In the words of Evans and Green, “maybe” requires the reader or hearer of the statement to set up a mental space of possibility that reflects “a scenario beyond the ‘here and now.’”68 Much more complex blends are possible and usually the case when mapping larger, more complex examples such as a compound sentence or an entire narrative.69 Eve Sweetser and others have demonstrated a particular complexity to the mental spaces involved in both conditionals and in negatives.70 Specifically, “negatives evoke a more complex mental space structure than corresponding positive forms: the positive forms regularly evoke one mental space fewer than the negatives.”71 To explore the possible implications of those studies for our references to divine silence, let us consider the opening verse of Ps 28. This

�� 66 Vyvyan Evans and Melanie Green, Cognitive Linguistics: An Introduction (London: Lawrence Erlbaum, 2006), 371. 67 Gilles Fauconnier, Mappings in Thought and Language (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 42-43 (see his Figure 2). 68 Evans and Green, Cognitive Linguistics, 371. 69 Fauconnier’s “Achilles and the Tortoise” example contains five short sentences and involves as many spaces (Mappings, 44-48). 70 Eve Sweetser and Barbara Dancygier, Mental Spaces in Grammar: Conditional Constructions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005); and Eve Sweetser, “Negative Spaces: Levels of Negation and Kinds of Spaces,” in Proceedings of the Conference “Negation: Form, Figure of Speech, Conceptualization” (ed. Stéphanie Bonnefille and Sébastien Salbayre; Tours: Publications Universitaires François Rabelais, 2006), 313-32. 71 Sweetser, “Negative Spaces,” 315.

64 � William A. Andrews Jr. single verse contains both the petition ‫‘( אל־תחרשׁ‬l-tkhrsh) and a conditional statement about the possible consequences of divine silence: Ps 28:1

‫אליך יהוה אקרא צורי אל־תחרשׁ ממני‬

‘lyk yhwh ‘qr’ ‘wry ‘l-tkhrsh mmny To you, YHWH my Rock, I cry. Do not be silent from me.72

‫פן־תחשׁה ממני ונמשׁלתי עם־יורדי בור‬

pn-tkhshh mmny wnmshlty ‘m-ywrdy bwn If you are silent from me, then I will be like those who go down into the pit.73

According to Fauconnier, “the existence of a negative space necessarily involves a corresponding positive space in contrast with it.”74 Recall, for example, the illustration in the introduction: “Don’t think of an elephant.” If we assume a negative value for divine silence, then processing its meaning necessarily construes a space in which God is silent and a space in which God speaks.75 The network of mental spaces involved in the petition ‫‘( אל־תחרשׁ‬l-tkhrsh) is further complicated by the negative particle ‫‘( אל‬l). The phrase “do not be silent” is a double negative – (albeit bad English) the qualitative equivalent of “do not not-speak.” Thus, the negative reference to silence — ‫( תחרשׁ‬tkhrsh) – evokes the two aforementioned mental spaces; and the additional negation — ‫‘( אל‬l) – evokes a third mental space: the negative alternative to silence.76 This is represented in Figure 2 (see page 65). Indeed, recent psychological experiments may confirm that negative statements require more time to process and that negative statements may assist in the recognition of corresponding positive statements.77 Likewise, conditional statements require the construal of two mental spaces in order to process meaning.78 The protasis of the verse — “if you are silent” — expresses possibility and constructs two spaces: one in which God is silent, as

�� 72 Cf. n. 48. 73 In Ps 143:7 an identical expression is used to describe the consequence of God’s hiddenness: ‫‘( אל־תסתר פניך ממני‬l-tstr pnyn mmny). Also, compare Ps 88:7: ‫שׁתני בבור תחתיות‬ ‫( במחשׁכים במצלות‬bmkhshkym bmtslwt). 74 Fauconnier, cited in Sweetser, “Negative Spaces,” 314. 75 I assume a negative value on the sole criterion that in each instance under consideration the psalmist regards divine silence as undesirable. 76 Sweetser, “Negative Spaces,” 324. 77 Uri Hasson and Sam Glucksberg. “Does Understanding Negation Entail Affirmation?” Journal of Pragmatics 38, no. 7 (2006): 1015-32. 78 Sweetser and Dancygier, Mental Spaces in Grammar, 31-32.

“Don’t think of a voice!” � 65

Base Space God and the Psalmist

‫תחרשׁ‬ psalmist’s perceived reality

God is silent

‫אל־תחרש‬

God is not silent (i.e., God speaks)

alternative reality cognitively constructed

God does not not—speak (i.e., God speaks) Figure 2: Cognitive Mapping of ‫אל־תחרשׁ‬

well as one in which God is not silent. Thus, processing the meaning of the full statement, “If you are silent, then I will be like those who go down to the pit [i.e., in a condition like death],” requires retrieval and awareness of the possible situation in which God is not silent and the alternative consequences of that situation. This is shown in Figure 3: Conditional Space/Protasis

Extension/Apodosis

If you are silent

Then I will be like those who go down to the pit.

If you are not silent

Then I will not be like those who go down to a pit.

God and Psalmist in Relationship

Alternative Space/Protasis Figure 3: Cognitive Mapping of Ps 28:1b

Alt. Extension/Apodosis

66 � William A. Andrews Jr. For the petitioner who employs this language — the psalmist or any subsequent performer — with the genuine expectation that communication is taking place, the intricate spaces that are evoked cognitively present possible alternative realities. In the immediate circumstances of distress, the petitioner perceives God’s silence; but the cognitive activity necessary to process the plea ‫‘( אל־תחרשׁ‬ltkhrsh) requires her to retrieve and structure alternative spaces in which God speaks. According to Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner, this is due to the fact that conceptual blending is the basic cognitive operation that facilitates the construction of meaning. It involves the integration of structure from separate domains or mental spaces that results in more than the sum of its parts. This process is not a simple mapping of elements from a source domain onto a target domain — as one would find in Conceptual Metaphor Theory — because the integration of the elements often gives rise to new emergent meaning.79 As the mappings above demonstrate, the “meaning” of a text is not located in its words or even longer sequences of those words. Theses are merely “triggers for the imagination … prompts we use to try to get one another to call up some of what we know and to work on it creatively to arrive at a meaning….”80 Complex yet mostly unconscious cognitive processes are necessary in order to construct the meaning of a text. Fauconnier and Turner understand this imaginative work as conceptual blending.

‫‘( אל־תחרשׁ‬l-tkhrsh) as Performative Language Sweetser demonstrates that performative language and ritual action in various cultural settings involve mappings and blends like those that take place in the processing of other language.81 Consider, for example, Christian liturgical representations of the meal Jesus shared with his disciples before his arrest (cf. Matt 26:17-30; Mark 14:12-26; Luke 22:7-39; John 13:1-17:26). What takes place is not a simple reenactment but, from the believer’s perspective, “must also be seen as intending to causally bring about [a] spiritual union.”82 Sweetser offers the example of a ritual dance that enacts a buffalo hunt and is believed to bring about success in the actual hunt of the future. In significantly simplified form, the �� 79 Evans and Green, Cognitive Linguistics, 405-6. 80 Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 146. 81 Eve Sweetser, “Blended Spaces and Performativity,” Cognitive Linguistics 11 (2001): 305-33. 82 Ibid., 315.

“Don’t think of a voice!” � 67

mental spaces involved in the ritual dance may be represented in the following way:83 Generic Space HUNTING

Input 1

People pursuit spears

Input 2

(target domain)

(source domain)

People portraying hunters & buffalo pursuit spears No intent to kill

Hunters & buffalo pursuit spears Intent to kill

People as hunters Running as pursuit Spears as spears Successful hunt

Blended (Ritual) Space

Figure 4: The Ritual Hunt

The performative ritual (Input 1) occurs in the present and is ontologically prior to the envisioned hunt (Input 2). There is clear identity between most elements in the two inputs, as in the mapping of a conceptual metaphor; but there is incongruity between certain significant elements, namely, time and intent to kill. So in the blended ritual space congruent elements are matched and a compression occurs between the incongruent elements and the “blend is the effective understanding of what the ritual is, for the participants.”84 For them, the people and actions of the performance are the same as their corresponding elements in the future hunt. Success in performance causally brings about suc-

�� 83 Ibid., 320. 84 Ibid.

68 � William A. Andrews Jr. cess in the hunt, “because in the blend it constitutes success in the future expedition.”85 In this way, the utterance of ‫‘( אל־תחרשׁ‬l-tkhrsh) in Ps 28 (and others) may also be understood as a performative speech act. The spaces involved are the following:

‫אל־תחרש‬ Generic Space RELATIONSHIP Two Entities Input 2 (positive alternatives)

God & psalmist God not speaking “ “ hearing “ “ acting Etc. Psalmist in distress

God & psalmist God speaking “ hearing “ acting Etc. Psalmist saved God & psalmist God speaking “ hearing “ acting Etc. Psalmist saved

Blended Space (anticipation of response)

Figure 5: Do Not Be Silent

The generic space contains two entities that correspond as elements in a background frame of “RELATIONSHIP.” The utterance of ‫‘( אל־תחרשׁ‬l-tkhrsh) evokes one space (Input 1) that corresponds to God’s silence and all of the entailments related to the metaphor INTIMACY IS CLOSENESS. Likewise, as demonstrated above, it also evokes a space (or spaces; Input 2) containing the positive alternatives to silence. Thus, in the experience of the psalmist, elements of present reality (Input 1) and the possible alternatives evoked by the �� 85 Ibid., 321.

“Don’t think of a voice!” � 69

negative language (Input 2) come together (Blended Space) in anticipation. In Ps 28, the meaning that emerges in the blended space is depicted in the words of praise and trust included in the prayer’s conclusion (vv. 6-9). Since the covenantal relationship underlying biblical prayer involves a conviction that a genuine dialogue is taking place and that the divine dialogue partner may respond, a new understanding of reality emerges in the compression of time and knowledge of God’s action. If only in the mind of the psalmist, the words of the petition call into existence the desired response. Although this suggestion might trouble some, it is not without precedent. After a discussion of “characterization” — of both God and the petitioner — as a literary function of prayer in the Hebrew Bible, Samuel Balentine explores the possibility that both parties of the divine-human dialogue are not only characterized but recharacterized.86 That is, prayer is actually constitutive of reality and creates new possibilities. Walter Brueggemann also suggests as much with regard to praise: “It not only addresses the God who is there before us but also is an act of constructing the theological world in which we shall interact with God.”87

Between Lament and Praise Taken together with what is demonstrated above concerning the metaphorical character of divine silence and the mental spaces involved, approaching the petition ‫‘( אל־תחרשׁ‬l-tkhrsh) as a performative may shed some light on the enduring question of what happens between lament and praise. It has long been observed that most lament psalms exhibit a conventional structure that concludes with an expression of praise and thanksgiving. Psalm 28 is one such prayer that progresses from lament and petition (vv. 1-5) to praise and trust (vv. 6-9). As in other laments, the transformation in the psalmist’s attitude occurs abruptly without any explicit indication of how the change is affected. The psalmist enters into the dialogue of prayer from a place of distress, which is experienced as a function of God’s silence as well as distance, absence, aloofness, and other entailments of the metaphors in which silence participates. This at least implies that the psalmist’s prayer has been heard and the petition an-

�� 86 Balentine, Prayer in the Hebrew Bible, 268-71. 87 Walter Brueggemann, Israel’s Praise: Doxology against Idolatry and Ideology (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1988), 4.

70 � William A. Andrews Jr. swered.88 Nonetheless, the question of what happens in the space between lament and praise “cannot be definitively answered.”89 We can only be certain that such a sudden move occurs. Even so, this understanding may provide an interpretive key to the structure and unity of the psalm. Once the petitions open up the network of mental spaces related to divine silence, the psalmist proceeds to give an account of the circumstances that give rise to the lament: v. 3

v. 5a

‫אל־תמשׁכני עם־רשׁעים ועם־פעלי און‬

‫כי לא יבינו אל־פעלת יהוה‬

‘l-tmshkny ‘m-rsh’ym w’m-p’ly ‘wn Do not drag me away the wicked ones, with those who work evil

ky ‘l ybynw ‘l-p’lt yhwh For they do not consider the works of YHWH

‫דברי שׁלום עם־רעיהם ורעה בלבבם׃‬ dbry shlwm ‘m-r’yhm wr’h blbbm They speak peace with their neighbors while malice is in their hearts. v. 4

‫תן־להם כפעלם וכרע מעלליהם כמעשׂה‬ tn-lhm kp’lm wkr’ m’llyhm km’sh Give them according to their works and according to the malice of their deeds v. 5b

‫כמעשׂה ידיהם תן להם‬

‫ואל־מעשׂה ידיו‬

km’shh ydyhm tn lhm According to the work of their hands repay them

w’l-m’shh ydyn Nor the work of his hands

‫השׁב גמולם להם׃‬

‫יהרסם ולא יבנם׃‬

hshb gmwlm lhm Give them their deserts

yhrsm wl’ ybnm Tear them down and do not rebuild them.

Table 2: Structure and Unity of Ps 28:3-5

The root ‫( פעל‬p’l), used twice to describe the negative actions of the psalmist’s enemies (vv. 3a, 4a), is in turn used to characterize the certain actions of YHWH (v. 5a). Likewise, the conventional phrase “works of their hands” (‫מעשׂה ידיהם‬, m’sh ydyhm, v. 4b) becomes an affirmation of divine action (‫מעשׂה ידיו‬, m’sh �� 88 For a useful summary of several scholarly proposals, see Brueggemann, Psalms and the Life of Faith, 72-73. 89 Ibid., 73.

“Don’t think of a voice!” � 71

ydyw, v. 5a) that is ignored by the enemies. This leads to an explosion of praise in v. 6, which contains a direct echo (v. 6b) of one of the opening petitions (v. 2a):90 v. 2

‫שׁמע קול תחנוני בשׁועי אליך‬ shm’ qwl tkhnwny bshw’y ‘lyk Hear the sound of my supplication when I cry out to you

… v. 6

‫ברוך יהוה כי־שׁמע קול תחנוני׃‬ Brwk yhwh ky-shm’ qwl tkhnwny Blessed be YHWH, for he has heard the sound of my supplication.

This anticipatory praise is punctuated by a contrast between the psalmist’s heart (v. 7b) and her enemies’ hearts (v. 3b):91 v. 3b

‫דברי שׁלום עם־רעיהם ורעה בלבבם׃‬ dbry shlwm ‘m-r’yhm wr’h blbbm They speak peace with their neighbors while malice is in their hearts.

… v. 7b

‫בו בטח לבי‬ bw btkh lby In him my heart trusts

Finally, the psalmist’s horizon expands from an individual perspective to the communal purview of divine blessing and protection (vv. 8-9). All of this takes place in the mental spaces of possibility that are first evoked by ‫אל־תחרשׁ‬ (‘l-tkhrsh). To be sure, these matters call for additional research. However, for now it seems plausible that turning attention to the present and immediate experience of God’s silence with ‫‘( אל־תחרש‬l-tkhrsh) does call into being a cognitive reality in which God speaks and acts. As Clifford Geertz asserts of ritual, we may say that in this prayer: “the world as lived and the world as imagined, fused under the agency of a single set of symbolic forms, turns out to be the same world.”92 If so, then the provocative words of Samuel Terrien that opened this discussion are more than mere intuition. Indeed, years later Terrien had this to say specifically with regard to Ps 28:

�� 90 J. Clinton McCann, “Psalms” in The First Book of Maccabees, the Second Book of Maccabees, Introduction to Hebrew Poetry, the Book of Job, the Book of Psalms (ed. Robert Doran et al.; vol. 4 of The New Interpreter’s Bible, ed. Leander Keck; Nashville: Abingdon, 1996), 789. 91 Ibid., 789-90. 92 Clifford Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures (New York: Basic, 1973), 112-13.

72 � William A. Andrews Jr. With an assurance free from uncertainty or doubt, the psalmist anticipates acts of benevolence from the Lord. He projects his imagination through the strength of hope, toward the near future when an oracle of salvation, with the ecstasy of a vision, will change a dying man into a living being. Deliverance has not yet taken place, but the certitude of its coming is so complete that the future itself is absorbed within the present.93

When the psalmist and subsequent petitioners utter the cry “do not be silent,” if only for a moment, the words are “in effect… a confession of faith” and open up new possibilities for life lived in covenant with God. 94

�� 93 Terrien, The Psalms: Strophic Structure, 272. 94 Terrien, Elusive Presence, 321.

Hugo Lundhaug

The Fruit of the Tree of Life Ritual Interpretation of the Crucifixion in the Gospel of Philip The Gospel of Philip, preserved only in Nag Hammadi Codex II,1 has proven to be a difficult text for its modern interpreters. In addition to its numerous lacunae, scholars have consistently been frustrated by its seemingly haphazard structure and highly allusive rhetoric, leading some to regard it as simply a collection of excerpts, rather than as a coherent composition in its own right.2 Still, the Gospel of Philip is nevertheless one of the most discussed texts of the Nag Hammadi Codices and one of the texts that crop up most often in discussions on ancient

�� 1 The Gospel of Philip is the third and longest tractate of the seven that make up the contents of Nag Hammadi Codex II, where it is found between the Gospel of Thomas and the Hypostasis of the Archons. The Coptic text utilized in the present article is based on The Facsimile Edition of the Nag Hammadi Codices: Codex II (Leiden: Brill, 1974), together with the two main critical editions: “The Gospel According to Philip,” in Gospel According to Thomas, Gospel According to Philip, Hypostasis of the Archons, and Indexes (ed. Bentley Layton; trans. Wesley W. Isenberg; vol. 1 of Nag Hammadi Codex II,2–7 Together with XIII,2*, Brit. Lib. Or.4926(1), and P. Oxy. 1, 654, 655; NHS 20; Leiden: Brill, 1989), 142–215; Hans-Martin Schenke, Das PhilippusEvangelium (Nag Hammadi-Codex II,3): neu herausgegeben, übersetzt und erklärt (TUGAL 143; Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1997). Any divergences from either of these editions in the Coptic text used are noted in the footnotes. All translations from the Coptic are my own. 2 Cf., e.g., Robert McL. Wilson’s statement that “it cannot be contended that Philip is a single coherent text, composed according to normal standards of writing. That any such claim would be erroneous is evident on every page” (The Gospel of Philip: Translated from the Coptic Text, with an Introduction and Commentary [London: Mowbray, 1962], 9). Hans-Martin Schenke’s conclusion that the Gospel of Philip should be regarded as a florilegium – i.e., a collection of excerpts, notes, or instructions expressing diverse and even contradictory doctrinal contents – has been followed by many scholars. Schenke even divided the text into numbered “Sprüche” similar to the Gospel of Thomas (see “Das Evangelium nach Philippus: Ein Evangelium der Valentinianer aus dem Funde von Nag-Hamadi,” TLZ 84, no. 1 [1959]: 1–26; Hans-Martin Schenke, “Das Evangelium nach Philippus: Ein Evangelium der Valentinianer aus dem Funde von Nag-Hamadi,” in Koptisch-gnostische Schriften aus den Papyrus-Codices von Nag-Hamadi [ed. Johannes Leipoldt and Hans-Martin Schenke; Theologische Forschung: Wissenschaftliche Beiträge zur kirchlich-evangelischen Lehre 20; Hamburg-Bergstedt: Herbert Reich, 1960], 31– 65). The most extended argument in favor of the florilegium hypothesis is that of Martha Lee Turner, The Gospel According to Philip: The Sources and Coherence of an Early Christian Collection (NHS 38; Leiden: Brill, 1996).

74 � Hugo Lundhaug “Gnosticism” or “Valentinianism,”3 while in relation to NT studies the text is of interest with regard to its rhetorical dependence on NT allusions. Yet there is presently no consensus as to the date and provenance of the text nor its nature and purpose. In the present article I aim to show how a methodology inspired by cognitive linguistics, more specifically Blending Theory, may help us understand how the Gospel of Philip makes sense. As an example, I use Blending Theory to analyze the way in which the tractate interprets the crucifixion in light of Scripture on the one hand and ritual practice on the other, and thereby try to show how the Gospel of Philip may in fact be read as a coherent theological statement, at least in this regard. This is an especially useful example as it has been claimed that, in the Gospel of Philip, “the Cross is viewed as an historic event, but hardly as the source of redemption, the sacraments, or spiritual knowledge.”4 In light of the common practice of analyzing the Nag Hammadi writings on the basis of scholarly constructions of “Gnosticism,” such a conclusion is hardly surprising.5 On closer inspection, however, the crucifixion seems to play a rather more central role in the soteriology and rhetorics of the Gospel of Philip than such a conclusion would suggest, as will be shown in what follows.

�� 3 In line with the studies of Michael Allen Williams (Rethinking “Gnosticism”: An Argument for Dismantling a Dubious Category [Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1996]; idem, “Was There a Gnostic Religion? Strategies for a Clearer Analysis,” in Was There a Gnostic Religion? [ed. Antti Marjanen; Publications of the Finnish Exegetical Society 87; Helsinki: Finnish Exegetical Society, 2005], 55–79) and Karen L. King (What Is Gnosticism? [Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2003]; idem, “The Origins of Gnosticism and the Identity of Christianity,” in Was There a Gnostic Religion? [ed. Antti Marjanen; Publications of the Finnish Exegetical Society 87; Helsinki: Finnish Exegetical Society, 2005], 103–20), I reject the use of “Gnosticism” as an analytical category in the study of the Nag Hammadi texts. Cf. also Morton Smith, “The History of the Term Gnostikos,” in Sethian Gnosticism (ed. Bentley Layton; vol. 2 of The Rediscovery of Gnosticism: Proceedings of the International Conference on Gnosticism at Yale, New Haven, Connecticut, March 28–31, 1978; SHR 41; Leiden: Brill, 1981), 796–807. I also do not think it is helpful to analyze the Gospel of Philip in light of the category of “Valentinianism,” as I hold it to be highly debateable whether the Gospel of Philip can in any meaningful sense be described as a “Valentinian” text (cf. Hugo Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth: Cognitive Poetics and Transformational Soteriology in the Gospel of Philip and the Exegesis on the Soul [NHS 73; Leiden: Brill, 2010]). 4 G. C. Stead, review of Robert McL. Wilson, The Gospel of Philip: Translated from the Coptic Text, with an Introduction and Commentary, NTS 10 (1963/64): 418. Wilson himself stated that the Gospel of Philip presents us with a Christ that “comes not to save the world by giving his life but to restore things to their proper places and become the father of a redeemed progeny. Deliverance comes through knowledge, not through the sacrifice of Calvary” (Gospel of Philip, 13–14). 5 Cf. n. 3, above.

The Fruit of the Tree of Life � 75

The Tree of Life The Gospel of Philip interprets the crucifixion from several perspectives, connecting the event to various scriptural passages and ritual acts. I will start with a central and highly creative passage, put into the mouth of the apostle Philip,6 where the tractate connects the crucifixion simultaneously to the Garden of Eden, to Jesus’ earthly father Joseph, and to Christian ritual: Philip the apostle said: “Joseph the carpenter planted a garden because he needed wood for his trade. It was he who made the cross from the trees which he planted, and his seed hung upon that which he planted. His seed was Jesus,7 and the plant was the Cross.” But the Tree of Life is in the middle of the garden,8 and it was from the olive tree that the chrism came, and from it (i.e. the chrism) the resurrection. (Gos. Phil. 73.8-19)

As we shall see, this passage turns out to capture the gist of the Gospel of Philip’s understanding of the cross. To show this I will employ the methodological framework of Blending Theory. From such a perspective we may observe that the Gospel of Philip here prompts for the creation of what Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner would call a multiple-scope conceptual integration network.9 Before proceeding to the analysis of the quoted passage, however, it should be mentioned that it is an important presupposition of the present methodological approach that meaning is not something that resides in a text, but is rather something that is constructed by the reader or hearer in his or her encounter with it. “Expressions do not mean; they are prompts for us to construct mean-

�� 6 This is the only time the name Philip is mentioned in the text apart from its title, where the implicit reference is to Philip the evangelist, who may well be a different person. 7 Cf. Gal 3:16, where Christ is described as “the seed” (σπέρμα) of Abraham. 8 Cf. Gen 2:9; 3:3; Rev 2:7. 9 In short, Blending Theory deals with how the selective combination of two or more mental spaces create new mental “blended spaces” that also contain new elements not derived from any single contributing input space, but which emerge from the combination itself. The most comprehensive formulation of Blending Theory is found in Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner, The Way We Think: Conceptual Blending and the Mind’s Hidden Complexities (New York: Basic Books, 2002), but see also, especially, Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner, “Conceptual Integration Networks,” Cognitive Science 22, no. 2 (1998): 133–87; Seana Coulson and Todd Oakley, “Blending Basics,” Cognitive Linguistics 11, nos. 3-4 (2000): 175–96; Joseph Grady, “Cognitive Mechanisms of Conceptual Integration,” Cognitive Linguistics 11, nos. 3-4 (2000): 335–45; Vyvyan Evans and Melanie Green, Cognitive Linguistics: An Introduction (Mahwah, N.J.: Lawrence Erlbaum, 2006), 400–44.

76 � Hugo Lundhaug ings by working with processes we already know,” as Mark Turner puts it.10 The process of making sense of a text is therefore not to be regarded as a matter of decoding meaning that is inherent in the text, but rather as a process of dynamically and creatively constructing meaning on the basis of it.11 As Keith Oatley describes it, “The writer offers a kit of parts, or a set of cues. The reader does the construction.”12 Generic Space

Input Space 1

Input Space 2

Blended Space

Figure 1: Basic Conceptual Integration Network

Now, we do want to make sense of the way in which the Gospel of Philip may have been understood around the time it was produced, and not simply the myriad ways in which it might be interpreted by various people today. Since we �� 10 Mark Turner, Reading Minds: The Study of English in the Age of Cognitive Science (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1991), 206. 11 See Raymond W. Gibbs Jr., “Prototypes in Dynamic Meaning Construal,” in Cognitive Poetics in Practice (ed. Joanna Gavins and Gerard Steen; London: Routledge, 2003), 27–40, esp. 29; Evans and Green, Cognitive Linguistics, 396. 12 Keith Oatley, “Writingandreading: The Future of Cognitive Poetics,” in Cognitive Poetics in Practice (ed. Joanna Gavins and Gerard Steen; London: Routledge, 2003), 166.

The Fruit of the Tree of Life � 77

do not have access to the heads of the ancient author(s)/redactor(s) or readers, however, we are in need of analytical tools to help us map out, and become aware of, the various interpretive possibilities that are offered up by the text, and to help us outline its potential patterns of meaning. For this purpose, the emergence of Blending Theory constitutes in my view one of the most promising recent developments in the cognitive study of literature, and may profitably be used to model possible readings of texts like the Gospel of Philip, by understanding the interpretation of such texts as processes of meaning production involving the construction and combination of mental spaces13 that are cued in the experience of reading or hearing the text in question. The passage from the Gospel of Philip just quoted should evoke at least three mental input spaces in the minds of readers already familiar with the biblical texts alluded to (see figure 2). Generic Wood Object hanging on wood Generic Garden

Input 2: Paradise Garden Tree of Life Fruit of the Tree of Life => brings eternal life

Input 1: Joseph the Carpenter Garden Tree/wood Joseph’s seed/offspring

Input 3: The Crucifixion Cross Jesus Jesus dies

Blend Tree of Life=Cross. Joseph’s seed becomes fruit. Jesus=Fruit of Tree of Life. Jesus brings eternal life as the fruit of the Tree of Life/Cross. Jesus’ death brings eternal life

Figure 2: Joseph the Carpenter �� 13 The “mental spaces” referred to here can be described as “small conceptual packets” that are continually being constructed while thinking “for purposes of local understanding and action” (Fauconnier and Turner, “Conceptual Integration Networks,” 137; Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 40, 102).

78 � Hugo Lundhaug We see that input space 1 contains the surface story about Joseph the carpenter, but the passage also prompts for a second input space based on the Genesisaccount of the garden of Eden, cued by references to the garden and the Tree of Life, and a third one concerning salvation history and the crucifixion of Jesus. There are important counterpart mappings between elements in all these spaces and they are held together by a shared generic space that includes the features “wood” and “object hanging on wood,” features that are common to the three inputs. In addition, both spaces 1 and 2 contain a “garden” (ⲡⲁⲣⲁⲇⲉⲓⲥⲟⲥ, paradeisos): the garden planted by Joseph and the garden of Eden, respectively, and they thus share an additional generic space between the two of them. We also see that there are counterpart mappings between the wood in input 1, the tree in input 2, and the cross in input 3. It is important to note that, in the interpretive blending network created in a reading of this passage, crucial aspects of the input spaces that are not directly mentioned in the text are also brought into play. In this case, the fruit of the tree of Life in input space 2, which is not explicitly mentioned in the passage, but which is a feature of the Genesis account, maps onto Jesus and Joseph’s seed (in inputs 1 and 3), since all three of them hang on wood.14 We also see that the text uses Joseph’s vocation as a carpenter, as well as his garden, in input space 1, in order to connect the cross in input space 3 to the Tree of Life in input space 2. By extension, Jesus in input space 3 is connected to the fruit of the Tree of Life in input space 2 via input space 1. In the blended space, the analogical relationship between the cross and the Tree of Life is compressed to identity, as is that between Jesus and its fruit.15

�� 14 By describing Joseph’s “seed” as hanging “on that which he planted,” the text also makes a pun on the multiple meanings of the Coptic word ϭⲣⲟϭ (čroč, “seed”), which corresponds to the Greek word σπέρμα (sperma, “seed”) (see W. E. Crum, A Coptic Dictionary [Oxford: Clarendon, 1939], 831b), denoting the “seed” of plants as well as human “sperm” and “offspring.” 15 Certain elements of the inputs are, however, not projected to the blend, e.g., Adam and Eve or the serpent, who are all parts of the Genesis paradise input (input 2). A further allegorical interpretation of this passage is given by Thomassen, who, from the point of view of a “Valentinian” reading of the Gospel of Philip, holds Joseph to represent the Demiurge, the garden to represent the cosmos, the cross to represent matter, and Jesus hanging on the tree to represent his birth in a material body (see Einar Thomassen, “How Valentinian Is the Gospel of Philip?” in The Nag Hammadi Library after Fifty Years: Proceedings of the 1995 Society of Biblical Literature Commemoration [ed. John D. Turner and Anne McGuire; NHS 44; Leiden: Brill, 1997], 268–69; Einar Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed: The Church of the ‘Valentinians’ [NHS 60; Leiden: Brill, 2005], 91). The connection between crucifixion and incarnation is also made by Catherine Trautmann, “Le schème de la croix dans l’Évangile selon Philippe (NH II,3),” in Deuxième journée d’études coptes: Strasbourg 25 mai 1984 (Cahiers de la Bibliothèque Copte 3;

The Fruit of the Tree of Life � 79

In the Gospel of Philip’s interpretation of the crucifixion, this is a crucial conceptual integration network. Its most significant entailment arises from the way it implicitly makes Jesus the fruit of the Tree of Life by blending the two gardens and identifying the cross with the tree. This blend has significant soteriological and mystagogical consequences. According to the Genesis account, eating from the Tree of Life was not only strictly forbidden (an aspect that is not projected to this blend), but it is also said to bestow eternal life (Gen 3:22). An important interpretive consequence of this projection is the insight that by being crucified and thus becoming the fruit of the Tree of Life, Christ brings eternal life to those who partake of him. This again brings us to the mystagogical implications of the blend, which depend on contextual information both internal and external to the Gospel of Philip itself. Before we proceed, it is here worth noting that words, sentences, and texts cannot meaningfully be analyzed apart from discourse context, nor can semantic meaning meaningfully be separated from pragmatic meaning.16 In the words of Margaret Freeman, “literary texts are the products of cognizing minds and their interpretations the products of other cognizing minds in the context of the physical and sociocultural worlds in which they have been created and read.”17 With regard to Blending Theory, Fauconnier and Turner have likewise noted that “the unpacking possibilities offered by the blended space will depend on what is already active in the context of communication.”18 Put in somewhat

�� Leuven: Peeters, 1986), 129. However, such an allegorical interpretation of the text requires the creation of an additional input space derived from “Valentinian” mythology, as well as a presupposition of a “Valentinian” author and/or reader(s), which is in my view unnecessary. 16 See, e.g., Eve Sweetser, “Compositionality and Blending: Semantic Composition in a Cognitively Realistic Framework,” in Cognitive Linguistics: Foundations, Scope, and Methodology (ed. Theo Janssen and Gisela Redeker; Cognitive Linguistics Research 15; Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter, 1999), 137. 17 Margaret H. Freeman, “Poetry and the Scope of Metaphor: Toward a Cognitive Theory of Literature,” in Metaphor and Metonymy at the Crossroads: A Cognitive Perspective (ed. Antonio Barcelona; Topics in English Linguistics 30; Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter, 2000), 253. 18 Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 333. As Seana Coulson has put it, “context-free expression meaning is an illusion based on the use of defaults. Instead, understanding language utterances involves integrating linguistic, contextual, and background knowledge to yield cognitive models with which to incorporate the content of expressions and their implications for the interpretation of the larger speech activity” (“Semantic Leaps: The Role of FrameShifting and Conceptual Blending in Meaning Construction” [Ph.D. diss., University of California at San Diego, 1997], 294). More recently, this concern with the importance of context has resulted in Coulson and Oakley’s incorporating a separate “grounding box” in their conceptual integration diagrams (see Seana Coulson and Todd Oakley, “Blending and Coded Meaning:

80 � Hugo Lundhaug simpler terms, readers or hearers understand utterances on the basis of the contexts in which they are heard or read. Trying to understand how the intended readers or hearers might have interpreted a text like the Gospel of Philip, for which we lack any firm historical context, is hindered by the impossibility of being specific concerning the context of communication, apart from what we can glean from the contents of the text itself. On the basis of an overall understanding of the text, a minimal context for the Gospel of Philip can be said to be constituted by the fact that it is fundamentally concerned with the interpretation of Scripture and the mystagogical interpretation of Christian ritual, most prominently baptism, chrismation,19 and Eucharist.20 Taking this into consideration, we see that the Gospel of Philip makes clear the mystagogical entailments of the integration network that has been outlined here in two ways. Not only does it connect the chrism used in the initiatory chrismation to Christ and the crucifixion by deriving it from the Tree of Life, but it also connects the Eucharist to Christ as the fruit of the Tree of Life that brings eternal life when it is eaten. There are thus simultaneous counterpart mappings from the Tree of Life and the cross to both the chrismation and the Eucharist. With regard to the latter, the blend simultaneously indicates the life-bringing properties of the Eucharist and the soteriological importance of the crucifixion. Moreover, by connecting the chrism to the crucified Christ and the resurrection by way of the Tree of Life, the life-giving qualities of the chrism are also directly connected to the crucifixion.21 The multiple entailments of this integration network are evident from figure 3.22

�� Literal and Figurative Meaning in Cognitive Semantics,” Journal of Pragmatics 37, no. 10 [2005]: 1510–36). 19 By “chrismation” I refer to an anointing with chrism. 20 The importance of the sacraments in the Gospel of Philip has been acknowledged by most modern interpreters, and there has been no lack of attempts to make sense of the text’s sacramental system. For summaries of the debate and in-depth discussions of the way the Gospel of Philip understands the sacraments, see Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth; Herbert Schmid, Die Eucharistie ist Jesus: Anfänge einer Theorie des Sakraments im koptischen Philippusevangelium (NHC II 3) (Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 88; Leiden: Brill, 2007). 21 Cf. Jorunn Jacobsen Buckley, “Conceptual Models and Polemical Issues in the Gospel of Philip,” ANRW 2.25.5 (1988): 4179. 22 The richness of this conceptual integration network is such that it is impossible to list all the features of the input spaces that are not projected to the blended space, so I have only indicated the most relevant features that are indeed projected. Among the various features of the inputs that are not projected we could mention, e.g., the means and methods of gardening in input 1, the role of Eve and the Serpent in input 2, and the use of nails and a spear in input 3. Also in the following figures I will only show those features that are relevant to the interpretation.

The Fruit of the Tree of Life � 81

Generic Space Wood Object hanging on wood Agent of profound change

Input 2: Olive Tree

Input 1: Tree of Life

Olive tree Olives hang on it Chrism derived from olive oil Chrism causes resurrection

Tree of Life Fruit hangs on it

Cross Christ hangs on it

Fruit causes eternal life

Cross causes death of Christ

FRAME: Paradise

FRAME: Agriculture + Ritual Practice

Input 3: Cross

FRAME: Crucifixion

Blended Space

Ritual practice FRAME + Soteriology FRAME

Cross=Tree of Life=Olive Tree Christ is Fruit of Tree of Life Chrism from Fruit/Christ Chrism Causes Resurrection Crucifixion connected with Resurrection Christ’s death brings eternal life The Eucharist causes eternal life Chrismation causes resurrection

Figure 3: The Crucifixion and Ritual Practice

It may be added that this interpretation is also supported by other passages in the Gospel of Philip, as both the connection between the chrism, the cross, and the resurrection, and the connection between the Eucharist and the crucified Jesus, are also referred to elsewhere in the text.23

�� 23 At 74.18-21, the Gospel of Philip states that “he who has been anointed has everything. He has the resurrection, the light, the cross, the Holy Spirit,” and at Gos. Phil. 67.23-24 the tractate speaks about “the power of the cross” (ⲧⲇⲩⲛⲁⲙⲓⲥ ⲡⲥ[ⲟ], tdunamis empstaur[o]s) in direct connection with the chrismation. For the connection between the Eucharist and the crucified Jesus, see, e.g., Gos. Phil. 63.21-24.

82 � Hugo Lundhaug

Two Trees of Knowledge So far we have seen how the cross is presented as a new Tree of Life, but other connections are also made between the paradise account in Genesis and the crucifixion that have important implications for our understanding of the sacramental soteriology of the Gospel of Philip. First, the Tree of Life is not the only tree that is blended conceptually with the cross, for the tractate emphasizes the existence of not only one, but two important trees in paradise.24 The other one is the Tree of Knowledge, which, according to the Gospel of Philip, killed Adam, but here the Tree of Knowledge has made man alive. The law was the tree.25 It could give knowledge of good and evil. It neither removed him from evil, nor did it place him in the good, but it created death for those who ate from it. For when he said, “eat this, do not eat that,”26 it became the beginning of death. (Gos. Phil. 74.3-12)

As we can see, the tractate traces the origin of death to the Genesis account of Adam and Eve’s eating from the Tree of Knowledge. The statement that the Tree of Knowledge killed Adam makes good sense in light of the Genesis account, where it was the act of eating from the Tree of Knowledge that led to his expulsion from paradise and his acquisition of mortality. Before the Gospel of Philip goes on to explain that “the law” (ⲡⲛⲟⲙⲟⲥ, pnomos) was the tree, and that this law brought death, however, it makes sure to point out the life-giving effects of the Tree of Knowledge “here.” This may at first sight seem like a contradiction, but in fact it indicates that we are here in a sense dealing with two trees of knowledge.27 The first, which is later identified with the law, is the Tree of Knowledge from the Genesis account. For the identification of the other tree, however, we need to take into account how the Gospel of Philip here recruits input spaces based on several Pauline passages, like Gal 3:13 and Phil 3:8-9. We thereby encounter a phenomenon that is usually studied within the theoretical framework of intertextuality. However, several theoretical statements on the mechanics of allusion in literary theoretical studies of intertextuality lend themselves easily to be rephrased and restated within the framework of

�� 24 Gos. Phil. 70.22-23. 25 Cf. Gal 3:13; Phil 3:8-9. 26 Cf. Gen 2:16-17. 27 Cf. Schenke, Philippus-Evangelium, 444–45.

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blending theory.28 A few examples will suffice. In the mid-1970s, Ziva Ben-Porat conceived of the intertextual patterns created by means of literary allusions in terms of “the simultaneous activation of two texts,” resulting in “the formation of intertextual patterns whose nature cannot be predetermined.”29 Ben-Porat conceived of the interplay between texts that is established through the use of allusions in terms of the dialogical relationship between two independent spaces. As it turns out, Blending Theory is ideally suited to model what Ben-Porat described in terms of intertextual patterning and the unpredictable production of meaning that arises from it. In addition, it also fits well with the fact that, although Ben-Porat uses different terms, in her theory as well, what we may term the blended space may recruit structure from the intertextual input spaces that lie outside of the actual allusive device or signal used to activate them. Similarly in line with Blending Theory is Gian Biagio Conte’s description of “the poetic dimension” of an allusion as being “created by the simultaneous presence of two different realities whose competition with one another produces a single more complex reality,”30 as well as his assertion that, in both metaphor and allusion, “the poetry lies in the simultaneous presence of two different realities that try to indicate a single reality.”31 As a final example, the same can be said of literary theorist Joseph Pucci’s claim that an allusion is created exclusively “at the point of mental connection.”32 Pucci even refers to an “allusive space,” which he describes as a “mental place where the allusion is made to mean,” a concept that is once again similar to Blending Theory’s notion of the blended space.33 �� 28 The use of blending theory to model intertextuality has also recently been suggested by Eve Sweetser, “Whose Rhyme Is Whose Reason? Sound and Sense in Cyrano de Bergerac,” Language and Literature 15, no. 1 (2006): 29–54. 29 Ziva Ben-Porat, “The Poetics of Literary Allusion,” PTL: A Journal for Descriptive Poetics and Theory of Literature 1 (1976): 108. 30 Gian Biagio Conte, The Rhetoric of Imitation: Genre and Poetic Memory in Virgil and Other Latin Poets (Cornell Studies in Classical Philology 44; Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1986), 24. 31 Conte, Rhetoric of Imitation, 38. 32 Joseph Pucci, The Full-Knowing Reader: Allusion and the Power of the Reader in the Western Literary Tradition (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1998), 36. 33 Pucci, Full-Knowing Reader, 43. As Pucci describes it, the “allusive space” “exists apart from the referential and significative control of the language that gives rise to it. So, too, are the meanings that arise in it unique, because they result from an interpretive free-play on the part of the reader, as the dissonances of two discrete works are mediated in the give and take of a mental, interpretive dialogue. As it turns out, that dialogue may extend to places and topics that have nothing at all to do with the two works that constitute the allusion, whose language nonetheless occasions their articulation, if only momentarily. This dialogue ensures that the

84 � Hugo Lundhaug Although Blending Theory usually operates with mental spaces that arise on the basis of domains or idealized cognitive models, and may therefore aptly be termed conceptual blending, I suggest we may similarly regard memories of texts that are brought to the mind of a reader as mental spaces and model the mental connections made between them in the act of interpretation in terms of the methodological framework of Blending Theory. In both cases we are modeling mental interpretive processes involving the recruitment and combination of mental spaces that become active in working memory, cued by visual or auditory sensory input, and in both cases we may have integration networks that are single-, double-, or multiple-scope. What we may refer to as intertextual blending can thus be modeled in terms of the recollection (and construction) of memories of large and small pieces of texts and discourses, that when called upon constitute mental input spaces that are recruited to integration networks in working memory and blended in the process of interpretation. One of the benefits of using blending theory to model intertextuality is that it helps demystify the mechanics of intertextual interpretation, making it easier for us to understand the mental processes at work, and thereby facilitate more sophisticated analysis of the phenomenon in general as well as in its specific manifestations. To see how this works we may now return to look at the way certain Pauline verses may be brought to the mind of a reader and blended in an interpretation of the Gospel of Philip passage quoted above (see figure 4 on page 85). The Gal 3:13 input (input 2), where Paul states that Christ has redeemed us from the curse of the law by hanging on a tree, is cued by the Gospel of Philip’s references to the Tree of Knowledge as the law, and is connected to the Gospel of Philip surface-input (input 1) by counterpart mappings between the references to the law and the tree in both inputs. At the same time, the Phil 3:8-9 input (input 3), which speaks of the knowledge of (and faith in) Christ as a counterpart of, and contrary to, the law, is brought to mind and connected to input 1 primarily through the references to knowledge and the law in these two inputs. In the blend the Tree of Knowledge is thus connected both to the law as a bringer of death, and to the cross as a bringer of life. We also see that there is a generic space shared by all three input spaces, as well as two generic spaces shared by inputs 1 and 2, and 1 and 3 respectively. From the blend we see that the old Tree of Knowledge, which is identified as the law, brings death, while the new Tree of Knowledge, which brings life, is identified with the cross. �� reader assumes complete interpretive power over the allusive moment – and at the expense of the author, whose power evanesces” (ibid.).

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Generic Law Christ

Generic

Generic

Tree Curse

Knowledge

Input 2: Gal 3:13 Christ redeems from the curse of the Law by hanging on tree (the cross) and thus being cursed himself

Input 1: Gos. Phil. 74.3-12 Tree of knowledge = the Law Brought Adam (and others) death. Tree of knowledge makes alive.

Input 3: Phil 3:8-9 The knowledge of Christ is contrary to the Law. Anti-Judaism FRAME

Paradise FRAME

Crucifixion FRAME

Blend

Anti-Judaism FRAME + Soteriology FRAME

The (old) Tree of Knowledge = the Law - brought death. The (new) Tree of Knowledge = the Cross - brings knowledge of Christ, - abolishes the law/death, - brings life. Christ’s death brings life, - makes old knowledge obsolete by bringing true knowledge.

Figure 4: The Tree of Knowledge and the Law

The arising conceptual blending of the Tree of Knowledge with both the law and the cross can also be shown with figure 5 (see page 86).

86 � Hugo Lundhaug

Generic

Generic

Knowledge of right and wrong. Eating.

Input 2: The Law Distinguishes right from wrong What to eat and what not to eat Jewish Law FRAME

Wood Death

Input 1: Tree of Knowledge Eating from it brings knowledge of good and evil. Brings death. Paradise FRAME

Input 3: The Cross ’ death Caused Jesus (=caused life).

Crucifixion FRAME

Blend

Ritual practice FRAME + Soteriology FRAME + Christian Ethics FRAME + Anti -Judaism FRAME

Old tree of kowledge=Law New tree of knowledge=Cross. Eating from the old tree of knowledge =Following the Law (i.e. Judaism) brought death. Eating from the new tree of knowledge =eating Christ=the Eucharist gives life. Eating from the new tree of knowledge =gaining knowledge of Christ, gives life.

Figure 5: The Tree of Knowledge

What we here observe may also be described as a case of conceptual disintegration,34 where a single Tree of Knowledge turns out to be two separate, but connected, conceptual entities. In the Gospel of Philip passage the two trees are only implicitly separated by means of the spatial references “that tree” and “here” and the references to their different effects, but without directly stating that there are two trees. It becomes evident from the analysis, however, that there are in fact two different but related trees of knowledge, as further illustrated by figures 6 (see page 87) and 7 (see page 88). By not spelling out, but instead

�� 34 For conceptual disintegration, see Anders Hougaard, “Conceptual Disintegration and Blending in Interactional Sequences: A Discussion of New Phenomena, Processes vs. Products, and Methodology,” Journal of Pragmatics 37, no. 10 (2005): 1653–85; Carl Bache, “Constraining Conceptual Integration Theory: Levels of Blending and Disintegration,” Journal of Pragmatics 37, no. 10 (2005): 1615–35. Conceptual disintegration may be defined as “the process by which one unified and discrete structural element in a mental space gets to receive multiple counterpart relations and is projected to (an)other mental space(s) as two, or more, separate structural elements” (Bache, “Constraining Conceptual Integration Theory,” 1626, quoting a conference paper by Anders Hougaard).

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understating this implication in the text, the Gospel of Philip manages not only to separate the two trees of knowledge, but also to keep them intimately connected, which nicely suits the overall rhetorical strategy, to which we will return, of subverting the differences between life and death.35

(Old) Tree of Knowledge

The Law

(New) Tree of Knowledge

Tree of knowledge

|

|

Dietary restrictions

Cross | Christ

Fruit

Cross=(new) Tree of Knowledge. Cross makes (old) Tree of knowledge=the Law obsolete =>No dietary restrictions Cross reverses effects of (old) Tree of Knowledge =>Brings life instead of death

Figure 6: The Two Trees of Knowledge

�� 35 To Schenke’s question why the text does not simply state something like “Dort befindet sich jener Baum der Erkenntnis, der Adam getötet hat. Hier aber befindet sich dieser Baum der Erkenntnis, der den Menschen lebendig gemacht hat” (Philippus-Evangelium, 444), it may be replied that such a statement would not have achieved the same rhetorical effects as the actual manuscript reading.

88 � Hugo Lundhaug

Tree of Knowledge Knowledge of Good & Evil Eating

Wood Hanging object

(Old) Tree of Knowledge

(New) Tree of Knowledge

The Law |

Dietary restrictions

Tree of knowledge | Fruit

Cross |

Christ

Cross=(new) Tree of Knowledge. Cross makes (old) Tree of knowledge=the Law obsolete =>No dietary restrictions Cross reverses effects of (old) Tree of Knowledge =>Brings life instead of death

Figure 7: The Two Trees of Knowledge (w/Generic Spaces)

Adam’s eating of the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge led to death. On the other hand, eating from the new Tree of Knowledge brings life. Together, the conceptual and intertextual blending prompted by this passage in the Gospel of Philip lead to several emerging entailments. Not only is the old Tree of Knowledge the law and the new one the cross, but there are also more wide-ranging implications: Since the new Tree of Knowledge is the cross, and what hung on it as its “fruit” was Christ, it is Christ’s death on the cross, and the eating of Christ that brings life. Moreover, since the eating is here also connected to the knowledge of Christ, we may interpret this as a simultaneous reference to gaining knowledge of Christ, and participating in the Eucharist. Another important entailment, especially in light of the rhetoric of the Gospel of Philip as a whole, is the implicit anti-Judaism. The law can here be metonymically understood as a reference to Judaism, and to follow the Jewish law, as exemplified by its dietary

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restrictions (“eat this, do not eat that”), is thus directly connected to Adam’s eating of the forbidden fruit, and can only lead to death. On the other hand, eating from the new Tree of Knowledge, the cross, which can be understood as a metonymy for Christianity, brings life. In summary, then, we see that the cross as the new Tree of Knowledge replaces the old Tree of Knowledge, brings life in place of death, and makes the Jewish law obsolete. In this way the new tree replaces the old tree, the new knowledge replaces the old knowledge, the new life-giving death replaces the old death, and hence Christianity replaces Judaism. The integration networks shown here represent only the tip of the interpretive iceberg however, since the recollection of Gal 3:13 in this context will likely also remind readers familiar with this text of the rest of Paul’s discussion of the law in Galatians, and the allusion to Phil 3:8-9 may likewise bring to mind the broader discussion in Phil 3 concerning death and resurrection. Such intertextual integration networks will by their very nature always be open ended. Since the calling up and composition of mental spaces and integration networks are fundamentally tied to processes of memory recall, it may be fruitful to take into account theories and perspectives from memory research, not least the insight that memory recall of any kind is fundamentally interpretive, as argued by Daniel Schacter and others.36 Since the recall of memories is not analogous to simply taking objects out of a container or playing back recordings, but rather involves the construction of mental representations that are merely “attempts at replication of patterns that were once experienced,”37 it is not only the process of blending itself that has a constructive and interpretive quality to it, but even the very process of calling up and assembling the basic mental spaces that are the constitutive parts of that process. As Bradd Shore has pointed out, “the analogical schematizing processes by which cultural models are brought to mind are activities of an active, intentional, and opportunistic intelligence, not a passive recording device.”38

�� 36 See, e.g., Daniel L. Schacter, Searching for Memory: The Brain, the Mind, and the Past (New York: Basic Books, 1996); Antonio R. Damasio, Descartes’ Error: Emotion, Reason, and the Human Brain (New York: Putnam, 1994). 37 Damasio, Descartes’ Error, 100–101; cf. also Schacter, Searching for Memory. 38 Bradd Shore, Culture in Mind: Cognition, Culture, and the Problem of Meaning (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 371–72. One is here also reminded of Gibbs’ arguments for the dynamic composition of prototype structures in meaning construction, a perspective that when generalized is highly relevant to the processes of blending discussed here (“Prototypes”).

90 � Hugo Lundhaug The recall, and online construction, of memories are also crucially dependent on the mechanism of “priming.” This is the process by which the activation of one memory partially, and often unconsciously, activates related memories for easier subsequent recall.39 Importantly, this process is dependent on the way in which the memories have been encoded in the first place,40 for as the context of encoding fundamentally affects the relation between memories, it thus also affects their recall. I will mention just a couple of examples that are relevant with regard to the Gospel of Philip. Mystagogical instruction prior to and following ritual initiation, for instance, will affect which textual passages and doctrines the initiates associate with their memories of experiencing the rituals, and thus which memories are triggered by references to either the rituals themselves or to the texts or dogmas that have been associated with them. Similarly, the practice of learning biblical texts by heart, which we know was the norm in Egyptian monasteries of the fourth and fifth centuries, the probable time and place of the production of the Nag Hammadi codices, would decisively influence the ways in which biblical allusions in a text like the Gospel of Philip would trigger intertextual and conceptual integration networks in the minds of its readers and hearers. To put it in more general terms, sociocultural factors will always have a crucial influence on memory recall and construction. As for the fragments of memory that are primed by the activation of related memories, such items come to be “in a different mental state from either the conscious / rehearsal material or the material stored in long-term memory.”41 They have in a sense been “placed temporarily in a sort of buffer between longterm memory and consciousness.”42 The notion of priming thus helps us understand the mechanics of how mental spaces are called up to the processes of blending that take place in working memory, and also the function of context and memory encoding in this regard. This is especially relevant with regard to allusions. If, for instance, a reader has detected an allusion to a particular bibli-

�� 39 See, e.g., Bob Snyder, Music and Memory: An Introduction (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2000), 262; Patrick Colm Hogan, The Mind and Its Stories: Narrative Universals and Human Emotion (Studies in Emotion and Social Interaction; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003); Endel Tulving and Daniel L. Schacter, “Priming and Human Memory Systems,” Science 247, no. 4940 (1990): 301–6; Barbara Knowlton, “Declarative and Nondeclarative Knowledge: Insights from Cognitive Neuroscience,” in Knowledge, Concepts, and Categories (ed. Koen Lamberts and David Shanks; Studies in Cognition; Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1997), 222–28. 40 See, e.g., Schacter, Searching for Memory. 41 Hogan, The Mind and Its Stories, 56–57. 42 Hogan, The Mind and Its Stories, 57.

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cal text at one point in his or her reading of the Gospel of Philip, that person is consequently more likely to detect further allusions to the same biblical text, or other associated texts, in subsequent parts, or subsequent readings, of the Gospel of Philip, since memories of these texts are now likely to have been primed. Thus, references to certain texts are likely to prime these texts, their local contexts, and in many cases related texts, for easier subsequent recall among readers familiar with them. The recall of one Pauline text may for instance be likely to prime other Pauline texts known by the reader or community of readers. The integration network shown here may for instance further prime and trigger other scriptural passages, such as Eph 2:15, and several passages in Romans (e.g., 4:15; 5:13; 7:7-13).43 In fact, each of the implications we have seen arising from the blending processes discussed here, and every input-, generic-, or blended space, have the potential to activate further mental input spaces, the possible cumulative effects of which are difficult to assess, and which would always depend on the sociocultural context and individual knowledge of the reader. What we may do as modern scholars is therefore not to come up with the definitive interpretation of the text, but simply to map out plausible interpretive possibilities among hypothetical readers. (Old) Tree of Knowledge The Law | Dietary restrictions

(New) Tree of Knowledge Tree of knowledge | Fruit

Olive tree

Cross

Tree of Life

|

|

|

Christ

Fruit

Chrism

Cross=(new) Tree of Knowledge and Tree of Life.

Ritual practice FRAME + Soteriology FRAME

Christ=Fruit of (new) Tree of Knowledge and Tree of Life=Lifegiving Knowledge, Eucharist, and Chrism Eucharist and Chrism brings life

Figure 8: The Cross as the Tree of Knowledge and the Tree of Life �� 43 Cf. Yvonne Janssens, “L’Évangile selon Philippe,” Mus 81 (1968): 114; Craig A. Evans, et al., Nag Hammadi Texts and the Bible: A Synopsis and Index (NTTS 18; Leiden: Brill, 1993), 163.

92 � Hugo Lundhaug What can be concluded, however, and what emerges from the integration networks we have analyzed thus far, is that in the Gospel of Philip the cross, with Christ crucified, is blended with both of the trees from the Genesis account, making it become simultaneously a new Tree of Life and a new Tree of Knowledge.

Separation The Gospel of Philip does not content itself with the abovementioned account of the origin of death based on the eating of the forbidden fruit in Gen 3, however, but also utilizes the account of the creation of Eve in Gen 2. To understand the significance of the latter we must remember that Eve is here identified with Adam’s soul,44 and that the description of her creation in Gen 2:21-23 is understood by the Gospel of Philip as the removal of that soul, and thus also the loss of Adam’s original life. In accordance with this understanding, the Gospel of Philip tells us that, “when Eve was [in] Adam,45 there was no death. When she separated from him, death came into being” (68.22-24). Adam was immortal in the beginning, but when he lost his soul, death came into being and he became mortal.46 The Gospel of Philip is more concerned with how death may be abolished, however, than with how it came into being, so having thus described the origin of death, the tractate then explains that death will be abolished by Christ.47 We have already seen how the Gospel of Philip presents Christ’s death on the cross as life-giving. Using a similar logic the tractate also conceives of the effects of the original separation as being mended by a new separation. This separation takes place on the cross and is explained by means of etymology,

�� 44 See Gos. Phil. 70.25. 45 I here follow Layton’s restoration [ϩ]ⲁ[ⲇ]ⲙ ([h]ena[d]am) “[in] Adam,” against Schenke, who reconstructs [ⲙ]ⲁ[ⲇ]ⲙ ([m]ena[d]am) “[with] Adam” (Schenke, PhilippusEvangelium, 46–47). 46 Cf. also Gos. Phil. 70.9-12, 25-26. 47 Gos. Phil. 68.24-26: “Again, when he enters and receives it for himself, no death will take place.” The passage is ambiguous, but the subject of this sentence seems to be best understood as Christ, as the second Adam, and since the text refers to the origin of death just a few lines before this, the “it” that Christ receives is probably “death” (ⲡⲙⲟⲩ, pmou). We may thus interpret it to mean that Christ, as the second Adam, dies in order to abolish death (this is also the view of Louis Painchaud, “Le Christ vainqueur de la mort dans l’Evangile selon Philippe: Une exégèse valentinienne de Matt. 27:46,” NovT 38, no. 4 [1996]: 386).

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wordplay, and allusion: “The Eucharist is Jesus, for in Syriac he is called Pharisatha, that is, “the one who is spread out,” for Jesus came crucifying the world” (63.21-24).

Generic Spreading

Input 1: Jesus

Input 2: Eucharist

Jesus

Divided bread

Spread out on the Cross

Spread out on altar

Crucifixion FRAME

Ritual Practice FRAME

Blend Eucharistic bread=Jesus’ flesh broken and spread out on altar Ritual Practice FRAME

Figure 9: The Eucharist is Jesus (Gos. Phil. 63.21-23)

Using this Syriac etymology, the text sets up a blend between the eucharistic bread and the flesh of Jesus (see figure 9). The statement that Jesus crucified the world may perhaps seem strange at first sight, but it clearly recalls Gal 6:14 where Paul states that Christ has crucified the world to him and him to the world.48 More importantly for my current analysis, however, is the way in which the crucified Christ is identified with the Eucharist. Not only does the word pharisatha denote simultaneously the spreading out of the body of Jesus on the cross and the distribution of the bread in the eucharistic ritual,49 but this Syriac �� 48 See W. C. van Unnik, “Three Notes on the ‘Gospel of Philip’,” NTS 10 (1964): 469. Cf. also Col 2:14. 49 See van Unnik, “Three Notes,” 468–69; Eric Segelberg, “The Antiochene Background of the Gospel of Philip,” BSac 18 (1966): 218–19; Jacques-É. Ménard, “Beziehungen des Philippus- und des Thomas-Evangeliums zur syrischen Welt,” in Altes Testament – Frühjudentum – Gnosis:

94 � Hugo Lundhaug word may actually mean both “spread” and “break,”50 a wordplay that is even preserved by the use of the Coptic word ⲡⲱⲣϣ (pōrš) to translate it, a word that was often confused with the phonetically similar word ⲡⲱⲣϫ (pōrj) meaning “to divide or separate.”51 The significance of this breaking or separation is also carried over into another description of the crucifixion, where the Gospel of Philip interprets Jesus’ words on the cross, closely paraphrasing Matt 27:46=Mark 15:34: “‘[My] God, my God, why, Lord, [have] you forsaken me?’52 It was on the cross that he said these (words), for it was in that place that he was divided” (68.26-29).53 Not only is Jesus “spread out” on the cross and in the eucharistic ritual, but he is also divided in both places, on the cross and in the ritual.54 In this way, the �� Neue Studien zu “Gnosis und Bibel” (ed. Karl-Wolfgang Tröger; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus/Gerd Mohn, 1980), 318. Both Segelberg and van Unnik connect the Gospel of Philip’s use of the word pharisatha with “orthodox” Christian practice and interpretation and the latter also points out that the word is used in the Syriac translation of Acts 2:46: “and they brake the pharisatha in the houses” (Unnik, “Three Notes,” 469). In contrast to these interpretations, Thomassen connects the term to “the abstract notion of an emanation from unity to plurality,” and holds that the Gospel of Philip here presents us with “a characteristic Valentinian synthesizing of protology, salvation in history, and redemption in ritual” (“How Valentinian,” 275). 50 See Segelberg, “Antiochene Background,” 218–19. 51 See Crum, Coptic Dictionary, 271b. This is not noted by Segelberg. 52 The Gospel of Philip here closely follows Matt 27:46 (=Mark 15:34) in its rendering of Jesus’ words on the cross, with one exception, the insertion of the word “Lord” (ⲡϫⲟⲉⲓⲥ, pjoeis) (cf Painchaud, “Le Christ,” 383; Christopher M. Tuckett, “Synoptic Traditions in Some Nag Hammadi and Related Texts,” VC 36, no. 2 [1982]: 175). In order to make the passage conform to its biblical source, Schenke argues that ⲡϫⲟⲉⲓⲥ (pjoeis, “Lord”) has been written too early, and emends the passage to read: “‘[M]ein Gott, mein Gott, warum { } [hast] du mich verlassen?’ sprach diese (Worte) am Kreuz” (Philippus-Evangelium, 46–47). Since the passage already makes good sense as it is, however, it is not necessary to emend it (cf. Painchaud, “Le Christ,” 382–92, esp. 391, who also argues strongly in favor of following the manuscript reading). 53 I follow Schenke’s reconstruction [ⲧ]ⲁϥⲡⲱⲣϫ ([ent]afpōrj, “that he was divided”) (Philippus-Evangelium, 46). 54 The view that Christ’s divinity was separated from his humanity on the cross is widely attested in patristic sources. The fifth-century archimandrite Shenoute of Atripe attributes such a view to Nestorius who, according to Shenoute, claimed that “it was the flesh which called up toward the divinity, ‘why have you forsaken me?’” According to Nestorius, he says, “The divinity departed to the height and abandoned the flesh on the cross” (Shenoute, I Am Amazed, 469; the section number (469) follows the numeration of Tito Orlandi, Shenute Contra Origenistas: Testo con Introduzione e Traduzione [Unione Accademica Nazionale: Corpus dei Manoscritti Copti Letterari; Roma: C.I.M., 1985], but the present translation is based on a reading of manuscript DR 131=IT-NB IB14 f. 21r, which was not yet identified as a witness to I Am Amazed when Orlandi prepared his edition of the text). Cf. also Ambrose of Milan, who stated that “it was the

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Gospel of Philip reinforces the links between crucifixion, Eucharist, and Christology. The specific reference in the Gospel of Philip to Christ’s separation should also be read intertextually with the New Testament.55 This is because, when Christ was divided on the cross, according to the Gospel of Philip, the veil of the temple was divided as well. This rending of the veil at the time of Jesus’ death, which is known from the synoptic Gospels,56 lends weight to the statement in the Gospel of Philip that Christ was also separated on the cross, especially when read together with Heb 10:20, which explicitly identifies the veil and Jesus,57 This latter intertext is also likely to be brought to the mind of readers familiar with it, and may be regarded as the glue that connects the division of Christ and the rending of the veil, and also strengthens the eucharistic implications of the two events, as interpreted by the Gospel of Philip (see figure 10 on page 96). We may also surmise that readers familiar with Hebrews who recognize this link would also likely be reminded of other aspects of this intertext and its local context, like the statement in 10:19 that one may enter into the holy of the holies by means of the blood of Jesus, together with the information that the way of entry is through his flesh (10:20).

Category Inversion and Subversion The logic behind all this is more easily understood when we also take into account what the Gospel of Philip has to say concerning the deceptive nature of worldly names and concepts.58 One conceptual pair that is especially important �� man who cried out as he was about to die by separation from the divinity” (Exposition of the Gospel of Luke 10.127; ET, Jaroslav Pelikan, The Emergence of the Catholic Tradition [100–600] [vol. 1 of The Christian Tradition: A History of the Development of Doctrine; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1971], 245), and Theodore of Mopsuestia who is reported to have held similar views (see Pelikan, Emergence of the Catholic Tradition, 246). 55 See Painchaud, “Le Christ,” 392. 56 Matt 27:51; Mark 15:38; Luke 23:45. 57 “. . . through the veil, that is, his flesh.” Cf. Wesley W. Isenberg, “The Coptic Gospel According to Philip” (Ph.D. diss., University of Chicago, 1968), 185. 58 According to the Gospel of Philip “the names that are given to the worldly are very deceptive (ⲟⲩⲧⲉⲩ ⲙⲁⲩ ⲟⲩⲛⲟϭ ⲡⲗⲁⲛⲏ, ouenteu emmau enounoč emplanē),” for they lead the mind to “the incorrect” (ⲛⲉⲧⲥⲙⲟⲛⲧ ⲁⲛ, netsmont an) rather than “the correct” (ⲛⲉⲧⲥⲙⲟⲛⲧ, netsmont) (53.23-27). Therefore, continues the Gospel of Philip, people do not “perceive” (ⲛⲟⲉⲓ, ernoei) “the correct” (ⲡⲉⲧⲥⲙⲟⲛⲧ, petsmont), but rather “the incorrect” (ⲡⲉⲧⲥⲙⲟⲛⲧ ⲁⲛ, petsmont an), when they hear terms such as “life” (ⲡⲱⲛϩ, pōnh), “light” (ⲡⲟⲩⲟⲉⲓⲛ, pouoein), or “resurrection”

96 � Hugo Lundhaug

Generic

Generic

Generic

Separation

Flesh

Veil

Gos. Phil. 63.21-23 Jesus’ Flesh=Eucharistic Bread

Gos. Phil. 69.3570.4; 84.25-26; 85.5-10; Matt 27:51

Gos. Phil. 68.26-29 Jesus divided on the cross

Heb 10:20 Jesus’ Flesh=Veil

Temple veil rent

Blend Christ divided on the cross. Christ divided in the Eucharist. Rending of the veil parallels divison of Christ.

Figure 10: The Rending of the Veil and the Separation of Christ

with regard to the crucifixion is that of life and death. The rhetorical strategy of confounding readers’ expectations and turning common concepts on their heads permeates the Gospel of Philip, and this conceptual pair is no exception: “Light and darkness, life and death, right and left, they are brothers of one another. It is impossible for them to be separated from each other. Therefore, neither are the good good, nor are the bad bad, nor is life life, nor is death death” (Gos. Phil. 53.14-20). Life and death are thus both connected and deceptive concepts, and according to this text it is soteriologically important to learn the true nature of the various references to them. And as we have seen in the present analysis, the crucial event where the Gospel of Philip connects death with life

�� (ⲧⲁⲛⲁⲥⲧⲁⲥⲓⲥ, tanastasis) (Gos. Phil. 53.27-34). That is, “[unless] they have learnt the correct” ([ⲡⲗ]ⲏⲛ ⲁⲩⲥⲉⲃⲟ ⲁⲛⲉⲧⲥⲙⲟⲛⲧ, [pl]ēn ausebo anetsmont) (53.34-35). The Gospel of Philip is very much concerned with getting across the correct understanding of certain key terms and concepts, the real meaning of the worldly representations of heavenly realities, and the real meaning of central events in the life of Christ, and in the sacramental life of the Christian.

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and subverts the differences between them is the crucifixion, where Christ’s death is directly life-giving.59

Conclusion It should be clear by now that the crucifixion is of great soteriological and mystagogical importance in the Gospel of Philip. Not only does Christ rectify the original death-bringing sin of eating from the Tree of Knowledge by his own death on the cross which makes him the life-giving fruit of a new Tree of Knowledge, which is also identified as the Tree of Life, but by himself becoming divided on the cross he also rectifies what the Gospel of Philip sees as the other primordial death-creating event, namely, the separation of Eve from Adam. In addition, both the eucharistic elements and the chrism are presented as being directly derived from, and connected to, the crucified Christ.60 Ellen Spolsky has recently argued for the use of cognitive literary theory as a tool for the description of “the systems that allow specific examples of human representational complexity and creativity to emerge; that allow not only new, but heart-stoppingly powerful collocations of sense perceptions and abstract understanding to be – now and then – articulated and understood.”61 I hope by the present analysis not only to have shown how the Gospel of Philip interprets the crucifixion, and that it indeed presents us with a coherent theology of the cross, but also how cognitive linguistics provides us with tools that enable us to better understand and describe how a cryptic, allusive, and non-linear text like this makes sense.

�� 59 As Buckley puts it, the Gospel of Philip “clearly associates the cross, the tree of life, and Jesus’ life-giving death” (Buckley, “Conceptual Models,” 4179). For the reversal of the concepts of life and death, see also Gos. Phil. 52.15-19; 56.15-20; 73.1-5. 60 For more on the context of the Gospel of Philip’s treatment of the crucifixion, and a full, indepth analysis of the text as a whole using a methodological framework based on Blending Theory, see Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth. 61 Ellen Spolsky, “Preface,” in The Work of Fiction: Cognition, Culture, and Complexity (ed. Alan Richardson and Ellen Spolsky; Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004), ix-x.

98 � Hugo Lundhaug

Robert H. von Thaden Jr.

Pauline Rhetorical Invention Seeing 1 Corinthians 6:12—7:7 through Conceptual Integration Theory

A Cognitive Turn In an article from 1998, Todd Oakley performs an extended analysis of a passage from Art Spiegelman’s Maus II: And Here My Troubles Began, in which he combines the use of conceptual integration theory with narratology and argumentation theory. He argues for such a blended approach by contending, “Such a study produces a new kind of analysis that is much stronger than each separately.”1 Following Oakley’s lead, I also combine multiple analytical tools for investigating “how language prompts for meaning.”2 The present study marshals some of the resources of conceptual integration theory (also known as blending theory) and uses them within a socio-rhetorical framework to explore 1 Cor 6:127:7 as a unified argument of Paul’s own making. Since this pericope is widely regarded as one of the more problematic Pauline passages, it seems a perfect candidate to use as a test case for investigating the promises of a newer interpretive analytic.3 Conceptual integration theory, the use of which is relatively new in the field of biblical studies, is defined by Seana Coulson and Todd Oakley as a “theoretical framework for exploring human information integration” that makes use of mental space theory.4 Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner, the primary theorists

�� 1 Todd V. Oakley, “Conceptual Blending, Narrative Discourse, and Rhetoric,” Cognitive Linguistics 9 (1998): 357. 2 Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner, The Way We Think: Conceptual Blending and the Mind’s Hidden Complexities (New York: Basic, 2002), 139; see also 277. 3 On the philosophical difference between a method and an interpretive analytic, see Vernon K. Robbins, The Invention of Christian Discourse (vol. 1; Rhetoric of Religious Antiquity 1; Blandford Forum: Deo, 2009), 5; idem, “Socio-Rhetorical Interpretation,” in Blackwell Companion to the New Testament (ed. David E. Aune; Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010), ch. 12. 4 Seana Coulson and Todd Oakley, “Blending Basics,” Cognitive Linguistics 11 (2000): 176. The standard work cited for the explication of mental space theory is Gilles Fauconnier, Mental Spaces: Aspects of Meaning Construction in Natural Language (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994). For the recent use of conceptual blending in biblical and early Christian stud-

100 � Robert H. von Thaden Jr. of conceptual integration, describe mental spaces as “small conceptual packets constructed as we think and talk for the purposes of local understanding and action” that “can be used generally to model dynamic mappings in thought and language.”5 This model is referred to as a conceptual integration network and it allows Fauconnier and Turner to explain how the processes of conceptual blending operate.6 A conceptual integration network has, at minimum, four mental spaces: two input spaces, a generic space, and the blended space (or, the blend). The blend, through a process known as selective projection, contains only selected elements, roles, values, and structures from each input space. Because of this selective projection, the blend prompts new emergent structure throughout the network. This emergent structure is located neither in the input spaces, nor the blended space, but in the dynamic system of the network taken as a whole.7 It is through this emergent structure that creative cognitive and rhetorical work gets accomplished in the blend – work that often helps to sustain reasoning as any given discourse unfolds.8 The process of blending additionally involves several governing principles. One main principle, and the one my exegesis relies heavily upon, involves the

�� ies, see Bonnie Howe, Because You Bear This Name: Conceptual Metaphor and the Moral Meaning of 1 Peter (BIS 61; Leiden: Brill, 2006); Hugo Lundhaug, “Conceptual Blending in the Exegesis of the Soul,” and Vernon K. Robbins, “Conceptual Blending and Early Christian Imagination,” in Explaining Christian Origins and Early Judaism (ed. Patri Luomanen et al.; BIS 89; Leiden: Brill, 2007), 141-60 and 161-95, respectively. 5 Fauconnier and Turner, Way We Think, 40. See also Gilles Fauconnier, Mappings in Thought and Language (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 11; Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner, “Conceptual Integration Networks,” Cognitive Science 22 (1998): 137; Seana Coulson and Todd Oakley, “Blending Basics,” Cognitive Linguistics 11 (2000): 177; idem, “Metonymy and Conceptual Blending,” in Metonymy and Pragmatic Inferencing (ed. Klaus-Uwe Panther and Linda L. Thornburg; Pragmatics and Beyond New Series 113; Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 2003), 52-54. 6 Fauconnier and Turner, Way We Think, 40-50. For other summaries of specific aspects of conceptual blending theory, see Coulson and Oakley, “Metonymy,” 54; Howe, Because You Bear This Name, 84-95; Edward Slingerland, What Science Offers the Humanities: Integrating Body and Culture (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 176-88; also Zoltán Kövecses, Metaphor in Culture: Universality and Variation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 259-82. 7 Gilles Fauconnier emphasizes this point in “Compression and Emergent Structure,” Language and Linguistics 6 (2005): 523-38, more so than he and Turner did in Way We Think. 8 Coulson and Oakley, “Blending Basics,” 180; Philip Eubanks, “Globalization, ‘Corporate Rule,’ and Blended Worlds: A Conceptual-Rhetorical Analysis of Metaphor, Metonymy, and Conceptual Blending,” Metaphor and Symbol 20 (2005): 174.

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compression of vital relations.9 Vital relations are what link various elements and structures between mental spaces and compression involves tightening these essential relationships.10 The notion of compression has evolved over the years and now has perhaps the most explanatory power of all the principles when analyzing how the links among mental spaces become conceptually and rhetorically powerful in the creation of novel emergent structure.11 There are about twenty vital relations that play an important role in understanding how compression works, but Analogy, Disanalogy, Part-Whole, and Identity will be the most important to the analysis below.12 The vital relation of Identity, in which two elements from different input spaces are compressed into one element in the blend, will play a large role in analyzing the importance of the Christian body for Paul and will further help us to understand how Paul’s conceptual blends function and, thus, how they make rhetorical sense. Blends, and by extension the networks they are attached to, become rhetorically persuasive when they are easily grasped. Fauconnier argues that “a central feature of integration networks is their ability to compress diffuse conceptual structure into intelligible and manipulable human-scale situations in a blended space.”13 The goal of conceptual integration is to achieve this human scale. Fauconnier and Turner note, “The most obvious human-scale situations have direct perception and action in familiar frames that are easily apprehended by human beings.”14 Blended spaces often appear simple because they have achieved this human scale and it is this simplicity that allows the blend to work rhetorically by giving power to the entire network. Compressing vital relations to achieve human scale simplifies conceptually complex situations so that “the logical, emotional, and social inferences within the blended space are inescapable; their validity is not in question.”15 Achieving human scale in the blend often has rhetorical power because of its ability to activate human emotions in the reasoning process. Edward Slingerland concludes that “the primary purpose of employing a metaphoric blend to achieve human scale is not to help us intellectually apprehend a situa-

�� 9 Fauconnier and Turner, Way We Think, 114: “Blending is a compression tool par excellence” (see also p. 312; idem, “Compression and Global Insight,” Cognitive Linguistics 11 [2000]: 283304). 10 Fauconnier and Turner, “Compression and Global Insight,” 290-91. 11 See Fauconnier, “Compression and Emergent Structure,” 527-28. 12 See Fauconnier and Turner, Way We Think, 93-101, for a description of vital relations. 13 Fauconnier, “Compression and Emergent Structure,” 523. 14 Fauconnier and Turner, Way We Think, 312. 15 Fauconnier, “Compression and Emergent Structure,” 529.

102 � Robert H. von Thaden Jr. tion, but rather to help us to know how to feel about it.” Slingerland connects the importance of emotion prompted by blends to Antonio Damasio’s somatic marker hypothesis.16 In full, Damasio argues that a somatic marker: forces attention on the negative outcome to which an action may lead, and functions as an automated alarm signal which says: Beware of danger ahead if you chose the option which leads to this outcome. The signal may lead you to reject, immediately, the negative course of action and thus make you choose among other alternatives. The automated signal protects you against future losses, without further ado, and then allows you to choose from fewer alternatives. There is still room for using a cost/benefit analysis and proper deductive competence, but only after the automated step drastically reduces the number of options.17

The immediacy of the visceral reaction prompted by a somatic marker fits well with blending theory’s notion that conceptual integration networks allow for rapid, online reasoning. Moreover, notice that the somatic marker hypothesis does not discount deductive reasoning and other logic mechanisms. Somatic markers do not explain the entirety of human decision making, but they do stack the deck, as it were, and skilled rhetoricians can exploit the persuasive potential of these markers to the fullest.18 Thus the reasoning prompted by blends often relies on the power of emotions and achieving human scale is an important element in provoking such emotional reactions. Slingerland highlights this when he writes that “human scale inputs are recruited polemically to inspire somatic-normative reactions in the listeners.”19 As will be seen below, this is precisely Paul’s rhetorical strategy in 1 Cor 6:12-7:7. Before moving into the analysis of 1 Cor 6:12-7:7, it is necessary to explain an element of socio-rhetorical interpretation that provides the framework for my use of conceptual blending. As noted above, I am following Todd Oakley’s lead in combining the tools of conceptual integration theory with another interpretive framework. The difficulty in this task, of course, is that different interpreta�� 16 Slingerland, What Science Offers the Humanities, 185. For the importance of emotion in blends, see Seana Coulson, Semantic Leaps: Frame Shifting and Conceptual Blending in Meaning Construction (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 200-210. For the importance of embodiment in understanding emotion, see Raymond W. Gibbs Jr., Embodiment and Cognitive Science (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 243. 17 Antonio R. Damasio, Descartes’ Error: Emotion, Reason, and the Human Brian (New York: Grosset/Putnam, 1994), 173 (emphases original). See Joel B. Green, Body, Soul, and Human Life: The Nature of Humanity in the Bible (Studies in Theological Interpretation; Grand Rapids: Baker, 2008), 86. 18 Slingerland, What Science Offers the Humanities, 196. 19 Slingerland, What Science Offers the Humanities, 188.

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tive analytics each contain their own jargon. Because the purpose of the present volume is to explore the use of cognitive linguistics in biblical studies and in order to avoid confusion I will simply engage one portion of socio-rhetorical interpretation that I believe allows biblical scholars to use blending theory effectively. Socio-rhetorical interpreters, especially through the work of the Rhetoric of Religious Antiquity Group, make use of a heuristic category known as a rhetorolect – short for rhetorical dialect. The father of socio-rhetorical interpretation, Vernon Robbins, defines a rhetorolect as “a form of language variety or discourse identifiable on the basis of a distinctive configuration of themes, topics, reasonings, and argumentation.”20 In using conceptual blending within a socio-rhetorical framework, I think of rhetorolects as cultural frames that help, in a broad sense, to organize linguistic cues.21 Recently Robbins, citing George Lakoff, has argued that “it gradually has become evident that the sociorhetorical concept of ‘rhetorolect’ is, from the perspective of cognitive science, some kind of Idealized Cognitive Model (ICM).”22 More specifically, Robbins suggests that rhetorolects are what Lakoff designates as “cluster ICMs” arguing that “they appear to contain clusters of topoi related to networks of meanings that configure first century Christian discourse in ways that are, at one and the same time, linked to multiple meaning networks in Mediterranean culture and distinctive of people with particular experiences in particular places and spaces in the Mediterranean world.”23 Socio-rhetorical interpreters have identified six main rhetorolects that help to organize argumentation and rhetoric in formative Christian texts, but only three have bearing on 1 Cor 6:12-7:7: wisdom rhetorolect, priestly rhetorolect, and apocalyptic rhetorolect. In fact, this study confirms Robbins’s findings that wisdom seems to merge organically with these other two cultural frames.24 The cognitive resources organized by these frames can help us to understand how Paul’s argument prompts for certain kinds of �� 20 Vernon K. Robbins, “The Dialectical Nature of Early Christian Discourse,” Scriptura 59 (1996): 356. For newer developments in this interpretive analytic, see Robbins, Invention; idem, “Socio-Rhetorical Interpretation.” 21 I am following Coulson who uses “the term frame as a cover term for a whole set of related concepts, including script, schema, scenario, idealized cognitive models, and folk theory. Although differences exist in the scope of these constructs, they are all used to represent structured background knowledge, have important experiential character, and so forth” (Semantic Leaps, 20). See also Robbins, Invention, 1:100; Peter Stockwell, Cognitive Poetics: An Introduction (London: Routledge, 2002), 76-77. 22 Robbins, Invention, 1:104; citing George Lakoff, Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things: What Categories Reveal about the Mind (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 68-76. 23 Robbins, Invention, 1:119; citing Lakoff, Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things, 74-76, 203. 24 See Robbins, Invention, 1:191.

104 � Robert H. von Thaden Jr. meanings. This study will engage each of these rhetorolects more specifically as they emerge in the course of exegesis. “The appeal of frames,” Seana Coulson writes, “lies chiefly in their ability to account for all the ‘extra’ information readers infer in the course of meaning construction.”25 Thus, to take a simple example from the literature, if I write the word “shortstop,” this would evoke “baseball” in the minds of many meaning aware people.26 Baseball, I would argue, is a local (or more specific) frame that subsists under a much broader cultural frame of “sports.” Writing “shortstop” activates the background knowledge organized by the cultural frame of “sports” in such a way that if I continue writing and use the word “fan” or “player” the meaning-aware reader would not think that I was referring to a device to move air or a musician respectively. Such a reader “knows” that I mean an enthusiast of a particular game or team and one who participates in a sport or sports. Frames, whether they function on broadly cultural or more specifically local levels, offer the hearer/reader potentially vast stores of cognitive resources to make sense of linguistic cues. Or rather, linguistic cues prompt a hearer/reader to evoke certain frames that provide valuable, rhetorically persuasive, background information.27

Seeing 1 Cor 6:12-7:7 through Conceptual Integration Theory Standard interpretations of 1 Cor 6:12-7:7 since at least the beginning of the twentieth century regard Paul’s discourse in this pericope to be rife with Corinthian slogans that Paul quotes and then moves to confront, modify, and/or overturn. Biblical scholars have developed numerous hypotheses over the years, but most argue for the presence of slogans in 6:12 and 13 with slightly fewer interpreters regarding 7:1b as a slogan as well.28 However, using the tools

�� 25 Coulson, Semantic Leaps, 83. 26 See, e.g., Jerome A. Feldman, From Molecule to Metaphor: A Neural Theory of Language (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2008), 135. 27 See Fauconnier and Turner, Way We Think, 139; see also 277. 28 The literature on this is vast, but Anthony C. Thiselton, The First Epistle to the Corinthians: A Commentary on the Greek Text (NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), is a particularly useful resource. For an attempt to address programmatically the issue of what constitutes a slogan, see Paul Charles Siebenmann, “The Question of Slogans in 1 Corinthians” (PhD diss., Baylor University, 1997).

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of conceptual integration theory within a socio-rhetorical framework, I read Paul’s argument through the lens of rhetorical invention and thus move away from the more typical use of these slogan hypotheses in my exegesis. I argue, rather, that Paul first shows the Corinthians why it is necessary to avoid πορνεία (porneia) in 6:12-20 and then explains how they can best do this in 7:1-7.29 Examining how Paul compresses the vital relations between the believer and Christ allows, I argue, for a holistic understanding of his argument regarding sexual comportment and the Christian body. This also demonstrates how Paul brings his argument down to human scale. Moreover, the principles of selective projection and emergent structure help biblical scholars make sense of the various sexual solutions Paul creates to solve his Corinthian problem.

Wisdom as Host Rhetorolect (1 Cor 6:12) The opening texture of Paul’s didactic discourse in 6:12-7:7 is found in the dual gnomic sayings of 6:12. Rather than understanding the πάντα μοι ἔξεστιν (panta moi exestin) of 6:12a and 12c as Corinthian slogans against which Paul must argue, I interpret them through the lens of rhetorical invention. The origin of these sayings is of less concern to this analysis than understanding how they function. I argue that they operate within two paradoxical wisdom sayings with contrasting topics and comments: “Everything is permissible for me, but not everything is beneficial; everything is permissible for me, but I will not be enslaved by anything.” These gnomic sayings fit into a larger Hellenistic-Roman moral universe in which the competing goods of freedom, beneficial action, and self-mastery were discussed. Paul thus begins his teaching against πορνεία (porneia) not with any specifically Christian instruction, but with gnomic wisdom sayings that have broad accessibility and whose emergent structure appears self-evident. The self-evident nature of these gnomic sayings is one of the hallmarks of wisdom rhetorolect, which organizes the discourse of this pericope as a whole.30 This goal of discourse in this rhetorolect “is to create people who produce, good righteous action, thought, will, and speech with the aid of God’s

�� 29 For two scholars who critique the reigning slogan hypotheses regarding 6:12 and 7:1, respectively, see Brian J. Dodd, “Paul’s Paradigmatic ‘I’ and 1 Corinthians 6.12,” JSNT 59 (1995): 39-58; idem, Paul’s Paradigmatic ‘I’: Personal Example as Literary Strategy (JSNTSup 177; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 78-90; and Peter Nejsum, “The Apologetic Tendency in the Interpretation of Paul’s Sexual Ethics,” ST 48 (1994): 48-62. 30 See Robbins, Invention, 1:184.

106 � Robert H. von Thaden Jr. wisdom.”31 This ethical productivity is achieved through the instruction from a parent or teacher and, more importantly, critical thought about and reflection on this instruction. Such critical reflection is necessary because the ethical expectations of a wisdom worldview vary with a person’s station in life or abilities, as will be seen below. Thus wisdom rhetorolect organizes a cluster of topoi involving teachers or parents who instruct students or children, via teachings or arguments that require critical thought, in modes of thinking and behaving that allow for the possibility of productive righteousness. Such a cultural frame is, according to Robbins, “a localization of Mediterranean philosophical discourse.”32 What distinguishes Christian wisdom rhetorolect from this broader Mediterranean discourse, however, is the notion that all true wisdom leads back to the God of Israel, who, as father, guides his children in the world that he created. The opening texture of Paul’s argument lays the foundation for the host environment of wisdom by setting up the expectation that critical reflection will be required of the Corinthians in order for them to discern what mode of behavior will produce righteousness in their community. Wisdom acts as a host environment in this pericope by “continually operating, either as background or foreground” as the discourse unfolds.33 Yet the integration resources available in wisdom rhetorolect do not provide the argumentative power to justify the position that Paul’s didactic discourse pushes towards, namely that sexual immorality is the worst of all possible sins one could commit with one’s body. To achieve this rhetorical goal, Paul’s discourse draws on the conceptual resources dynamically organized by two additional frames, apocalyptic and priestly rhetorolects. Apocalyptic rhetorolect tends to push all discourse into binary oppositional categories defined as either good or evil. Priestly rhetorolect focuses on beneficial exchange between humans and the divine. This special relationship often sets specific people or groups of people apart into special, sanctified relationships with the divine.34 These rhetorolects are invited into the host environment of wisdom to create a more powerful argument than could be achieved by the resources of any one rhetorolect on its own.

�� 31 Robbins, Invention, 1:110. For a detailed description of wisdom rhetorolect, see Robbins, Invention, 1:121-218. 32 See Robbins, Invention, 1:493. 33 See Robbins, Invention, 1:107. 34 See Robbins, Invention, 1:110-12.

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Decompression and Analogy (1 Cor 6:13-14) In 6:13-14 Paul continues to rely on the integration resources of wisdom rhetorolect as he creates two wise sayings involving meats and the belly as well as the body and the Lord: “Meats for the belly and the belly for meats, and God will destroy both this and them. And the body not for sexual immorality but for the Lord and the Lord for the body, and God both raised the Lord and will raise us through his power.” Both the form and content of these sayings are at home in a wisdom environment. However, into this wisdom teaching about bellies and bodies, Paul introduces apocalyptic imagery of destruction and resurrection. Again, I do not find the traditional deployment of slogan hypotheses helpful here. Paul is not arguing against any position, but rather showing the Corinthians a binary apocalyptic reality. Moreover, the blending of wisdom and apocalyptic rhetorolects allows Paul to decompress the relation between the belly and the body.35 In Paul’s apocalyptically charged wisdom discourse, belly and body no longer exist in a Part-Whole relationship. Paul’s rhetoric prompts a weakening of vital relation links between belly and body so much so that they are now two distinct entities that stand diametrically opposed to one another – there is now a Disanalogy. Such a decompression allows Paul to re-define the Christian body as something that is not made for passionate appetites such as πορνεία (porneia) – it is the belly that indulges in the appetitive pleasures, and it is the belly that will be destroyed. In redefining the Christian body as something that stands over and against the appetites, Paul begins by compressing the vital relation between the body and the Lord to Analogy: as God raised the Lord, God will raise the body.36 The complex conceptual network created by 6:13c-14 compresses the vital relation between the believer and Christ to Analogy. On a specific level, this is achieved through the fact that both the believer and Christ are discussed in terms of the human body. The shared frame of the human body creates what Fauconnier and Turner refer to as a mirror network. As Turner argues, “a mirror network is one in which all the inputs share a single organizing frame, which is also projected into the blend to organize it. The shared frame gives the inputs an analogical relation; each has the same set of roles.”37 Both the believer and Je-

�� 35 See Fauconnier, “Compression and Emergent Structure,” 532. 36 Fauconnier and Turner, Way We Think, 314-15. 37 Mark Turner, “The Art of Compression,” in The Artful Mind: Cognitive Science and the Riddle of Human Creativity (ed. Mark Turner; New York: Oxford University Press, 2006), 101. I am

108 � Robert H. von Thaden Jr. sus possess bodies on which God can act. What God has done to the body of Jesus, God will do to the bodies of believers (6:14). Here is where a socio-rhetorical analysis employing the tools of blending theory allows interpreters to highlight the dynamism of Paul’s discourse. Although the compression to Analogy between believer and Jesus operates in a mirror network that is framed by the body, the specific action that God engages in vis-à-vis bodies leads the argument immediately into a double-scope network on the level of cultural frames (rhetorolects). That any elements of 6:13-14 are organized by wisdom rhetorolect is not immediately obvious. However, the theme of embodied existence before the God, wherein one avoids the dangers of irregular sex, suggests that the resources of wisdom rhetorolect are allowing Paul’s language here to prompt the retrieval of meaningful background information. Moreover, the form of 6:13-14 also bolsters this conclusion – Paul is employing gnomic sayings in these verses. It is, however, Paul’s discussion of destruction in 6:13b and resurrection in 6:14 that provide the linguistic triggers that evoke the resources of apocalyptic rhetorolect. As each saying moves from the topic (6:13a, 13c) into the comment (6:13b, 14), apocalyptic rhetorolect energizes the host wisdom environment of the topic to create a rhetorically effective emergent structure in a double-scope blend of topic plus comment. Fauconnier and Turner claim that “A double-scope network has inputs with different…organizing frames as well as an organizing frame for the blend that includes parts of each of those frames and has emergent structure all its own.”38 Here we see that double-scope blends can emerge organically out of a base mirror network as Paul’s rhetoric develops, but this is a dynamic, not linear, emergence and one that the hearer/reader can readily process “on the fly.” Although Paul is drawing from culturally available arguments in 6:13-14, much like he did in 6:12, when he evokes apocalyptic rhetorolect as the organizing frame for the comments of the sayings he activates elements of Jewish culture that would be out of place in a non-Jewish Hellenistic environment. In this way Paul is displaying what Fauconnier and Turner refer to as “multiple-scope creativity.”39 It is through the cognitive creativity of blending the resources of wisdom and apocalyptic rhetorolects to form a wisdomapocalyptic blended cultural frame that Paul’s reasoning is able to achieve such rhetorical force. This new emergent structure, which blends the rhetorical pow�� grateful to Bonnie Howe for pointing this reference out to me. See also Fauconnier and Turner, Way We Think, 337-38. 38 See Fauconnier and Turner, Way We Think, 131. Technically, this is a nonclashing doublescope network (p. 135). 39 Fauconnier and Turner, Way We Think, ch. 15.

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er of wisdom and apocalyptic rhetorolects, drives Paul’s argument forward in a way that wisdom rhetorolect alone would be unable to do.

Part-Whole (1 Cor 6:15) In 6:15a Paul moves to compress the relation between the body and Christ from Analogy to Part-Whole metonymy: “Do you not know that your bodies are members of Christ?” Using the picture of bodies and members, Paul creates a conceptual blend whose emergent structure displays the Christian body as a member of Christ. This Part-Whole relationship between the believer and Christ seems to be grounded in the cultic activity of baptism (1 Cor 1:1-16; 6:11; 15:29). In this blend, wisdom hosts reasoning about the relationship between the believer and Christ in the context of emergent structure that actively interacts with priestly rhetorolect. In other words, the host environment of wisdom is still prompting the expectation of critical reflection in a blend that invites reasoning with resources available from a cultural frame that evokes ritual actions and ritual purity. In 6:15b Paul solidifies the Part-Whole compression he has just achieved by recruiting negative emotion through the Character of the πόρνη (pornē) and contrasting her with the positive Character of Christ. Paul asks, “Should I then take away the members of Christ and make [them] members of a whore? By no means!” I choose the morally loaded English word “whore” to translate πόρνη (pornē) because (pace Renate Kirchhoff) I believe this translation lays bare for the English speaker the visceral emotional power of Paul’s graphic language in this pericope and highlights the importance of somatic markers in creating rhetoric that activates emotional responses to achieve its goals.40 Paul’s rhetoric counts on a cultural revulsion at the image of bringing together Christ and a religiously “filthy” figure such as a whore. The figure of the πόρνη (pornē) is a malevolent sexual creature, but one who is not only or simply defined by the economic marker of “prostitute.” The knowledge of the low status of whores in both Judaism and the nonJewish Hellenistic-Roman world coupled with the high status awarded to the risen Christ in the nascent Christian culture in Corinth ensures that a compression of the relations between members of Christ and members of a whore will �� 40 Renate Kirchhoff, Die Sünde gegen den einigen Leib: Studien zu πόρνη und πορνεία in 1 Kor 6,12-20 und dem socio-kulturellen Kontext der pualinischen Adressaten (SUNT 18; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994).

110 � Robert H. von Thaden Jr. fail and the blend along with it. By creating the image of the Christian body as a member of Christ, Paul can trade on the visceral religious horror created by the image of bringing two such ritually distinct Characters – Christ and the whore – into contact.

Identity (1 Cor 6:16-17) First Corinthians 6:16-17 continues the progressive texture of Paul’s compression of vital relations between the believer and the Lord: “Do you not know that the one who clings to the whore is one body [with her]? For, as it says, ‘The two shall be [made] into one flesh.’ But the one who clings to the Lord is one spirit [with him].” In 6:16 Paul creates a network in which the Character of the whore recruits meaningful background information. The blend created by this network compresses to Identity the bodies of “the one who clings” and the whore. The one who has sex with a whore is himself a whore, according to this conceptual blend. In 6:17 Paul creates a network that achieves the final step in his progressive argument – the vital relations between the believer and Christ have been compressed from Analogy (6:13-14) to Part-Whole (6:15) and now to Identity. That Paul’s rhetoric should compress the relationship between believer and Christ from Analogy to Identity comes as no surprise to conceptual theorists. As Turner notes, “It is extremely common for us to compress analogy links to identity links.”41 In the context of Paul’s argument, 6:17 sets the believer off from the surrounding world (cf. 1 Cor 5:9-10) for a special relationship with the Lord. Yet, abruptly, Paul seems to leave his concern for the body behind. The Identity between the believer and the Lord is achieved through a compression of their “spirit.” What explains this shift? I argue the explanation is found in Paul’s use of the image of clinging.42 Margaret Mitchell writes that with a “nice double entendre Paul exhorts the Corinthians to cleave to the Lord ... instead of cleaving (sexually) with the pros-

�� 41 Turner, “Art of Compression,” 101. 42 For the importance of images in human cognition, see Antonio R. Damasio, The Feeling of What Happens: Body and Emotion in the Making of Consciousness (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1999), 318-19. See also Robbins, Invention, 1:16-17.

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titute.”43 Paul’s play on the multiple meanings of the verb κολλάω (kollaō), necessitating a parenthetical explanation by Mitchell, can partially explain his shift from σῶμα (sōma) to πνεῦμα (pneuma) when moving from the union with the whore to union with Christ. Johannes Weiß was of the opinion that Paul’s word play here is “very bold and, at any rate, not careful.”44 But insights from conceptual blending support my contention that Paul’s language, while definitely bold, was more careful than Weiß gave him credit for. One of the central tenets of conceptual integration theory is that meaning is context dependent. Words are meaningful, not solely because of some intrinsic lexical essence, but rather because of the conceptual blends they prompt in specific contexts.45 In 6:16, Paul uses the verb κολλάω in a sexual sense, much like in the story of Solomon in 3 Kingdoms. In 6:17 Paul does make a “double entendre,” as Mitchell notes, in which the conceptual integration at work in that verse, while relying on the similarity of the verb κολλάω (kollaō) to shake the hearer/reader, does not project a sexual meaning into the blend, but rather a religious one as found in places such as LXX Deut 6:13; 10:20; 4 Kgdms 18:6; and Sir 2:3. Paul’s use of πνεῦμα (pneuma) to describe the type of union that exists between the believer and Christ increases the likelihood that the blend will function with the correct projections carefully selected. Priestly rhetorolect emerges from 6:17, prompted by Paul’s blend of Identity between the believer and the Lord via the spirit, and allows the religious context to be projected rather than the sexual. Far from being incautious, Paul’s lexical choice of πνεῦμα (pneuma) in 6:17 puts pressure on the blend by prompting the hearer/reader to run Paul’s daring use of images correctly, instead of running the blend in such a way that founders on the shores of misunderstanding. When the networks of 6:16-17 are read together, the ensuing mega-blend fulfills Fauconnier’s general prediction about the desirable qualities of successful blends: “human scale, only two objects, simple concrete action, clear-cut outcome.”46 It prompts the conclusion that the one who clings can either be one body with the whore or one spirit with the Lord: he cannot do both. First Corinthians 6:15 has already demonstrated this incompatibility between Christ and �� 43 Margaret M. Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation: An Exegetical Investigation of the Language and Composition of 1 Corinthians (HUT 28; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1991), 234. 44 Johannes Weiß, Der erste Korintherbrief (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1910), 164. 45 See Fauconnier and Turner, Way We Think, 142-43. “‘Polysemy’ – the fact that a single word seems to have ‘many meanings’ – is a very common phenomenon, a standard by-product of conceptual blending, but noticed in only a fraction of cases” (p. 143). 46 Fauconnier, “Compression and Emergent Structure,” 531.

112 � Robert H. von Thaden Jr. the whore. Union with a whore severs the believer’s connection to Christ, making πορνεία (porneia), as Paul will argue in 6:18, the worst of all bodily sins. Moreover, 6:13 has already demonstrated that a whorish body, graphically portrayed as a belly, is destined for destruction. Thus the Character of the whore serves to bring Paul’s argument down to human scale. He is no longer arguing about an abstract idea like πορνεία (porneia) that would invite all manner of questions revolving around specific description and definition. Rather, in 6:1517 Paul’s rhetoric forces the Corinthian believers to make a stark and simple human scale choice: Christ or the whore?

Elaboration (1 Cor 6:18-20) In 6:13-17 Paul’s rhetoric, after establishing a Disanalogy between the belly and body, creates blends that compress the vital relations between Christ and the believer from Analogy to Part-Whole to Identity. The final step this progression of compression typically takes is from Identity to Uniqueness.47 Uniqueness, according to Fauconnier, “is fusion, the strongest possible form of compression.”48 However, Paul’s argument never creates a blend that compresses the relation between Christ and the believer from Identity to Uniqueness. Rather, after compressing the relation to Identity, Paul moves to elaborate this Identity with the conceptual metaphor of sacred temple space. After uttering the command in 6:18 to flee πορνεία (porneia, itself a conceptual blend), Paul connects his use of πνεῦμα (pneuma) with the body in a concrete fashion. The argument Paul makes about “the one who clings” being ἕν πνεῦμα (hen pneuma) with Christ means, according to his elaboration in vv.18-20, that the body is a temple in which God’s holy spirit dwells. Paul’s elaboration of Christian body as sacred temple draws on and creatively enriches the integration resources of priestly rhetorolect. This definition of the Christian body makes πορνεία (porneia) completely unacceptable. Moreover, as is evident when Paul continues his argument against πορνεία (porneia) into ch. 7, this priestly conceptual blend renders any sexual activity problematic.

�� 47 Turner, “Art of Compression,” 101. See also Fauconnier and Turner, Way We Think. 314-15. 48 Fauconnier, “Compression and Emergent Structure,” 527.

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Two Sexual Solutions (1 Cor 7:1-2) When Paul turns from showing the Corinthians why πορνεία (porneia) is so dangerous to teaching the means to avoid it, he touches on a topic about which the Corinthians have apparently written him (7:1a).49 Paul begins this section by building off of his conceptual metaphor of the Christian body-as-sacred-space (6:19-20) and offers them a short maxim that exemplifies his view of the best way to avoid sexual immorality: “And concerning the things which [περὶ δέ ὧν, peri de hōn] you wrote, it is good for a person [καλὸν ἀνθρώπῳ, kalon anthrōpō] not to touch a woman” (7:1).50 Paul, however, recognizes that the Corinthians apparently cannot live out his teaching regarding sexual abstinence (v. 1b), given the cases of sexual immorality (τὰς πορνείας, tas porneias) that are already occurring among them, so he offers a second-best solution: heterosexual monogamous coupling (7:2). Such pragmatic teaching is not unique to Paul. For example, the classicist Kathy Gaca notes, “In the Republic and Laws Plato does not present one fixed plan to rein in sexual desire, but he aims to control it by managing the reproductive urge in a variety of ways.”51 The principle of selective projection, described in the introduction above, can help us make sense of Paul’s teaching in 7:1-2. The gnomic saying in 7:1b, building directly from his argument in 6:18-20, is configured by priestly rhetorolect and selectively projects its concerns about the incompatibility of sexual activity and sacred space. For example, in LXX Exod 19:15, in preparation for the Sinai theophany, Moses tells the people, “do not approach a woman [μὴ προσέλθητε γυναικί, mē proselthēte gynaiki].”52 Such a concern about women is not confined to Israelite religiosity, but can be found among non-Jewish Greeks as well. As classicist Anne Carson aptly notes about the status of women in

�� 49 Note that the relative pronoun in 7:1a (ὧν, hōn) is plural, thus signaling that Paul’s teaching in 7:1b-7 touches on only one concern from among many. Margaret Mitchell has demonstrated that the only requirement necessary for the use of the περὶ δέ (peri de) formula is that the topic be known to the writer and the audience (“Concerning the ΠΕΡΙ ΔΕ in 1 Corinthians,” NovT 31 [1989]: 229-56). 50 I translate the δέ (de) as “and” here, understanding that “δέ serves to mark that something is different from what precedes it, but only to offset it, not to exclude or contradict it” (Smyth, Greek Grammar, §2834). 51 Kathy L. Gaca, The Making of Fornication: Eros, Ethics, and Political Reform in Greek Philosophy and Early Christianity (Hellenistic Culture and Society 40; Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 57; see pp. 47-48, where she compares Plato’s ideal sexual reform in the Republic to his more pragmatic (and second-best) strictures in the Laws. 52 See Hippocrates, Epid. 6.3.14, for this Greek phrase.

114 � Robert H. von Thaden Jr. ancient Greek sexual ideology, “Women are pollutable, polluted, and polluting in several ways at once.”53 The priestly concern for purity found in 7:1b not only finds strong cross cultural resonance in the ancient world, but it also continues Paul’s line of argumentation from 6:18-20 where he equates the Christian body with a temple filled with God’s holy spirit. The biblical concern about sexual purity involves any sexual behavior – thus Paul’s use of the saying in 7:1b – but Paul’s main concern in this section of text is with a special kind of sexual impurity: the impurity that comes from πορνεία (porneia). Because of cases of this sexual sin in the community (7:2; cf. 1 Cor 5), Paul’s argument shifts from drawing upon the cross-cultural integration resources available in priestly rhetorolect to those found in wisdom rhetorolect, where the concern for teaching proper sexual behavior in the context of a marriage is activated. Paul’s argument in 7:1-2 thus demonstrates the principles of selective projection. In 7:1b, Paul draws upon and projects those elements in priestly cultural traditions that support the incompatibility between cultic activity and sex. In 7:2 Paul’s rhetoric ceases to project elements from this priestly frame and rather draws upon wisdom resources that focus on the benefit of sexual activity within marriage: “but because of the cases of sexual immorality [τὰς πορνείας, tas porneias] let each [man] have his own wife and let each [woman] have her own husband.”54 With the shift to concerns about πορνεία (porneia), the usefulness of marriage activates the conceptual resources of wisdom rhetorolect and the cultic purity concerns of v. 1b drop out of view for the moment. Notice that this shift in cultural frames explains the different sexual solutions Paul offers in 7:1-2. Although 7:1b conforms with the priestly purity logic of 6:13-17 as elaborated in the metaphor of sacred temple space, the reality of the Corinthians’ situation prompts Paul to shift frames and focus on a typical household wisdom concern: the union of a man and woman.

�� 53 Anne Carson, “Putting Her in Her Place: Woman, Dirt, and Desire,” in Before Sexuality: The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient Greek World (ed. David M. Halperin et al.; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), 158; idem, “Dirt and Desire: The Phenomenology of Female Pollution in Antiquity,” in Constructions of the Classical Body (ed. James I. Porter; Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1999), 87. 54 I discuss my translation choices for 7:1-2 below.

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Sex and Plenty of It (1 Cor 7:3-4) Having established monogamous heterosexual coupling as the only legitimate space in which the sacred Christian bodies of the Corinthian believers can legitimately engage in sexual activity, Paul continues to focus on marriage by marshalling the resources of wisdom rhetorolect. In 7:3-4 Paul teaches, “Let the husband give to wife the obligation and likewise also the wife to the husband. The wife does not have authority over her own body but the husband [does], and likewise also the husband does not have authority over his own body, but the wife [does].” Here Paul commands the married couple to have sex and plenty of it. Paul’s apparent lack of concern about sexual moderation in 7:3-4 demonstrates where Paul parts ways with some other Hellenistic Jewish texts and exhibits creative thinking that works to achieve his local rhetorical purposes. Paul seems to evince some concern about controlling inordinate sexual passion in 1 Thess 4:4-5 where he counsels the Thessalonians that they should marry “with holiness and honor” unlike the Gentiles who do so “with [the] passion of desire.”55 However, in 1 Cor 7:3-4 Paul has more pressing concerns, namely that “cases of sexual immorality” have occurred within the Christian community (7:2; cf. 1 Cor 5) and his apparent belief that many among the Corinthians lack self control (7:5). In light of the local rhetorical context, the fact that Paul does not project a typical Hellenistic concern with sexual moderation into his teaching on proper behavior in marriage is entirely understandable. Unlike Philo, for example, Paul in 1 Corinthians is not crafting a theoretical treatise on ideal sexual comportment. Rather, he is writing to combat the dangerous outbreak of πορνεία (porneia) within the Corinthian community. In such a situation, calls to moderate legitimate sexual activity could work at cross purposes with Paul’s rhetorical goal. That Paul recognizes this is evident in the reluctance with which he concedes such a plan of moderation in the next two verses.

�� 55 See O. Larry Yarbrough, Not Like the Gentiles: Marriage Rules in the Letters of Paul (SBLDS 80; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1985), ch. 3; Jennifer Wright Knust, Abandoned to Lust: Sexual Slander and Ancient Christianity (Gender, Theory, and Religion; New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 51-52.

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A Blended Option (1 Cor 7:5-6) In 7:5-6 Paul moves to nuance the instruction he has given regarding the two ways to deal with sex and the sanctified Christian body thus far. In these verses Paul allows that a “third way” is possible – a blend of sexual abstinence (7:1b) and regular sexual activity within marriage (7:2-4). The emergent structure of this blend allows married couples to refrain from sexual activity for a time, but places restrictions and limits on how this can take place. Paul’s rationale and warning in these verses invite priestly concerns back into his didactic wisdom teaching. As he writes the Corinthians, “Do not deprive one another, unless perhaps out of agreement for a time, in order that you might devote yourselves to prayer and [that] you might be together again, lest Satan tempt you on account of your lack of self-control. And this I say by way of concession and not as a command.” Paul seems to be working through the priestly and wisdom concerns he raises in 7:1-2. His concession in 7:5-6 represents a blending of these concerns evoked by these cultural frames in order to create more options for the Corinthians. Although the safest solutions to the problem of πορνεία in Corinth remain either complete abstinence or regular sex within a monogamous heterosexual union, Paul concedes that there is a third way. However, this way only makes conceptual sense when seen as a blend of the two solutions he has articulated in 7:1-4, each of which evokes the resources of different cultural frames. This third way allows couples to practice the higher form of sexual ideology espoused by Paul, and thus conforming to the inner logic of priestly rhetorolect, while still providing a “safe” sexual outlet for married partners in a way that conforms to the inner logic of wisdom rhetorolect. It is in the emergent structure of this blended third way that Paul comes closest to the sexual ideology found in the law codes of Leviticus and Deuteronomy. Purity issues are allowed to come into play in Paul’s rhetoric in these verses, but only as a concession to couples who mutually agree to abstain for cultic reasons. In contrast to the law codes of the Pentateuch, however, Paul does not command the Corinthians to integrate purity concerns into their married sexual behavior. Rather Paul, apparently somewhat reluctantly, concedes this option to those who want to order their lives through the organizing principles of both priestly and wisdom rhetorolects.

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Imitation and Discernment (1 Cor 7:7) Paul closes his general teaching regarding how to avoid the sin of πορνεία (porneia) by recapitulating his arguments in 7:1-6.56 “And I wish all people to be even as I myself am; but each person has his own gift from God the one thus and the other thus.” Paul declares his wish that all people could be sexually continent like he is (7:1, 8; cf. 9:5, 15). This is a counterfactual statement, signaled by the lexical item θέλω (thelō).57 The strong adversative ἀλλά (alla; cf. 6:12; 7:4) signals to Paul’s hearers/readers that his wish does not represent reality as lived in Corinth. As he will explicate later in the letter (12:4-11, 27-31; 14), the members of the Corinthian community do not all have the same gifts. Apparently, this extends also to the realm of self-control in matters of sexual expression. If all had the same gifts as Paul, the best way to avoid πορνεία (porneia) would be to avoid sex altogether. However, the facts on the ground in Corinth demonstrate that not everybody is as gifted as Paul is in this regard.58 Thus Paul commands monogamous couples to engage in regular sex. He also allows some to blend together abstinence within a sexual relationship, but under strict controls. Paul seems to fear that members of the community will try to push abstinence beyond their gifts and thus harm community. Paul wishes that all the Corinthians could follow his sexual praxis, but in true wisdom style, he recognizes that God does not give the same gifts to everyone. Thus Paul ends his discourse by teaching the Corinthians to discern what gifts they have received from God and to choose the proper sexual path based on these gifts.59

�� 56 On closing texture, see Vernon K. Robbins, Exploring the Texture of Texts: A Guide to SocioRhetorical Interpretation (Valley Forge, Pa.: Trinity Press International, 1996), 19-21; idem, The Tapestry of Early Christian Discourse: Rhetoric, Society and Ideology (New York: Routledge, 1996), 50-53. 57 See Fauconnier and Turner, Way We Think, 31-32. 58 See Gaca, Fornication, 89, for her discussion of the Cynic-Stoic wise “Superman” who can avoid sex, but whose behavior cannot function as an example for the masses; also Margaret Y. MacDonald, “Virgins, Widows, and Wives: The Women of 1 Corinthians 7,” in A Feminist Companion to Paul (ed. Amy-Jill Levine; Cleveland: Pilgrim, 2004), 163. 59 See Robbins, Invention, 1:129.

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Conclusion Matthew Goff, in his work on 4QInstruction, argues that scholars need to focus on how Jewish and Christian texts combine wisdom and apocalyptic elements, rather than trying to force texts into one category or the other.60 Conceptual blending, I argue, offers the resources to do this very thing. Blending theory provides biblical scholars with a principled means with which to explain how a text such as 1 Corinthians employs wisdom, apocalyptic, and even priestly resources in order to craft a rhetorically effective argument. In this passage, Paul evokes all three of these cultural frames to offer the Corinthians multiple ways to think about their sanctified bodies. True to form for wisdom, Paul’s argument offers a variety of ways the Corinthians can avoid the sin of πορνεία (porneia) based on their proper discernment of the gifts they have received from God.61 My analysis demonstrates that Paul’s paideia in this passage works to create a Christian culture that is wary of sexual activity due to the holiness of the Christian body, but pragmatic enough to offer individuals modes of sexual behavior that allow for “safe” sexual expression within this community of sanctified believers.62 Blending theory allows my exegesis to explain the shifting frames found within Paul’s argument as products of his own creative reasoning. Examining how Paul compresses the relationship between the believer’s body and Christ helps us to see the conceptual coherence of Paul’s rhetoric, a coherence that much of twentieth century scholarship obscures by insisting that 1 Cor 6:12-7:7 contains Corinthian slogans against which Paul must argue. While Paul has a strong preference for abstinence (7:1, 7), based on the compression to Identity between the believer’s body and Christ, his teaching recognizes the heterogeneous nature of the Corinthian community. Such recognition forces him to draw on resources from a variety of frames in his response to the threat of πορνεία (porneia). The blending of resources from multiple conceptual arenas provides Paul’s rhetoric with a “cognitive nimbleness” that allows him not only to show the Corinthians why πορνεία (porneia) is the worst of all bodily sins, but that

�� 60 See Matthew J. Goff, “Wisdom, Apocalypticism and the Pedagogical Ethos of 4QInstruction,” in Conflicted Boundaries in Wisdom and Apocalypticism (ed. Benjamin G. Wright III and Lawrence M. Wills; SBLSymS 35; Atlanta: SBL, 2005), 57, 67; idem, The Worldly and Heavenly Wisdom of 4QInstruction (STDJ 50; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 39. 61 See James L. Crenshaw, Old Testament Wisdom: An Introduction (Rev. ed.; Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 1998), 11. 62 On the creation of a new Christian paideia, see Robbins, Invention, 1:15.

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also enables him to explain multiple modes of avoiding this somatic transgression.63 I hope that this exegetical sketch employing conceptual blending within a socio-rhetorical framework highlights the promise conceptual integration theory holds for the practice of biblical studies. Although a complete analysis of 1 Cor 6:12-7:7 is well beyond the scope of what space allows here, reading Paul’s teaching in this pericope with the tools of conceptual integration theory – especially frames, compression, selective projection, emergent structure, and human scale – has helped move us to a place where biblical scholars can wrestle with the many intractable issues in these verses in new and, I hope, productive ways.64 The standard conceptual compressions from Analogy to Part-Whole to Identity that Paul’s teaching employs in this pericope allow biblical scholars to see Paul’s argument through the lens of rhetorical invention without recourse to unnecessary slogan hypotheses. Moreover, the multiple solutions Paul offers to the Corinthians make sense when viewed from an interpretive standpoint that takes into consideration Paul’s local rhetorical goal as well as the multiple frames his argument evokes at different moments as it progresses. Conceptual integration theory allows for a holistic reading of 1 Cor 6:12-7:7 as a unified argument of Paul’s own making.

�� 63 Eubanks, “Globalization,” 189. 64 See Robert H. von Thaden Jr., Sex, Christ, and Embodied Cognition: Paul’s Wisdom for Corinth (Emory Studies in Early Christianity 16; Blandford Forum: Deo, 2012), for a more detailed analysis of this pericope.

120 � Robert H. von Thaden Jr.

Greg Schmidt Goering

Sapiential Synesthesia The Conceptual Blending of Light and Word in Ben Sira’s Wisdom Instruction On three occasions, Ben Sira describes the activity of wisdom teaching using a blend of visual and verbal imagery.1 In a preface to one of his wisdom instructions, the sage compares himself to a moon midway through the lunar cycle: “Yet being so disposed I will tell in full (ἐκδιηγήσομαι, ekdiēgēsomai), for like the full moon I was filled (ὡς διχομηνία ἐπληρώθην, hōs dichomēvia eplērōthēn)” (Sir 39:12).2 The simile conjures Ben Sira at the moment of verbal instruction brimming with knowledge; on the verge of dispensing his wisdom, light wells up inside him to the point that he luminesces. In a second passage, Ben Sira again combines visual and verbal imagery when he contrasts the wisdom teacher — who labors with his mouth — and manual laborers (Sir 38:24-39:11). Through the act of teaching, the sage “will bring to light the instruction of his learning” (ἐκφανεῖ παιδείαν διδασκαλίας αὐτοῦ, ekphanei paideian didaskalias autou; Sir 39:6-8), that is, convert verbal instruction into a luminous substance. Finally, in a third passage, Ben Sira identifies his own sapiential instruction with personified Wisdom and then describes the process of his teaching, once more blending the verbal and the visual: “I will again illuminate instruction like the dawn (παιδείαν ὡς ὄρθρον φωτιῶ, paideian hōs orthron phōtiō), and make them visible (ἐκφανῶ αὐτά, ekphanō auta) from far off” (Sir 24:32).3 Why would a teacher radiate light at the moment of verbal instruction? Or what could it mean to convert verbal instruction into light? Ben Sira’s combina�� 1 I am grateful to Eve Sweetser, Karina Martin Hogan, Matthew Goff, Benjamin Wright, Jon Levenson, Yael Avrahami, and Elizabeth Shanks Alexander for commenting on earlier drafts of this article. In addition, I thank Bonnie Howe and the members of the Cognitive Linguistics in Biblical Interpretation program unit of the Society of Biblical Literature for providing useful feedback on the conference paper from which this article developed. 2 In Sir 50:6b, Ben Sira also compares the high priest Simon to the full moon, though the context differs. 3 The antecedent of αὐτά (auta, “them”) — ταῦτα (tauta, “these things”) — appears in Sir 24:23 and refers to all that Ben Sira has narrated about personified Wisdom in 24:1-22. As Jan Liesen notes, scholars have linked Sir 39:12 to 24:30-4 for two reasons: (1) ἔτι (eti, “again”) assumes an earlier example, and (2) the two passages share light imagery (Full of Praise: An Exegetical Study of Sir 39,12-35 [JSJSup 64; Leiden: Brill, 2000], 115). No one, to my knowledge, has noted the blending of visual and verbal images in these passages.

122 � Greg Schmidt Goering tion of visual and verbal images to describe wisdom teaching, I propose, is neither mere poetic embellishment nor a clumsy mixing of metaphors. Rather, the merging of these images reveals Ben Sira’s understanding of the pedagogical mechanism by which wisdom instruction operates. Using the blend, Ben Sira points to the pivotal role of the sage in the process of wisdom transmission, expresses his experience of the teaching event as extraordinary, and characterizes himself as especially well-positioned to communicate divine wisdom to his students.

Symbolic Synesthesia That the Book of Sirach blends visual and verbal imagery should not surprise us. Indeed, other early Jewish authors also blend visual and verbal images. Philo, for example, discusses repeatedly the divine voice in Exod 20:15 [18], which the people “saw” (ἑώρα, heōra) during the theophany at Sinai (Mos. 2.213; Decal. 46-7; Migr. 47-49).4 Philo interprets the combination of the verb to see and the direct object God’s voice to mean that the divine voice differs qualitatively from the human voice: the latter is audible, while the former is visible (Decal. 47).5 Like Philo, early rabbinic authors respond to the unusual wording of Exod 20:15 [18], and some follow Philo’s interpretive strategy. The Mekilta, for example, attributes the following tradition to R. Akiba: “They saw and heard that which was visible” (‫רואין ושומעין את הנראה‬, rôʾîn wəšômʿîn ʾet hannirʾeh), namely, “the fiery word coming out of the mouth of the Almighty.”6 Other early Jewish interpreters, based in part on the notion of the visible divine voice at Sinai, came to view the revelation of Torah in luminescent terms. The Prayer of Enosh associates the giving of laws with light (‫אור עולמים‬, ʾôr �� 4 See F. H. Colson, Philo (10 vols.; LCL 289; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1929), 4:158; 6:554; 7:28-30. Philo’s interpretation is aided by the rendering of the plural ‫הקולת‬ (haqqôlōt, “the sounds”) in MT Exod 20:15 by the singular τὴν φωνήν (tēn phōnēn, “the sound/voice”) in LXX Exod 20:18. 5 On Philo’s treatment of the divine voice at Sinai, see David Chidester, Word and Light: Seeing, Hearing, and Religious Discourse (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1992), 30-43; Steven D. Fraade, “Hearing and Seeing at Sinai: Interpretive Trajectories,” in The Significance of Sinai: Traditions about Sinai and Divine Revelation in Judaism and Christianity (ed. George J. Brooke, Hindy Najman, and Loren T. Stuckenbruck; Leiden: Brill, 2008), 250-61. 6 See Mek., Baḥodesh 9; cf. Pirqe R. El. 41. For a discussion of these and other rabbinic texts that treat vision and audition in the Sinai narrative, see Fraade, “Hearing and Seeing at Sinai,” 250-68.

Sapiential Synesthesia � 123

ʿôlāmîm; 4Q369 1.4-8). Similarly the Book of Wisdom and the Testament of Levi refer to “the light of the law” (νόμου φῶς, nomou phōs, Wis 18:4; τὸ φῶς τοῦ νόμου, to phōs tou nomou, T. Levi 14.4) that God granted to Israel.7 Such multisensory blends — in which humans perceive the verbal revelation of the Torah as light, for example — constitute a symbolic or literary synesthesia. M. H. Abrams defines literary synesthesia as “descriptions of one kind of sensation in terms of another; color is attributed to sounds, odor to colors, sound to odors, and so on.”8 The idea of symbolic synesthesia derives from the physiological phenomenon sensory synesthesia, involving the extraordinary convergence or interpenetration of the senses.9 As the figurative complement to sensory synesthesia, symbolic synesthesia combines two or more sensory metaphors (combinatory synesthesia) or describes the activation of one sense through the stimulation of another sense, when, for example, a poet depicts light as heard or words as visualized (intersensory synesthesia). As we will see, in Ben Sira’s Hellenistic context, vision and audition were thought to operate through different modalities, and each mode was associated with a different organ of perception: eyes perceived what was visible and ears what was audible. These modalities, it was thought, were not transferable under normal circumstances. Hence, for an ancient author to suggest that the eye perceived sound was to communicate something extraordinary. Such expressions enabled authors to articulate what they otherwise found difficult to convey through more ordinary language. Hence, the careful reader of ancient texts ought to take notice when encountering such synesthetic expressions. It is somewhat surprising that, unlike the other early Jewish authors described above, Ben Sira does not resort to synesthetic expressions when describing the Sinai event (Sir 17:11-14). Rather than understand ‫( ראים‬rāʾîm) in Exod 20:15 [18] literally as “seeing” the audible sounds, as Philo and others do, Ben Sira takes a less supernatural interpretive approach: “their eyes saw (εἶδον οἱ ὀφθαλμοὶ αὐτῶν, eidon hoi ophthalmoi autōn) [YHWH’S] magnificent glory, and their ear heard (ἤκουσεν τὸ οὖς αὐτῶν, ēkousen to ous autōn) the glory of his voice” (φωνῆς αὐτοῦ, phōnēs autou; Sir 17:13). In other words, Ben Sira interprets ‫( ראים‬rāʾîm, “seeing”) to mean that the Israelites “saw” what was visible �� 7 In T. Levi 14.4, some MSS read κόσμου (kosmou, “world”) in place of νόμου (nomou, “law”). On the “light of the law” in Wis 18:4, see Luca Mazzinghi, “Law of Nature and Light of the Law in the Book of Wisdom (Wis 18:4c),” in Studies in the Book of Wisdom (ed. Géza G. Xeravits and József Zsengellér; JSJSup 142; Leiden: Brill, 2010). 8 M. H. Abrams, A Glossary of Literary Terms (7th ed.; Fort Worth: Harcourt Brace, 1999), 315. 9 On the phenomenon of sensory synesthesia, see Oliver Sacks, Musicophilia: Tales of Music and the Brain (New York: Knopf, 2007), 165-66.

124 � Greg Schmidt Goering (God’s glory) and “heard” what was audible (God’s voice).10 Ben Sira’s nonsynesthetic reading of Exod 20:15 [18] suggests that the revelation at Sinai is not the most significant event for him. Although the blending of visual and aural imagery is not unique to Ben Sira, his use of such blends to characterize the activity of wisdom teaching is unusual in his Second Temple context. Moreover, the rarity of such multisensory blends in his work makes these three examples conspicuous and demands that we pay close attention to them.11 Responding to this demand, I interpret Ben Sira’s combination of visual and verbal imagery using a cognitive theory of metaphor and a theory of conceptual blending, and by considering contemporaneous conceptions of ocular and aural perception. My essential claim here is that seeing and hearing function as “metaphorical concepts” in the Book of Sirach. In making such a claim, I am drawing on the cognitive theory of metaphor developed by George Lakoff and Mark Johnson.12 In Sirach, seeing and hearing frequently function as conceptual metaphors that evoke associations deeply rooted both in biology and culture. Lakoff and Johnson’s cognitive theory of metaphor stresses that humans reason about subjective experience — knowing, for example — based on other domains of experience, most commonly sensorimotor domains.13 Lakoff and Johnson label the principal cognitive mechanism for reasoning about such subjective experience “conceptual metaphor.”14 A conceptual metaphor maps inference patterns from one conceptual domain to another. The common conceptual metaphor KNOWING IS SEEING, for example, maps inference patterns about the source domain “seeing” onto inference patterns about the target domain “knowing” (see Figure 1 on page 125).15 In this way, inferences available from the source domain may be used to reason about the more subjective target do-

�� 10 In this interpretation, Ben Sira foreshadows the approach later taken both in the Samaritan Pentateuch’s (ca. 100 BCE) rendering of this verse from Exodus and in a midrash attributed to R. Ishmael (early second century CE) in Mek., Baḥodesh 9. On these latter two texts, see Fraade, “Hearing and Seeing at Sinai,” 250-52. 11 I discuss the only other example in which Ben Sira blends visual and verbal images (Sir 48:1) at the end of the article. 12 Lakoff and Johnson first proposed the notion of “conceptual metaphor” in Metaphors We Live By (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980). Subsequently, they refined their theory in Philosophy in the Flesh: The Embodied Mind and Its Challenge to Western Thought (New York: Basic, 1999). 13 Lakoff and Johnson, Philosophy in the Flesh, 24-25. 14 Ibid., 45. 15 See ibid., 53-54.

Sapiential Synesthesia � 125

main. Throughout this article, I use the term “metaphor” to mean “conceptual metaphor.”

Knowing Is Seeing

Seeing source domain

Knowing target domain

Figure 1: Inference pattern mapping in conceptual metaphor.

Building on the work of Lakoff and Johnson, Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner generalized the conceptual theory of metaphor to account for more complex mappings that involve two or more source domains. According to their theory, a person integrates two or more mental spaces through a process of “conceptual blending.”16 This process results in a new blended mental space, which contains novel elements that are not possible in either of the original mental spaces. As we will see, conceptual blending allows a person to combine otherwise incompatible elements into an integrated whole, a feature that will help us interpret Ben Sira’s puzzling description of wisdom instruction.17

Primary Conceptual Metaphors for Knowing Like his predecessors in the Israelite wisdom tradition, Ben Sira esteemed eyes and ears not only as divinely created organs for the exploration of the world (Sir 17:6; cf. Prov 20:12) but also as means for the acquisition of knowledge (Sir 3:25; cf. Prov 24:30-32). Hence, it is not surprising that in Sirach seeing and hearing frequently denote modes of knowing. For example, Ben Sira’s discussion of his travels associates understanding with seeing: “I have seen much (πολλὰ ἑώρακα, polla heōraka) in my journeys; my understanding (σύνεσίς μου, sunesis mou) exceeds what I can say” (Sir 34:12). The pairing of the subjective experience of understanding with the sensory experience of seeing suggests that beneath this passage lies the conceptual metaphor KNOWING IS SEEING, which I

�� 16 Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner, The Way We Think: Conceptual Blending and the Mind’s Hidden Complexities (New York: Basic, 2002), 18. 17 Karina Martin Hogan has effectively applied the theories of conceptual metaphor and conceptual blending in the interpretation of a biblical text in “Mother Earth as a Conceptual Metaphor in 4 Ezra,” CBQ 73 (2011): 73-78.

126 � Greg Schmidt Goering discussed above. Rooted in the primary experience of gaining information from visual input, the metaphor allows the author to reason about the more subjective area of knowing based on the sensorimotor domain of seeing. Analogously, when Ben Sira urges those unschooled in wisdom to avail themselves of instruction through aural means, he associates instruction with hearing: “If you are willing to listen, you will benefit ([‫אם תובא לשמע ]תקח‬, ʾim tûbāʾ lišmōaʿ [tiqqaḥ]); incline your ear, you will be instructed (‫והט אזנך תוסר‬, wəhaṭ ʾoznəkā tûsar)” (Sir 6:33).18 Here the underlying conceptual metaphor KNOWING IS HEARING derives from the common human experience of gathering information from aural input. As such, it allows the author to reason about the subjective domain of knowing based on the sensorimotor domain of hearing. Ben Sira parallels these two metaphors in his preface to a passage about human wickedness: Sir 16:5a

‫רבות כאלה ראתה עיני‬

rabbôt kəʾēlleh rāʾătâ ʿênay many things such as these has seen my eye Many such things my eye has seen, b

‫ שמעה אזני‬19‫ועצמות מאלה‬

wəʿaṣmôt mēʾēlleh šāməʿâ ʾoznî and many things more than these has heard my ear and many more than these my ear has heard.

The point of the preface is not that Ben Sira has literally seen the following examples of human wickedness and has heard of others — though this is undoubtedly true. Rather, the preface indicates that he knows these examples of human behavior to be wicked. In Lakoff and Johnson’s theory, the common conceptual metaphors KNOWING IS SEEING and KNOWING IS HEARING are classified as “Primary Metaphors.” According to Joseph Grady, a Primary Metaphor has “a direct experien-

�� 18 MS A omits ‫( תקח‬tiqqaḥ, “you will be instructed”) but its reconstruction is based on ἐκδέξῃ (ekdexē, “wait for, expect”) in G and  (tīʾlap, “learn”) in Syr. See M. H. Segal, The Complete Book of Ben Sira (in Hebrew) (2nd ed.; Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1958), ‫ ;מב‬Patrick W. Skehan and Alexander A. Di Lella, The Wisdom of Ben Sira (AB 39; Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1987), 192. 19 MS A and MS B read ‫( כאלה‬kəʾēlleh, “like these”) and ‫( באלה‬bəʾēlleh, “in these”), respectively. For a discussion of text-critical issues and the emendation ‫( מאלה‬mēʾēlleh, “than these”) see Skehan and Di Lella, Wisdom of Ben Sira, 270.

Sapiential Synesthesia � 127

tial basis.”20 That is, Primary Metaphors arise naturally out of embodied, everyday experience, in this case the common human experiences of acquiring information visually and aurally. Because Primary Metaphors are rooted in an interaction between human biology and the world, such metaphors are shared across linguistic groups, despite other cultural variations.21 As we will see in the next section, Primary Metaphors are distinguished from “complex metaphors.” Complex metaphors arise when humans combine Primary Metaphors with local forms of cultural knowledge, a fact that explains cultural variation in the use of metaphors. But first, we need to explore the precise nuances these primary conceptual metaphors acquire in Ben Sira’s cultural context.

Cultural Assumptions about Vision and Audition Despite the widespread nature of primary conceptual metaphors, assumptions about the physiological operation of the senses vary from culture to culture.22 These assumptions create certain associations with seeing and hearing, respectively, and sensory metaphors recruit and convey these associations. As David Chidester argues in his study of sensory perception in the religious discourse of Augustine of Hippo, certain assumptions about the physiology of seeing and hearing were implicated in the church father’s deployment of sensory metaphors: “When Augustine referred to the ‘eye of the soul’ or the ‘ear of the heart,’ at least one aspect of signification was drawn from his understanding of how eyes and ears worked.”23 To put this in terms of a theory of conceptual metaphor, since humans reason about the subjective domain (knowing) based on the sensorimotor domains (seeing and hearing), local assumptions about vision and audition influence thinking about knowing. In order to understand better Ben Sira’s sensory metaphors, therefore, we ought to examine the assumptions and associations regarding vision and audition that were common in his cultural context. Understanding these associations will be important when we interpret Ben Sira’s description of wisdom teaching as a blend of visual and verbal imag�� 20 Joseph Grady, “Foundations of Meaning: Primary Metaphors and Primary Scenes” (PhD diss., University of California, Berkeley, 1997), 47-48. As we will see, Primary Metaphors form the building blocks for more complex metaphors. 21 Lakoff and Johnson, Philosophy in the Flesh, 56. 22 The relatively new field of sensory anthropology has emphasized that “sensory perception is a cultural, as well as a physical, act” (Constance Classen, “Foundations for an Anthropology of the Senses,” International Social Science Journal 153 [1997]: 401). 23 Chidester, Word and Light, 2.

128 � Greg Schmidt Goering es below. Since Ben Sira’s Hellenistic cultural context was itself a blend of Hebrew and Greek languages and ideas, I will briefly examine assumptions about seeing and hearing both in the Hebrew Bible and in ancient Greek sources.24 Although a previous generation of scholars contrasted a supposedly aural Hebrew culture and a visual Greek culture,25 two recent studies have shown the speciousness of this dichotomy. Both Michael Carasik and Yael Avrahami have argued persuasively for the centrality of sight “in the Israelite understanding of how [humans] acquire knowledge about the world.”26 Here, however, I am not interested in the question of which sensory mode — seeing or hearing — was more important to ancient Israelites; no doubt, Israelites highly valued both modes of perception. Rather, I aim to show that, in general, ancient Israelites thought that seeing and hearing operated differently, and that these differences yielded certain associations with seeing and others with hearing. Specifically, for ancient Israelites, seeing was associated with direct, immediate experience, while hearing connoted indirect, secondary experience. Consider Job’s response to the whirlwind theophany: “I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye has seen you” ( ‫לשמע־אזן שמעתיך ועתה‬ ‫עיני ראתך‬, ləšēmaʿ-ʾōzen šəmaʿtîkā wəʿattâ ʿēnî rāʾātəkā; Job 42:5). For the author of Job, the direct nature of seeing trumps the indirect nature of hearing. That Job never actually sees God but only experiences God speaking from the whirlwind (‫ויאמר‬...‫ויען‬, wayyaʿan…wayyōʾmar, “and he answered…and he said”; Job 38:1; 40:1, 6) indicates the metaphoric nature of seeing in this text and its association with firsthand experience. The following example from the prophetic literature also construes vision as primary and direct, and audition as secondary and indirect. Ezekiel’s angelic guide instructs the prophet: “Look with your eyes, and with your ears hear (‫ראה בעיניך ובאזניך שמע‬, rəʾēh bəʿênêkā ûbəʾoznêkā šəmāʿ); pay attention to all that I am showing (‫מראה‬, marʾeh) you, for you have been brought here in order to be shown (‫הראותכה‬, harʾôtəkâ). Report (‫הגד‬, haggēd) all that you see (‫ראה‬, rōʾeh) to the house of Israel” (Ezek 40:4). Although the first two clauses �� 24 On Ben Sira’s Hellenistic millieu, see Skehan and Di Lella, Wisdom of Ben Sira, 46-50; Theophil Middendorp, Die Stellung Jesu Ben Siras zwischen Judentum und Hellenismus (Leiden: Brill, 1973), 8-24; Jack T. Sanders, Ben Sira and Demotic Wisdom (SBLMS 28; Chico, Calif.: Scholars Press, 1983). 25 See, e.g., Thorleif Boman, Hebrew Thought Compared with Greek (trans. Jules L. Moreau; New York: W. W. Norton, 1970), 206. 26 The quotation is from Michael Carasik, Theologies of the Mind in Biblical Israel (Studies in Biblical Literature 85; New York: Peter Lang, 2006), 38. See also Yael Avrahami, The Senses of Scripture: Sensory Perception in the Hebrew Bible (LHBOTS 545; London: T. & T. Clark, 2012).

Sapiential Synesthesia � 129

seem to place seeing and hearing on equal footing, the visual verbs employed in the rest of the verse indicate that it is Ezekiel’s visual experience that is fundamental. As Carasik notes, “The primary experience, the one for which Ezekiel was brought ‘in visions of God [‫במראות אלהים‬, bəmarʾôt ʾĕlohîm]’ (40:2) to the land of Israel, was visual—the vision of the Temple.”27 The verbal reporting of his visual experience — and the correlative hearing of it by the Israelites — occurs secondarily. Similar assumptions about vision and audition can be detected in the book of Proverbs. Although verbs for hearing outnumber verbs for seeing in Proverbs, the noun “eye” is more prominent than the noun “ear.”28 But more important than the number of occurrences of each term is the usage of the two sets of terms. In Proverbs, hearing frequently refers to formal learning, in which one person conveys information orally to another (e.g., Prov 4:20; 5:1).29 This aurally perceived instruction, however, occurs secondarily to the primary, direct experience of sight: “Go to the ant, sluggard; see (‫ראה‬, rəʾēh) its ways and become wise (‫וחכם‬, waḥăkām)” (Prov 6:6; cf. 23:26). Indeed, as Carasik has shown, sight was so primary and direct in the tradition of Proverbs, that seeing came to be used more abstractly for intellectual reflection: “Have you seen (‫ראית‬, rāʾîtā) a man wise in his own eyes? A fool has more hope than he” (Prov 26:12; cf. 29:20; 22:29).30 Here, “seen” cannot be taken literally, but must refer to mental perception. In Proverbs, hearing never functions in this abstract sense, but rather indicates the subsequent transmission of knowledge derived from visual observation. Even more strikingly, Deuteronomy distinguishes seeing from hearing by associating the former with immediate, direct experience. As Carasik points out, when Moses assures Joshua that God will defeat the Cisjordanian kings, as he had defeated the kings of Transjordan, he appeals to Joshua’s own visual experience: “Your own eyes saw (‫עיניך הראת‬, ʿênêkā hārōʾōt) all that YHWH your God did to these two kings” (Deut 3:21; cf. 4:1-3). Similar appeals to first-hand experience using visual terms occur 24 times in the book.31 For Deuteronomy, this direct visual experience was archetypical. Since such first-hand experience cannot be transmitted visually to others, however, the authors exhort the Israelites to “make known” and “teach” these experiences to their children (Deut 4:910), and hearing serves as the mode by which such experiences can be passed �� 27 Carasik, Theologies of the Mind, 39 (transliteration added). 28 For the textual data, see ibid., 150-51 and nn 42-51. 29 Ibid., 153. 30 Ibid., 153-54. 31 Ibid., 185 and n 33.

130 � Greg Schmidt Goering on to future generations (Deut 31:12-13).32 As Carasik observes, “This same pattern [of primary visual experience conveyed secondarily in verbal form] holds on a more general scale throughout the Bible.”33 When we turn to Greek associations with vision and audition, we find a similar distinction: seeing connotes immediate, first-hand experience; hearing indicates indirect, second-hand experience.34 Most Greek authors explained sight as the consequence of the eye having an instantaneous and unbroken connection with an object.35 Alcmaeon of Croton (6th–5th cent. BCE), for example, held an extramission theory of vision, according to which rays emanate from an intraocular fire contained within the eye’s watery environment, reach out to touch objects, and then return again to the eye.36 Similarly, Empedocles (ca. 490–430 BCE) compared the eye to a lantern, which protects the inner fire from wind yet permits its light to pass through.37 Plato (ca. 427—347 BCE) further developed the intraocular fire theory and argued that seeing also requires reflections from visible objects (like the Atomists), as well as an external light source. In Plato’s formulation, sight is possible because the external light permits rays emanating from the visual fire of the eye to form an ongoing connection with the reflections emitted by the object.38 Because of the immediate and continuous connection created through the bond of sight, visual objects were thought to be present (not merely represented) to their beholder. Ancient Greek philosophers analyzed audition as an independent perceptual apparatus whose modes of perception differ from the perceptual modes of vision. In their view, hearing results from a disturbance to the air produced by an external entity; the disturbance then journeys over an expanse and makes contact with the ear. Anaxagoras (ca. 500–428 BCE), for example, speculated that when breath crashes into non-moving air, the latter carries sound to the ear “in the manner of an echo (ἠχώ, ēchō).”39 Similarly, Alcmaeon understood that �� 32 Ibid., 187. 33 Ibid., 39. 34 Here I can only summarize conclusions, based in part on Chidester, Word and Light, 2-8. 35 Ibid., 6. On the three basic ancient Greek theories of vision, see W. K. C. Guthrie, A History of Greek Philosophy (2 vols.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1965), 2:234. 36 See John I. Beare, Greek Theories of Elementary Cognition: From Alcmaeon to Aristotle (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1906), 12. 37 Empedocles, Fr. 84; Hermann Diels and Walther Kranz, eds., Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker (7th ed.; 3 vols.; Berlin: Weidmannsche,1954), 1:341-42; ET Guthrie, Greek Philosophy, 2:235. 38 Timaeus 45b-46d; cited in Chidester, Word and Light, 4. 39 Aët. 4.19.5 (A106); cited in Guthrie, Greek Philosophy, 2:318 n 3. Cf. Beare, Greek Theories, 104.

Sapiential Synesthesia � 131

the air inside the ear reproduces an echo of external sounds.40 Whereas Empedocles had compared the eye to a lantern, he described the ear as a bell: when the air strikes the cartilage inside the ear, the ear “resounds” (ἤχων, ēchōn) with a sound equal to the original sound.41 Similarly, Plato thought that hearing results from a “blow” (πληγή, plēgē) that passes through the air and vibrates in the ears, the brain, the blood, and the soul.42 Thus, Greek thinkers considered audition to involve a representation (echo) in the ear of the original sonant event. From this cursory survey, one can observe that Greek philosophers contrasted the modes of perception that were operative in vision and audition. Vision involved an instantaneous and continuous connection between eye and object through space, whereas the process of audition occurred in time, over an expanse, and suggested discontinuity between the hearer and the sonant event. I have summarized these major associations with seeing and hearing, respectively, in Table 1. Seeing eye active space simultaneity immediacy continuity connection presentation similarity

Hearing ear passive time sequence temporality discontinuity distance representation difference

Table 1: Ancient Greek Associations with Vision and Audition

These Greek cultural assumptions regarding vision and audition inform the metaphorical use of seeing and hearing by authors who share them. When such authors communicate via visual metaphors, then, they connote activity, immediacy, continuity, and connection. Similarly, when such authors employ aural metaphors, they signal passivity, temporality, discontinuity, and distance.

�� 40 “Hearing is through the ears because they contain void, which resounds (ἠχεῖν, ēchein). Sound is produced in the cavity, and the air echoes (ἀντηχεῖν, antēchein) it” (Theophr. De sensu, 25; text in Beare, Greek Theories, 93 n 1; ET Guthrie, Greek Philosophy, 1:347-48). 41 See Theophr. De sensu, 9; Aët. 4.16.1 (A93); cited in Guthrie, Greek Philosophy, 2:238-9. Text in Beare, Greek Theories, 96 n 1. 42 Timaeus 67b; cited in Chidester, Word and Light, 4.

132 � Greg Schmidt Goering Returning to vision and audition in Sirach, then, we can observe how these two Primary Metaphors imply different modes of knowledge acquisition. Ben Sira values travel, because of the firsthand knowledge he gains through personal experience: Sir 34:12a πολλὰ ἑώρακα ἐν τῇ ἀποπλανήσει μου polla heōraka en tē apoplanēsei mou much I have seen in travels my I have seen much in my travels; b καὶ πλείονα τῶν λόγων μου σύνεσίς μου kai pleiona tōn logōn mou sunesis mou and more the words my understanding my My understanding exceeds what I can say.

The visual metaphor communicates an experiential kind of learning acquired through direct encounter. Similarly, Ben Sira recommends instruction through aural means for the acquisition of wisdom (Sir 6:33). Yet, he recognizes the secondary and indirect nature of such learning. The kind of knowledge associated with hearing derives not from first-hand empirical observation but from listening to the instruction of a teacher. The aural metaphor indicates the secondhand nature of knowledge acquired through verbal report. Even in Sir 16:5, where Ben Sira parallels instances of human wickedness that he has seen with other examples of which he has heard, we can observe this distinction (see above, page 126). The visual metaphor in the A line suggests that Ben Sira has had direct personal knowledge of many examples of wickedness. The B line uses the aural metaphor to indicate that he has had secondhand knowledge of a larger number of examples. There is a progression from A to B, in terms of the relative number of examples he has seen and heard of. The couplet suggests that the aural mode, because of its efficiency, has an advantage over the visual mode: the ability to gather a great amount of knowledge, without spending the time required to accumulate firsthand experiences. Yet there is also a regression from A to B in the directness of his knowledge. This is not to say that aurallygained knowledge is necessarily unreliable, only that it is indirect and secondary to the primary experience. While Ben Sira valued both visual observation of nature and aural reception of sapiential instruction, he recognized that the two modalities represented different ways of knowing: to see something for one’s self and to hear something from another. Thus we can formulate more precisely the two Primary Metaphors we have been discussing as follows: DIRECT KNOWING IS SEEING and INDIRECT KNOWING IS HEARING. These Primary Metaphors can be understood as embodied, in the sense that they develop out of the general human experiences of vision and

Sapiential Synesthesia � 133

audition. Visual perception appears to create a direct connection between subject and object. In contrast, aural perception appears to connect subject and object only indirectly.

Cultural Beliefs and Complex Metaphors for the Perception of Wisdom Because they are rooted in embodied experience, primary conceptual metaphors are widespread across many cultures. In Lakoff and Johnson’s theory, however, humans are not limited to these Primary Metaphors. Rather, humans combine Primary Metaphors and culturally acquired forms of knowledge to build “complex metaphors.”43 In this section I show how Ben Sira forms complex metaphors for the acquisition and dissemination of knowledge by combining Primary Metaphors and cultural knowledge.

WISDOM IS LIGHT The notion that YHWH distributed wisdom throughout the natural world forms one of Ben Sira’s central cultural beliefs: “[The Lord] poured out [wisdom] upon all his works” (καὶ ἐξέχεεν αὐτὴν ἐπὶ πάντα τὰ ἔργα αὐτοῦ, kai execheen autēn epi panta ta erga autou; Sir 1:9b). Additionally, the Book of Sirach construes the natural world (the works of God) in terms of visible objects, as can be observed in The Hymn on Creation (Sir 42:15-43:33).44 The opening line of the poem, for example, juxtaposes ‫( מעשי אל‬maʿăśê ʾēl, “the works of God”) with ‫וזה חזיתי‬ (wəzeh ḥāzîtî, “what I have seen”; 42:15). Similarly, Sir 42:22 suggests the visibility of created objects: “Are not all his works [‫מעשיו‬, maʿăśāyw] desirable, delightful to gaze upon, and a sight to see?” The cultural belief in the outpouring of wisdom upon creation and the idea that objects are visible entail the notion that one can perceive wisdom by gazing at the natural world.45

�� 43 Lakoff and Johnson, Philosophy in the Flesh, 60. 44 Verbs of ocular perception appear prominently in the hymn. See Núria Calduch-Benages, “God, Creator of All (Sir 43:27–33),” in Ben Sira’s God: Proceedings of the International Ben Sira Conference (ed. Renate Egger-Wenzel; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2002), 87. 45 Cf. Prov 3:19; 8:22–31; Job 28; 38–41.

134 � Greg Schmidt Goering Moreover, Ben Sira closely associates YHWH’s ‫( כבוד‬kābôd) — his “glory” or visible manifestation — with wisdom (Sir 42:16).46 This correlation indicates that Ben Sira viewed wisdom as more than visible; like God’s glory, wisdom is luminescent. The cultural belief in the divine outpouring of wisdom upon creation thus leads Ben Sira to a cultural metaphor WISDOM IS LIGHT.47 The cultural belief in an outpouring of divine wisdom upon creation, along with its entailment WISDOM IS LIGHT, was naturally combined with the primary conceptual metaphor DIRECT KNOWING IS SEEING. Together these suggested a complex metaphor DIRECT PERCEPTION OF WISDOM IS SEEING. The complex metaphor connotes the ability of humans to obtain firsthand knowledge of the divinely created order through observation of the natural world.

WISDOM IS WORD A second cultural belief — the generative capacity of divine orality — lies behind another of Ben Sira’s complex metaphors. Ben Sira combines the sapiential tradition of creation by means of wisdom (Prov 3:19; 8:22-31; cf. Ps 104:24) with the priestly author’s account of creation through divine speech (Gen 1:1-2:4a).48 However, the sage does more than assert that the natural world came about “by YHWH’s word” (‫באמר אדני‬, bəʾēmer ʾădōnāy; 42:15c) and that YHWH’s word continues to manage the functioning of the natural world.49 He also claims that personified Wisdom emanated “from the mouth of the Most High” (ἐγὼ ἀπὸ στόματος ὑφίστου ἐξῆλθον, egō apo stomatos huphistou exēlthon; 24:3a). The belief in Wisdom’s origination in divine orality leads to the cultural metaphor WISDOM IS WORD. This metaphor implies both that humans receive divine �� 46 On the term ‫( כבוד‬kābôd, “glory”) as a symbol for wisdom in Sirach, see Burton L. Mack, Wisdom and the Hebrew Epic: Ben Sira’s Hymn in Praise of the Fathers (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985), 167-71. That Ben Sira would associate glory with wisdom — which, as we will see, the sage depicts in terms of light — should not surprise us, given the biblical associations of the divine ‫( כבוד‬kābôd, “glory”) and light. See Frank Moore Cross, Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic: Essays in the History of the Religion of Israel (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1973), 153 n 30, 165-69. 47 I use the phrase “cultural metaphor” to refer to a cultural belief expressed through a metaphor. 48 Cf. Gen 1:3, 6, 9, 11, 14-15, 20, 24, 26. On the verbal metaphor for creation in Sirach, see Leo G. Perdue, Wisdom and Creation: The Theology of Wisdom Literature (Nashville: Abingdon, 1994), 289. 49 On the role of the divine word, see Sir 16:28; 39:17a (cf. Exod 15:8; Ps 33:6–9), 31; 43:10a, 13, 16b–17b, 26b.

Sapiential Synesthesia � 135

commandments aurally — as the verbal self-revelation of personified WisdomTorah in Sir 24:1-2 suggests — and that Ben Sira conceives of sapiential instruction in verbal terms (Sir 4:23-4; 4:18; 8:8). The cultural metaphor WISDOM IS WORD was naturally combined with the Primary Metaphor INDIRECT KNOWING IS HEARING. The combination resulted in the complex metaphor INDIRECT PERCEPTION OF WISDOM IS HEARING. This complex metaphor suggests the indirect acquisition of wisdom through torah, understood either as sapiential instruction or as the divine Torah given at Sinai. Thus far, I have analyzed the visual and aural modalities of wisdom separately. Yet even in the examples I have just given, the blending of visual and verbal metaphors can be discerned. For example, Sir 4:23-4 views both word and wisdom as objects, which can be hidden, withheld, or revealed. Sir 4:23a

‫אל תמנע דבר בעיתו‬

ʾal timnaʿ dābār bəʿîtô do not withhold a word in its time Do not withhold a word at its proper time,

b

‫ואל תצפין את חכמתך‬

wəʾal taṣpîn ʾet-ḥokmātəkā and do not hide your wisdom and do not hide your wisdom,

24a

‫כי באומר נודעת חכמה‬

kî bəʾômer nôdaʿat ḥokmâ for through speech is made known wisdom for through speech wisdom is made known,

b

‫ותבונה במענה לשון‬

ûtəbûnâ bəmaʿăneh lāšôn and understanding through the reply of the tongue and understanding through the tongue’s reply.

Objects suggest something visible; thus words as objects can be visually perceived. Or consider Sir 24:3. In the mythology underlying Ben Sira’s portrait of wisdom, the emanation of personified Wisdom from the mouth of YHWH begets the visible universe, through which wisdom may in turn be seen. Or consider that the very idea of revelation suggests the visual disclosure of something previously hidden. Thus the notion of verbal revelation already conflates visual and verbal metaphors. In the wisdom tradition, the transformation from visual observation to verbal teaching occurs in the activity of the sage, and as I will now show Ben Sira blends these sensory metaphors, in order to communicate his understanding of wisdom instruction.

136 � Greg Schmidt Goering

The Conceptual Blending of Light and Word As we have observed, vision and audition were thought to operate through different modes. Seeing was associated with continuity, simultaneity, and similarity. In contrast, hearing was associated with discontinuity, sequence, and difference. Moreover, these distinctive modalities appear to be mutually exclusive: under normal circumstances, one thing cannot be simultaneously continuous and discontinuous with another. And as I have suggested, these modal differences inform visual and verbal metaphors, respectively. Given that the modal differences of vision and audition are seemingly incompatible, what could it mean to combine them into a single image, as Ben Sira does when he describes the event of wisdom instruction? Fauconnier and Turner’s theory of “conceptual blending” illumines Ben Sira’s synesthetic combination of visual and aural metaphors. Whereas a conceptual metaphor maps from one source domain to one target domain, a blend involves two or more source domains that contribute to a new blended space through conceptual integration. Conceptual blending operates on mental spaces — “small conceptual packets constructed as we think and talk for purposes of local understanding and action.” At a minimum, conceptual blending involves four mental spaces: two input spaces, a generic space, and a blended space.50 The generic space “maps onto each of the inputs and contains what the inputs have in common.” The blended space contains selective projections from the two input spaces. The dots represent elements in each mental space, and the lines illustrate mappings between elements in the different spaces.51 In Figure 2 (see page 137), I have diagrammed one conceptual blend that lies behind Ben Sira’s understanding of wisdom instruction. His conceptualization of instruction as a visual-to-verbal transformation occurs in the blend, where a visually perceiving teacher interacts with an aurally perceiving student. The blend results from the conceptual integration of two input spaces: Input 1 contains a person who perceives wisdom visually, Input 2 a person who perceives wisdom aurally. A generic space contains the elements — sensing person, perceptual mode, perceived object, and knowledge acquisition — shared by the two inputs.

�� 50 See Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 46 (Figure 3.6: The Basic Diagram). 51 Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 40-42. The quotations appear on pp. 40 and 41, respectively.

Sapiential Synesthesia � 137

Generic Space

Sensing Person Mode of Perception Input 1

Object of

Input 2

Perception Acquisition of Knowledge

Perceiver

Perceiver

Vision

Audition

Natural World

Verbal Instruction

Direct Perception of Wisdom Through Observation

Indirect Perception of Wisdom Through Instruction

– continuity

– discontinuity

– simultaneity – similarity

Instruction (visual-to-verbal modal transference) Teacher →� Student Sees

Hears

Wisdom Directly

Wisdom Indirectly

continuity �↔ discontinuity simultaneity ↔� sequence similarity �↔ difference

Blend

Figure 2: Sage-as-Radiant-Moon Blend

– sequence – difference

138 � Greg Schmidt Goering The power of conceptual blending lies in its ability to create something new: as Fauconnier and Turner put it, “the blend develops emergent structure that is not in the inputs.”52 In the example from Sirach, the blend develops emergent structure in three ways. First, completion recruits background frames into the blend, in this case the continuity, simultaneity, and similarity associated with vision, and the discontinuity, sequence, and difference associated with audition. Second, “composition of elements from the inputs makes relations available in the blend that do not exist in the separate inputs.”53 In the case of Sirach, the blend involves two persons — a teacher and a student — instead of just one. Moreover, composition in the blend places the modal differences of vision and audition in tension, a relation that does not exist in the independent inputs. This juxtaposition of incompatibilities is a particular feature of blends. Whereas metaphor and similar conceptual processes often focus on compatibilities between domains, Fauconnier and Turner observe that “blending is equally driven by incompatibilities. Often the point of the blend is not to obscure incompatibilities but...to have at once something and its opposite.”54 Third, the blend creates emergent structure through elaboration, or “running the blend” imaginatively. In this case, elaboration involves the juxtaposition of the seeing teacher and the hearing student and the imaginative conceptualization of a visual-to-verbal transformation that occurs during wisdom instruction. This synesthetic blend of visual and verbal images — like those we observed in Philo, the Book of Wisdom, and elsewhere — creates what Chidester calls a “perceptual paradox.” The synesthetic expression is derived from sensory experience and yet strives to transcend sensory experience.55 When an author combines visual metaphors, which suggest connection and presence, with verbal metaphors, which indicate distance and reference, the synesthetic result is the imaginative juxtaposition of continuity and discontinuity. When Philo speaks of the “visible voice” or Pseudo-Solomon refers to “the light of the Torah,” therefore, they point to a paradoxical situation in which humans experience themselves both as continuous and discontinuous with the divine realm.56 Let me return to the three examples from the book of Sirach with which I began. The first example (Sir 39:12), in which the sage describes himself as filled with light at the moment of verbal instruction, characterizes wisdom teaching as a visual-to-verbal transformation. Having made his visual observations of the �� 52 Ibid., 42. 53 Ibid., 42. 54 Ibid., 29. 55 See Chidester, Word and Light, 17-19. The phrase appears on p. 18. 56 See ibid., 23.

Sapiential Synesthesia � 139

natural world, Ben Sira radiates like the full moon (v. 12b) and prepares to dispense his wisdom in verbal form (v. 12a).57 In this model, visual observations become codified in a verbal medium. The synesthetic image in which light is heard points to the pivotal role of the sage in converting visual observations on the natural world into a medium for verbal transmission. The blend in Figure 2 illustrates this sage-as-radiant-moon model. In light of the associations with the visual and verbal modes that I described above, the image of the wisdom teacher as a radiant moon suggests certain distinctions between the instructor and the student. The sage radiates light because he has perceived wisdom visually. The student, in contrast, perceives wisdom aurally, through the verbal instruction of the wisdom teacher. The visual metaphor depicts the sage as one who has an immediate and direct connection to divine wisdom. Because of this continuity between wisdom and teacher, the sage experiences wisdom as a presentation of divine truths. In contrast, the aural metaphors portray the student as one who experiences the sequential unfolding of wisdom instruction in time and therefore stands in discontinuity with divine wisdom. The verbal instruction received by the student remains distant from the original sagely insight. This verbal form of wisdom instruction cannot immediately present meaningful patterns discerned in nature but only represent them to the student. The examples from Sir 39:1-8 and Sir 24, however, present a twist on the visual-to-verbal paradigm. In these passages, Ben Sira emphasizes the verbal character of sapiential study — the sage studies wisdom, prophecies, discourses, proverbs, parables, and Torah. He then depicts wisdom teaching as a process of turning verbal instruction into a visible medium. The sage can engage in the mysterious activity of wisdom teaching — in “bringing to light instruction” — as a result of his expertise in these verbal matters. For Ben Sira, then, it is the event of sapiential instruction that turns the verbal revelation of Wisdom-Torah into a visual experience. The Torah on its own is not a light, as it is for PseudoSolomon; only when Torah becomes taught does it assume luminous qualities (cf. Ps 119:105; Isa 2:5). This bring-to-light-instruction model suggests a different blend, diagrammed in Figure 3 (see page 140). In this blend the mapping from input spaces is crossed: the teacher is expert in verbal tradition, while the student “sees” the sage’s teaching.

�� 57 That the order of presentation in Sir 39:12 does not conform to the temporal unfolding of events should not detain us here. We are, after all, dealing with poetry. Moreover, the Greek text clearly marks the verb tenses in this verse.

140 � Greg Schmidt Goering

Generic Space

Sensing Person Mode of Perception Input 1

Object of

Input 2

Perception Acquisition of Knowledge

Perceiver

Perceiver

Audition

Vision

Verbal Instruction

Illuminated Teacher

Indirect Perception of Wisdom Through Instruction

Direct Perception of Wisdom Through Observation

– discontinuity

– continuity

– sequence – difference

Instruction (visual-to-verbal modal transference)

– simultaneity – similarity

Teacher →� Student Hears

Sees

Wisdom

Wisdom

Indirectly

Directly

discontinuity �↔ continuity sequence ↔� simultaneity difference �↔ similarity

Blend

Figure 3: Bring-to-Light-Instruction Blend

The synesthetic blend in these two descriptions of wisdom instruction operates in reverse order from the sage-as-radiant-moon example: in these two instances word is perceived as light. This reversed image suggests a different conception of the teaching enterprise. The sage takes the verbal media of the wisdom tradi-

Sapiential Synesthesia � 141

tion and transforms them into light. The verbal metaphors used to describe these media suggest their discontinuity with, distance from, and representation of divine wisdom. Through his sapiential instruction, the sage makes the distant immanent, the discontinuous continuous, and the represented present. In short, Ben Sira’s verbal-to-visual paradigm of teaching suggests that he can provide a first-hand experience for his students that is similar to the primal experience of the sage who discerns meaningful patterns in nature through visual observation.58 The presence of two paradigms — a visual-to-verbal and a verbal-to-visual paradigm — does not indicate confusion on Ben Sira’s part about the pedagogical process. Rather, it points to the confluence of visual and verbal modes of acquiring knowledge in the Jewish wisdom tradition. Although the visual mode of acquisition is primary, once wisdom has been converted into a verbal medium, it is available for study, not just to students, but to other sages, as well. A sage may derive original insights based on his own visual observations of the natural world. But even in this process, the verbal tradition of instruction — which for Ben Sira includes the Torah — guides him in his search for wisdom.59 This verbal wisdom did not supplant the visible wisdom, however, as the continued presence of visual metaphors in Sirach suggest. The visual and verbal modes of acquiring wisdom continued to coexist, and one mode could be used to reinforce the other, or test the results of the other.

Conclusion No matter the different directions in which the modal transformation occurs, in all three passages we are left with Ben Sira’s unusual description of sapiential instruction as a blend of light and word. What does this synesthetic blend suggest about Ben Sira’s experience and conception of sapiential instruction? When Ben Sira combines visual and aural metaphors to describe his own teaching activity, the resulting symbolic synesthesia does more than point to

�� 58 In this sense, I would liken Ben Sira’s challenge to the one confronting the author of Deut 4: to make the aural experience of the commandments as immediate as the visual experience of God’s mighty deeds. See Michael Carasik, “To See a Sound: A Deuteronomic Rereading of Exodus 20:15,” Prooftexts 19 (1999): 261. 59 As James Kugel points out, this notion of a corpus for study is the common meaning of the term “wisdom” in the Hebrew Bible (“Wisdom and the Anthological Temper,” Prooftexts 17 [1997]: 9).

142 � Greg Schmidt Goering the pivotal role of the sage in merging the visual and the verbal in the process of wisdom transmission. It also expresses the sage’s experience of the teaching event as extraordinary. Ben Sira’s use of symbolic synesthesia in these three examples indicates that he perceives the activity of wisdom instruction as an uncommon convergence of light and word. By depicting his instruction as a blend of the visual and the verbal, the sage describes a perceptual paradox, in which his experience of instruction is grounded in sensory perception and yet transcends normal sensory perception. As light, wisdom instruction may be perceived at once in space, but as word it also unfolds sequentially in time. Ben Sira’s teaching stands both in continuity and in discontinuity with heavenly wisdom; it is at once connected to and distant from wisdom, similar to divine wisdom and yet different from it. His teaching is simultaneously presentational and representational: in the synesthetic moment of instruction, Ben Sira both embodies divine wisdom (presentation) and points to the vast reservoir of divine wisdom that lies beyond him in the cosmos (representation).60 By positioning the sage as a liminal figure — as one who is both in continuity and in discontinuity with divine wisdom — Ben Sira depicts himself as an intermediary between the celestial and terrestrial realms.61 In fact, in the continuation of the third example from Sir 24, Ben Sira specifically describes his own teaching activity in prophetic terms: “I will again pour out teaching like prophecy” (ἔτι διδασκαλίαν ὡς προφητείαν ἐκχεῶ, eti didaskalian hōs prophēteian ekcheō; Sir 24:33). Similarly, in his meditation on the scribe from which the second example is drawn, Ben Sira points to the prophet-like role of the sage: “he will be filled with a spirit of understanding, he will pour forth words of wisdom of his own” (Sir 39:6). The intermingling of light and word in the description of his teaching activity complements these explicit identifications of the sage with prophecy, by situating Ben Sira in the interstitial space between heaven and earth. This construction of the sage as an intermediary using visual and verbal images echoes his portrait of Elijah as a prophet “whose words were as a blazing furnace” (‫ודבריו כתנור בוער‬, ûdəbārāyw kətannûr bôʿēr; Sir 48:1). The Bible associates Elijah with fire, a source not only of heat, but also of light. The story of Ahaziah in 2 Kgs 1:1-16 engages in word play when it portrays Elijah as the ‫( איש אלהים‬ʾîš ʾĕlōhîm, “man of God”) who brings down ‫( אש אלהים‬ʾēš

�� 60 See Sir 1:9b-10b, cited above. 61 In this sense, Ben Sira’s self-portrait of wisdom-teacher-as-prophet has much in common with his depiction of personified Wisdom as a prophet in Sir 24. See Goering, Wisdom’s Root Revealed, 74-78.

Sapiential Synesthesia � 143

ʾĕlōhîm, “fire from God”; v. 12). Likely inspired by the juxtaposition of Elijah’s name and the phrase ‫( בער כתנור‬bōʿēr kattannûr, “blazing like a furnace”) in Mal 3:19-24 (ET 4:1-6), Ben Sira extends this biblical association between the prophet and fire to suggest that Elijah’s verbal prophecies also appeared luminescent. Given what we have observed about the intermediate position indicated by the blending of light and word, it seems no coincidence that the only other visual-verbal synesthesia in the book of Sirach occurs in a description of a prophet. The paradoxical qualities that attend the conceptual blending of light and word indicate Ben Sira’s liminal status as a wisdom teacher better than any title could. Through this symbolic synesthesia, the sage portrays himself as a prophetic intermediary who is both continuous and discontinuous with the sacred realm and, thus, well-situated to communicate divine wisdom to his students.

144 � Greg Schmidt Goering

Jesper Tang Nielsen

The Cognitive Structures in Galatians 1:4

Among early Christian interpreters of Jesus’ death and resurrection, few have had deeper impact than Paul. Notwithstanding possible relations to earlier traditions (cf. 1 Cor 15:3), his letters contain the first known explications of the Christ event. Already within the New Testament they formed the basis for the continuing interpretation of Christ’s significance (cf. 2 Pet 3:15-16). In Christian theology they still hold a foundational position. More often than not, the core of later theological conceptions derives from Pauline ideas. Although the importance of Paul’s thoughts is an established fact, it is not much discussed how he constructed the fundamental conceptions in his letters. Tradition-historical and history-of-religions approaches have thoroughly investigated the backgrounds of the Pauline thought world. A range of possible influences has been detected, but there has been little research into the ways Paul incorporates different traditional motifs. Therefore it has not been explained how he created new and fertile ideas in his endeavor to explicate Christ’s implications for the life of the believers. Cognitive theory provides an analytical framework for describing the combination of hitherto disparate ideas. Conceptual networks depict how previously unrelated mental spaces are combined and integrated into new mental spaces with innovative concepts. The modelling of this cognitive procedure can explain how new concepts arose from traditional ideas. This procedure laid the ground for important structures in Paul’s argument and dominant conceptions in the following theological tradition. One of Paul’s innovative contributions to Christian theology can be located to Gal 1:4. The verse involves a creative integration of two different ideas that let an original understanding of Christ’s significance emerge. Paul draws on a common Hellenistic understanding of voluntary death but inserts it into an apocalyptic frame consisting of a radical opposition between this present world and a coming one. This combination is unseen in contemporary literature and results in the original notion of a voluntary death that causes an apocalyptic turn of ages. Having construed Jesus’ death in this way, Paul bases his entire argument in Galatians on the involved dualistic structure. In Christian tradition the new idea furthermore gives rise to an important construal of Jesus’ death. The conceptual integration model demonstrates the cognitive process involved

146 � Jesper Tang Nielsen in the innovative integration of the two separate mental spaces and explains how the original idea emerges. My analysis takes its starting point from exegetical observations on Gal 1:4 in its literary and rhetorical context. It is followed by a presentation of the proposed backgrounds for the notions in Gal 1:4. Concluding that none of the Old Testament, Hellenistic-Jewish, or Greek traditions are able to account fully for Paul’s idea, I introduce the theory of conceptual integration. For my specific purpose, however, the conceptual integration network is supplemented by narratological theory in order to explain both the structural difference as well as the connection between the notions that are involved in Gal 1:4. On that basis it is possible to present the innovative conceptual integration in Gal 1:4 and demonstrate its fundamental role in Galatians and Christian theology.

Galatians 1:4 in Its Literary and Rhetorical Context Galatians 1:4 belongs to the letter opening (1:1-5).1 According to ancient epistolography an introductory greeting must state the sender, the recipient, and a greeting. Paul follows these conventions when he mentions the senders, i.e., himself and those with him; the receivers, i.e., the congregations in Galatia; and finally a greeting: χάρις...καὶ εἰρήνη (charis...kai eirēnē, “grace...and peace” [1:1-3]). In addition to the conventional opening, Paul habitually expands his greeting with theological statements. He relates “grace and peace” to “our father and the Lord Jesus Christ” (1:3). To the last part of this definition Paul adds another explication. He defines the Lord Jesus Christ as the one who “gave himself up for our sins” (τοῦ δόντος ἑαυτὸν ὑπὲρ τῶν ἁμαρτιῶν ἡμῶν, tou dontos heauton hyper tōn hamartiōn hēmōn [1:4a]). It is not entirely clear if this reading is original. The alternative reading περὶ τῶν ἁμαρτιῶν ἡμῶν (peri tōn hamartiōn hêmōn, “to take away our sins”) is equally well attested.2 The connotations of the two possibilities differ. ὑπέρ (hyper) with genitive means “over,” though in New Testament literature this original spatial meaning is no longer in use. Instead it normally introduces the �� 1 On the rhetorical structure of Galatians, see H.D. Betz, “The Literary Composition and Function of Paul’s Letter to the Galatians,” NTS 21 (1975): 353-79; G.A. Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation through Rhetorical Criticism (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1984), 144-52. 2 ὑπέρ: p51 ‫א‬1 B H; περί: p46vid ‫ *א‬A D F G Ψ M. External evidence is thus inconclusive.

The Cognitive Structures in Galatians 1:4 � 147

motive of a given act, which most often means its beneficiary.3 Pagan literature even knows the verb ὑπεραποθνήσκω, hyperapothnēskō, which means “to die for the sake of someone.”4 In the New Testament ὑπέρ (hyper) is often used to introduce the beneficiaries of Jesus’ death (e.g., Mark 14:24; Luke 22:19-20; Rom 5:6-8; 14:15; 1 Cor 11:24; 2 Cor 5:14-15; Gal 2:20; 1 Thess 5:10;5 cf. 1 Cor 1:13). Only in the traditional formula in 1 Cor 15:3 and in the cultic setting in Hebrews (7:27; 10:12; cf. 9:7) is it used in connection with sin. περί (peri) with genitive belongs to the same semantic fields. It presents the purpose or the indirect beneficiary for an action.6 In the LXX it functions as a formula for sin offering (περὶ ἁμαρτίας, peri hamartias) (e.g., Lev 6:18, 23; cf. Heb 5:3; 10:6, 8, 18, 26).7 In the New Testament it is seldom used in connection with Jesus’ death (but see Matt 26:28; Rom 8:3; 1 Pet 3:18) and never with reference to sin unless cultic terminology is involved (1 John 2:2; 4:10).8 In connection with ἀποθνήσκω (apothnēskō), neither of the prepositions introduces the negative reason for the death but rather its positive effect on someone or something.9 When the prepositional clause presents “our sins” as the motive for Jesus’ voluntary death, it defines the purpose of his death as removing the consequences of the beneficiaries’ sins (cf. Rom 5, 8).10 The main difference between the two expressions is the cultic connotations attached to περί (peri). If περί (peri) is preferred in Gal 1:4, the expression should be understood as an explicit reference to cultic traditions. However, it seems more in line with traditional (1 Cor 11:24; 15:3) and Pauline �� 3 L&N 89.28, 90.36; C. Breytenbach, Versöhnung: Eine Studie zur paulinischen Soteriologie (WMANT 60; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1989), 197. See now the comprehensive study by C. Eschner, Gestorben und hingegeben “für” die Sünder: Die griechische Konzeption des Unheil abwendenden Sterbens und deren paulinische Aufnahme für die Deutung des Todes Jesu Christi (2 vols.; WMANT 122; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2010). Eschner argues along the same lines that the Pauline use of ὑπέρ (hyper) is “primär nicht kausal-retrospektiv, sondern final-prospektiv zu verstehen” (1:15). 4 LSJ 1859. 5 With the variant reading περί (peri) (‫ *א‬B 33). 6 L&N 89.36, 90.39; C. Breytenbach, “The “for us” Phrases in Pauline Soteriology: Considering Their Background and Use,” in Salvation in the New Testament: Perspectives on Soteriology (ed. J. van der Watt; NovTSup 121, Leiden: Brill, 2005), 163-85 (171). 7 Breytenbach, Versöhnung, 202. 8 See the discussion of Rom 8:3 in Breytenbach, Versöhnung, 159-65. Breytenbach concludes that the expression περὶ ἁμαρτίας (peri hamartias) derives from the LXX cult-terminology, though he does not understand the Pauline formulation as cultic. 9 C. Breytenbach, “‘Christus starb für uns’: Zur Tradition und paulinischen Rezeption der sogenannten ‚Sterbeformeln’,” NTS 49 (2003): 447-75 (469). 10 Breytenbach, Versöhnung, 126; cf. idem, “Christus starb,” 471-75; idem, “For Us,” 173; Eschner, Gestorben und hingegeben, 1:13.

148 � Jesper Tang Nielsen (Rom 5:6-8; 1 Cor 1:13; Gal 2:20) terminology to let ὑπέρ (hyper) introduce the motive of Jesus’ death. A final clause introduced by ὅπως (hopōs, “in order that”) presents the purpose of Jesus’ act (1:4b). The verb ἐξαιρέω (exaireō) simply means “to take out,” but the middle voice has the meaning “to take away from someone” and may be used for “set free” or “deliver.”11 The LXX employs this form for rescuing from enemies in general (e.g., Gen 37:21-22; Deut 25:11) and especially for God’s deliverance of the Israelites (e.g., Exod 3:8; 18:9-10; Isa 31:5; Ps 140:2).12 In Paul’s text the liberation is from the present evil aeon (ἐκ τοῦ αἰῶνος τοῦ ἐνεστῶτος πονηροῦ, ek tou aiōnos tou enestōtos ponērou). The expression ὁ αἰών (ho aiōn) is the temporal term that corresponds to the spatial term ὁ κόσμος (ho kosmos).13 Paul uses the two words interchangeably in his reference to this present world (1 Cor 1:20; 2:6; 3:18-19). Only in Gal 1:4 does he define this aeon explicitly as evil. But just as he understands the world to be in opposition to God (1 Cor 1:21; 2:12), there is an implicit opposition between the present aeon ruled by evil powers (1 Cor 2:6; 2 Cor 4:4) and another one (cf., e.g., Mark 10:30; Matt 12:32).14 In Galatians the future good aeon is called a “new creation” (καινὴ κτίσις, kainê ktisis) (Gal 6:15). To his presentation Paul attaches another prepositional phrase underlining that Jesus’ voluntary act complies with the divine will (κατὰ τὸ θέλημα τοῦ θεοῦ καὶ πατρὸς ἡμῶν, kata to thelēma tou theou kai patros hēmōn). The paragraph ends in a doxology (1:5). These observations indicate that v. 4 embraces two different conceptions. The first is Jesus’ voluntary death “for” (ὑπέρ, hyper) sins. The second is the deliverance from the present evil age. Tradition-historical investigation suggests that at least the first conception is pre-Pauline.15 It is even deemed foreign to his theology because it identifies discrete sins (ἁμαρτίαι, hamartiai) as the motive

�� 11 LSJ 581. 12 Cf. F. Bovon, “Une formule prépaulinienne dans l’Épître aux Galates (Ga 1, 4-5),” in Paganisme, judaïsme, christianisme: Influences et affrontements dans le monde antique (ed. A. Benoit et al.; Paris: Éditions E. de Boccard, 1978), 91-107 (98-100). 13 LSJ 45. 14 Cf. H. Sasse, “αἰών,” ThWNT 1:204-7. 15 Bovon argues that Gal 1:4-5 is a traditional formula originating in a Jewish-Christian context (“Une formule prépaulinienne”); cf. F. Mussner, Der Galaterbrief (HTKNT 9; Freiburg: Herder, 1974), 50; J. Rohde, Der Brief des Paulus and die Galater (THKNT 9; Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1989), 34; B. Witherington III, Grace in Galatia: A Commentary on St Paul’s Letter to the Galatians (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1998), 76; Breytenbach, “For Us,” 174; Eschner, Gestorben und hingegeben, 1:388.

The Cognitive Structures in Galatians 1:4 � 149

for Jesus’ death.16 Paul normally does not use the plural form of ἁμαρτία (hamartia). It happens in only one other text (1 Cor 15:3), which he explicitly quotes as a traditional formula. Usually Paul construes sin as an entity or a power (e.g., Rom 5:12; Gal 3:22) and not as singular wrongdoings. The second idea is taken by several exegetes to be Paul’s interpretation of the preceding traditional formula.17 Although the expression ὁ αἰὼν ὁ ἐνεστὼς πονηρός (ho aiōn ho enestōs ponēros) is not terminologically identical with other Pauline references to this aeon (i.e., ὁ αἰὼν οὗτος, ho aiōn houtos), the expressions are semantically equivalent and the idea is well known in Paul’s letters (Rom 12:2; 1 Cor 2:6, 8; 3:18; 2 Cor 4:4). Although no certainty can be obtained concerning these hypotheses, the literary observations highlight the fact that two separate ideas are present in Gal 1:4. In Paul’s rhetorical strategy Gal 1:4 holds an emphatic position as the theological summit of the letter opening. But it is also part of an inclusio in so far as “the present evil aeon” (Gal 1:4) is related to “the new creation” (Gal 6:15). The innovative idea that Jesus Christ by his voluntary death has established a transition from the present evil aeon to the new creation surrounds the entire argument in Galatians.

The Background of Galatians 1:4 Both ideas in Gal 1:4 have roots in contemporary conceptions but there is hardly one single literary background for the two combined elements. Paul probably draws on commonplace understandings of voluntary deaths and opposing aeons.

Voluntary Death It is a matter of dispute which idea lies behind the expression διδόναι ἑαυτὸν ὑπὲρ τῶν ἁμαρτιῶν ἡμῶν (didonai heauton hyper tōn hamartiōn hēmōn). The �� 16 E.g., Mussner, Galaterbrief, 50; J.L. Martyn, Galatians: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 33; New York: Doubleday, 1997), 90 17 E.g., K. Wengst, Christologische Formeln und Lieder des Urchristentums (Bonn: Rheinische Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität, 1967), 61; Martyn, Galatians, 90; H.D. Betz, Galatians: A Commentary on Paul’s Letter to the Churches in Galatia (Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1979), 42; V.P. Furnish, “‘He Gave Himself [Was Given] Up…’: Paul’s Use of Christological Assertion,” in The Future of Christology (ed. A.J. Malherbe and W.A. Meeks; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993), 109-21 (113).

150 � Jesper Tang Nielsen Greek version of the Fourth Servant Song (LXX Isa 53) has often been mentioned as the direct influence.18 In this poem the servant of the Lord is wounded and slain “because of our sins” (διὰ τὰς ἁμαρτίας ἡμῶν, dia tas hamartias hēmōn) (53:5). God has “given him (παρέδωκεν, paredōken) for the sake of our sins (ταῖς ἁμαρτίαις ἡμῶν, tais hamartias hēmōn)” (53:6). The beneficiaries of the servant’s suffering are told that they will see long-lived offspring if they give a sin offering (περὶ ἁμαρτίας, peri hamartias) (53:10). In the final verse the verb παραδίδωμι (paradidōmi) is combined with the preposition διά (dia) when it is stated that “he was given because of our sins” (διὰ τὰς ἁμαρτὶας...παρεδόθη, dia tas hamartias...paredothē) (53:12). In Rom 4:25a and 8:32 Paul is probably influenced by the use of the verb παραδίδωμι (paradidōmi).19 Even though he uses the simple form δίδωμι (didōmi) in Gal 1:4, the combination of (παρα)δίδωμι ([para]didōmi) with a preposition introducing sins as the motive of the “giving” may derive from the Isaianic formulation. But besides the use of the preposition διά (dia) and not ὑπέρ (hyper), it is also worth noticing that the Fourth Servant Song does not include the idea of voluntary death.20 The servant does not give himself but is given by God. Another proposed background is the OT concept of cultic sin offering.21 In the LXX the sin offering is often simply called ἁμαρτία (hamartia) or τὰ περὶ τῆς ἁμαρτίας (ta peri tēs hamartias) (Lev 4:1 – 5:13; 6:17-23). But the descriptions of the offerings do not use the verb δίδωμι (didōmi) and it is, of course, not concerned with voluntary death. This is also the case in the traditions about the Day of Atonement (Lev 16). Furthermore, it should be noted that the expression περὶ τῆς ἁμαρτίας (peri tēs hamartias) describes the sacrificial animals, except in Ezekiel where ὑπὲρ ἁμαρτίας (hyper hamartias) is used (Ezek 40:39; 43:22, 25, �� 18 E.g., Mussner, Galaterbrief, 51; Rohde, Galater, 35; H. Schlier, Der Brief an die Galater (KEK; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1971), 51. Generally concerning the influence of Isa 53, see E. Lohse, Märtyrer und Gottesknecht: Untersuchungen zur urchristlichen Verkündigung vom Sühntod Jesu Christi (2nd ed.; FRLANT 64, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1963); H.W. Wolff, Jesaja 53 im Urchristentum (Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1950); P. Stuhlmacher, “Jes 53 in den Evangelien und in der Apostelgeschichte,” in Der leidende Gottesknecht: Isaiah 53 und seine Wirkungsgeschichte (ed. B. Janowski and P. Stuhlmacher; FAT 14; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), 93-105; O. Hofius, “Das vierte Gottesknechtlied in den Briefen des Neuen Testaments,” in Der leidende Gottesknecht: Isaiah 53 und seine Wirkungsgeschichte (ed. B. Janowski and P. Stuhlmacher; FAT 14; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), 107-27; Breytenbach, Versöhnung, 209-15. 19 Cf. Eschner, Gestorben und hingegeben, 1:69, 478-83. 20 Betz, Galatians, 42; cf. Eschner, Gestorben und hingegeben, 1:72. 21 J.D.G. Dunn, The Epistle to the Galatians (BNTC; Peabody: Hendrickson, 1993), 35; cf. idem, “Paul’s Understanding of the Death of Jesus as Sacrifice,” in Sacrifice and Redemption: Durham Essays in Theology (ed. S.W. Sykes; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 35-56.

The Cognitive Structures in Galatians 1:4 � 151

29; 45:22, 23, 25; 46:20). The verb δίδωμι (didōmi) does not occur in these contexts. Paul, on the other hand, does not use the verb for atonement (ἐξιλάσκομαι, exilaskomai), which is central in the cultic texts.22 Several scholars have proposed martyrological traditions as the background for Paul’s presentation of Jesus’ death.23 In 2 Maccabees the Maccabean martyrs are described as having died for God’s laws (ὑπὲρ τῶν αὐτου νόμων, hyper tōn autou nomōn) (7:9) and as giving their body and soul for the laws of the fathers (καὶ σῶμα καὶ ψυχὴν προδίδωμι περὶ τῶν πατρίων νόμων, kai soma kai psychēn prodidōmi peri tōn patriōn nomōn) (7:37). This death corresponds to the willingness of the Jewish army to die for the laws and the fatherland (ὑπὲρ τῶν νόμων καὶ τῆς πατρίδος ἀποθνῄσκειν, hyper tōn nomōn kai tēs patridos apothnēskein) (8:21). 4 Maccabees presents different motivations for the martyrs’ death. They die for virtue (ὑπὲρ ἀρετῆς, hyper aretēs) (1:8), for the beautiful and good (ὑπὲρ τῆς καλοκἀγαθίας, hyper tēs kalokagathias) (1:10), for the sake of the law (διὰ τὸν νόμον, dia ton nomon) (6:27), for the sake of piety (διὰ τὴν εὐσέβειαν, dia tēn eusebeian) (9:6; 18:3), for the law (περὶ τοῦ νόμου, peri tou nomou) (13:9), for the sake of God (διὰ τὸν θεόν, dia ton theon) (16:25). In line with Hellenistic ideals the martyrs give up their life for the sake of the law, righteousness, or divine truth.24 In contrast to a Hellenistic noble death, the martyrdom of the Jewish martyrs have a propiatory function (2 Macc 7:37; 4 Macc 6:28; 9:24; 12:17; 17:22), but in 2 Maccabees neither sins nor humans are the motive for their deaths.25 �� 22 Eschner, Gestorben und hingegeben, 1:32. 23 Betz, Galatians, 42; Dunn, Galatians, 35. Martyn, Galatians, 89-90, who only refers to 4 Maccabees, proposes that the martyrological interpretation of Jesus’ death derives from Paul’s opponents in Galatia. Generally concerning the influence of martyrology on the construal of Jesus’ death, see, e.g., H.J. de Jonge, “The Original Setting of the ΚΡΙΣΤΟΣ ΑΠΕΘΑΝΕΝ ΥΠΕΡ Formula,” in The Thessalonian Correspondence (ed. R.F. Collins; BETL 86; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1990), 229-35; M. de Jonge, Christology in Context: The Earliest Response to Jesus (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1988); J.W. van Henten, “Jewish Martyrdom and Jesus’ Death,” in Deutungen des Todes Jesu im Neuen Testament (ed. J. Frey and J. Schröter; WUNT 181, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 139-68. 24 M. Hengel, The Atonement: The Origins of the Doctrine in the New Testament (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1981), 16. Actually, it is not the intention of the Jewish martyrs to die for others although their death is effective for the Jewish people, contra H.S. Versnel, “Making Sense of Jesus’ Death: The Pagan Contribution,” in Deutungen des Todes Jesu im Neuen Testament (ed. J. Frey and J. Schröter; WUNT 181, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 213-94 (230). 25 Van Henten, “Making Sense,” 152-54. In 2 Maccabees it is probably not the martyrs’ deaths that is propiatory but their intercessory prayer (S.K. Williams, Jesus’ Death as Saving Event: The Background and Origin of a Concept [HDR 2; Missoula, Mont.: Scholars Press, 1975], 82-90). 4 Maccabees’ presentation of the martyrs’ effective death is deeply influenced by Hellenistic traditions (Williams, Jesus’ Death, 183-97).

152 � Jesper Tang Nielsen 4 Maccabees, however, uses both reconciliatory (ἀντίψυχον, antipsychon) (6:29; 17:21) and cultic (ἱλαστήριον, hilastērion) (17:22) language for the martyrs’ death. Their death is the ransom (ἀντίψυχον, antipsychon) that is needed because of human sin (17:21). In 4 Maccabees the idea of a vicarious voluntary death is fully elaborated.26 Yet another background for the Pauline expression has been suggested. Classical Greek culture provides models of a voluntary death for others.27 In Greek tragedy it is a well known motif that a woman voluntarily chooses death in order to save others. One of the most famous examples is Euripides’ portrayal of Alcestis. Because her husband, Admetus, is meant to die, she consents to give her own life instead of him. The motive for her act is expressed in a ὑπέρ— formula as it is stated that she dies ὑπέρ (hyper, “on behalf of”) her husband (All. 155, 284). In Greek literature and inscriptions Alcestis is prototypical for a self-denying attitude. Obedient, selfless women may be characterized as “new Alcestis.”28 There are several other instances where someone voluntarily chooses death for the sake of a principle or the community.29 It is, however, significant that sins are never mentioned as a motive or background for voluntary death. The idea of voluntary death because of sins or for sinners seems not to belong to pagan literature (cf. Rom 5:7).30 Neither of these proposed traditions matches the Pauline formulation completely. But they may all be part of the cultural repertoire that constitutes the common background of Paul’s idea. Even though the term “effective” or “beneficiary” death is usually preserved for Hellenistic traditions, it is a common feature for all the presented traditions that the deaths have some kind of positive result for someone.31 Likewise, although the motives are always expressed in a prepositional clause, a formulation like ὑπὲρ τῶν ἁμαρτιῶν (hyper tōn hamartiōn) is never found in connection with a voluntary death. When ὑπέρ (hyper) is used, it is always to introduce a positive reason either by mentioning

�� 26 Williams, Jesus’ Death, 197; H.S. Versnel, “Quid Athenis et Hierosolymis? Bemerkungen über die Herkunft von Aspekten des ‘Effective Death’,” in Die Entstehung der jüdischen Martyrologie (ed. J.W. van Henten; StPB 38; Leiden: Brill, 1989), 162-96 (192). 27 Eschner, Gestorben und hingegeben, 2:passim. Eschner calls it an “Unheil abwendendes Sterben.” 28 Versnel, “Quid Athenis,” 191-92; idem, “Making Sense,” 240-41; Breytenbach, “Christus starb,” 463-64; cf. Eschner, Gestorben und hingegeben, 2:107-45. 29 Wengst, Christologische Formeln; Williams, Jesus’ Death, 137-202; Hengel, Atonement, 1-32; Versnel, “Quid Athenis,”; idem, “Making Sense”; Eschner, Gestorben und hingegeben, 2:1-317. 30 Wengst, Christologische Formeln, 63. 31 On “effective death,” see Versnel, ”Quid Athenis,” 178-93; idem, “Making Sense,” 227-87.

The Cognitive Structures in Galatians 1:4 � 153

the beneficiary of the effective death or by stating the principle to which the dying person remains faithful. The formulation ὑπὲρ τῶν ἁμαρτιῶν (hyper tōn hamartiōn) may therefore be a influenced by the cultic traditions in the OT.32

Opposing Aeons The background of the second part of the verse is easier to locate. A close terminological parallel to the expression “this present aeon” is the rabbinic opposition between “this world” (‫ ָהעו֗ ָלם ַהזֶּ ה‬, ha ‘olam hazzeh), which is opposed to “the world to come” (‫ ָהעו֗ ָלם ַה ָבּא‬, ha ‘olam habba’). But both the rabbinic and the Pauline expressions are influenced by apocalyptic traditions.33 The opposition between two aeons corresponds to the temporal and spatial dualistic structure that is the main feature of J.J. Collins’ widespread definition of apocalyptic: “Apocalypse” is a genre of revelatory literature with a narrative framework, in which a revelation is mediated by an otherworldly being to a human recipient, disclosing a transcendent reality which is both temporal, insofar as it envisages eschatological salvation, and spatial insofar as it involves another, supernatural world.34

Even though this is a genre definition, it also defines a dualistic world view that corresponds to the literary genre.35 As Collins’ definition indicates, the dualism involves a temporal opposition between the present life and the future salvation, and a spatial opposition between the earthly world and the heavenly world. A qualitative dualism corresponds to these temporal and spatial structures. It defines the present earthly world as evil and the heavenly and coming world as good. Furthermore, the dualisms produce a social dualism between the people who will be condemned at the eschatological judgment and those who will be saved. The privileged group includes the recipients of the revelation. In this present world they may be a denigrated and marginalized but through the

�� 32 According to Eschner ὑπὲρ τῶν ἁμαρτιῶν (hyper tōn hamartiōn) “stellt … eine alttestamentliche Einfärbung der griechischen Vorstellung vom Sterben „für“ eine Sache mit der v.a. in Lev belegten Tradition von der Beiseitigung der Sünden dar” (Gestorben und hingegeben, 1:118; cf. 1:388). 33 Cf. Str-B 4:799-976; Sasse, “αἰών,” 206-7. 34 J.J. Collins, “Introduction: Towards the Morphology of a Genre,” Semeia 14 (1979): 1-19 (9); cf. idem, The Apocalyptic Imagination. An Introduction to Jewish Apocalyptic Literature (2nd ed.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 1-42; Martyn, Galatians, 98 35 Collins, Imagination, 13.

154 � Jesper Tang Nielsen revelation they are confirmed as the righteous ones who will be saved at the end of this aeon and included in the future realm.36 Practically all Jewish and Christian apocalypses realize both the temporal and spatial dualisms.37 It suffices to demonstrate these general structures in one illustrative text. The introduction to 1 Enoch involves all three dualisms: The blessing of Enoch: with which he blessed the elect and righteous who would be present on the day of tribulation at (the time of) the removal of all the ungodly ones. And Enoch, the blessed and righteous man of the Lord, took up (his parable) while his eyes were open and he saw, and said, “(This is) a holy vision from the heavens which the angels showed me: and I heard from them every thing and I understood. I look not for this generation but for the distant one that is coming. I speak about the elect ones and concerning them.” (1:1-2)

This text separates a present time from a coming one where the ungodly one will be removed. The change of times happens on the day of tribulation. The elect and righteous ones will be preserved on that day and have the light of God shinning on them (cf. 1 En. 1:8). At the same time the introduction separates earth from heaven. On the one hand, the earth is the place of ungodly people (1 En. 1:4) who will all be destroyed at the judgment (1 En. 1:7). Heaven, on the other hand, is God’s place from where the revelatory visions come. God himself will descend from heaven on the day of judgment (1 En. 1:4). Involved in these dualisms is the third opposition between the elect and righteous people, for whom the revelation is meant, and the ungodly ones that will perish on the day of tribulation. After the judgment the elect inherit the earth and live in gladness and peace without sin (1 En. 5:8-10). Although the apocalyptic writings do not include exact terminological parallels to the Pauline opposition between the present evil aeon and a new creation, the structure involved in the last part of Gal 1:4 is certainly apocalyptic. It is commonplace in the apocalypses that this world is dominated by evil and will be destroyed and substituted by another supernatural world. In some writings this final cosmic transformation is, in fact, depicted as a new creation (e.g., Rev 21). It is important to note that there are no overlaps between the backgrounds of the two ideas. The different notions about sacrifices, be it cultic sacrifices or vol-

�� 36 J.J. Collins, “Social Functions of Apocalyptic Language in Pauline Christianity,” in Apocalypticism in the Mediterranean World and the Near East (ed. D. Hellholm; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1983), 687-705 (690). 37 See the analyses of Jewish apocalypses in J.J. Collins, “The Jewish Apocalypses,” Semeia 14 (1979): 21-59. Opposing aeons and worlds are mentioned explicitly in, e.g., 4 Ezra 6:7-10; 7:1213, 50, 112-13; 8:1; 1 En. 71:15; 2 Bar. 14:13; 15:8; 44:11-15.

The Cognitive Structures in Galatians 1:4 � 155

untary deaths, do not involve apocalyptic structures. Apocalyptic thought does not give any salvific or eschatological role to animal sacrifices or human deaths.38 Notwithstanding a possible history of traditions, Gal 1:4 is the first known example of a combination of these hitherto distinct concepts.

Conceptual Integration Because there is no precedent for the integration of voluntary deaths and apocalyptic ideas, Gal 1:4 is not a Christianized version of a traditional motif. It may be entirely or partly a pre-Pauline formula, but notwithstanding if the innovation originated with Paul or not, it resulted in new structures that lay the ground for the letter to the Galatians and for salient ideas in Christian theology. For that reason the cognitive procedure behind the integration must be detected with a view to the emergence of innovative ideas. Within the last decades one part of human sciences has taken a “cognitive turn.” Meaning is studied as a construct in the human mind. G. Fauconnier and M. Turner have contributed to this line of research by developing a conceptual integration network that explains a number of cognitive activities. Not least, the model is able to explain a certain kind of mental creativity as it conceptualizes how new elements and structures emerge from the integration of hitherto distinct mental areas. It furthermore accounts for the way the emerging elements lay the basis for new cognitive procedures. According to Fauconnier and Turner, conceptual integration takes place in the course of communication and thinking. It is not an extraordinary artistic procedure but a common everyday phenomenon. The background of their model is Fauconnier’s theory of mental spaces.39 Following this theory, commu-

�� 38 The Apocalypse of Abraham includes a section about Abraham’s sacrifice on the mountain Horeb (chs. 9-14). In the apocalypse an angel tells Abraham to make a pure animal sacrifice on a high mountain. When Abraham arrives at Horeb, he discovers that all the prescribed sacrificial animals have followed him to the mountain. On the instructions from the angel he cuts all the animals save the birds in halves and brings the sacrifice. He and the angel fly to heaven on the sacrificial birds. By this sacrifice he is consecrated for the journey to heaven where he will receive a revelation of Israel’s history (chs. 15-32). The story about Abraham’s sacrifice on Horeb is a rewriting of the biblical account of Abraham’s sacrifice (Gen 15). In the Apocalypse of Abraham this narrative is transformed into a divine revelation, thereby making sense of the fact that Abraham in Gen 15 does not cut the birds in halves. 39 G. Fauconnier, Mental Spaces: Aspects of Meaning Constructions in Natural Language (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1985); G. Fauconnier and E. Sweetser, “Cognitive Links and

156 � Jesper Tang Nielsen nication can be defined as exchange of semantic units such as words and other kinds of signs. But since no semantic unit carries a specific meaning in itself, it must be placed within a context to make sense. Therefore the mind constantly constructs mental spaces that function as local contexts for the semantic elements. Mental spaces provide the conventional frames and common structures that are necessary for attributing a specific meaning to a semantic unit. Hence it is necessary for human communication that the mind establishes mental spaces instinctively during conversation and thinking. A notion of a sacrifice will, for instance, often be placed in a cultic context where other semantic units as altar, priests, temple, and killing also belong. Within this mental space the idea of a sacrifice immediately has a specific meaning since the cultic frame establishes a context that relates the semantic units to each other. Outside this mental space the idea of a priest bringing a dove to God has no specific significance, but within the cultic mental space it obviously indicates a sacrifice. Two mental spaces may be related through mapping.40 This cognitive operation takes place when the semantic units of one mental space are construed in terms of semantic elements from another space. In this case, one mental space functions as input space for another mental space called the target space. Structures or semantic units from the input space are projected onto the target space in order to let a certain understanding of the elements in the target space emerge. For instance, elements from a cultic mental space can be projected onto elements of a mental space of execution. This procedure can construe the execution in terms of a sacrifice and let the executed person be understood as an innocent sacrificial animal. Consequently, the executioner is identified as a priest, the place of the execution as an altar, etc. In this way the elements of the space in target are interpreted by the elements from the input space. Mapping interprets the structures of the target space by way of the input space but new structures do not arise. This is different when two mental spaces function as input spaces for a third space in which selective projections from both spaces are

�� Domains: Basic Aspects of Mental Space Theory,” in Spaces, Worlds, and Grammars (ed. G. Fauconnier and E. Sweetser; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 1–28; G. Fauconnier, “Analogical Counterfactuals,” in Spaces, Worlds, and Grammar (ed. G. Fauconnier and E. Sweetser; Chicago; University of Chicago Press, 1996), 57–90. 40 G. Fauconnier, Mappings in Thought and Language (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997); G. Fauconnier, “Mental Spaces, Language Modalities, and Conceptual Integration,” in The New Psychology of Language: Cognitive and Functional Approaches to Language Structure (ed. M. Tomasello; Mahwah, N.J.: Lawrence Erlbaum, 1998), 251–79.

The Cognitive Structures in Galatians 1:4 � 157

blended.41 This operation integrates the input spaces into a network that allows for a new space to arise and new structures to emerge. In contrast to mapping the blending of spaces is a creative procedure that results in innovative ideas. Conceptual blending presupposes a generic space that contains abstract structures that all input spaces have in common. It is because of the generic structures that the input spaces can be connected in a meaningful manner. A conceptual integration network relates the generic space and the input spaces to each other in such a way that a new mental space – called the blend – emerges. In the blend the abstract generic structure is furnished by a combination of elements from the input spaces. Selected semantic units from all spaces are projected into the blend. Some of the units keep their semantic value from the input space while others are blended with elements from the other input space. What comes into existence in the blend is an innovative version of the common generic structure. The blend is created by integrating the input spaces but it is independent from them and not equivalent with either one of them. Fauconnier and Turner schematize the cognitive process in the following conceptual blending model:42 Generic space

Input space

Projection Mapping Frame

Input space

Blend

Frame

Figure 1: A Conceptual Blending Model

�� 41 G. Fauconnier and M. Turner, “Conceptual Integration Networks,” Cognitive Science 22 (1998): 133–87; G. Fauconnier and M. Turner, The Way We Think: Conceptual Blending and the Mind’s Hidden Complexities (New York: Basic, 2002); M. Turner, “The Origin of Selkies,” Journal of Consciousness Studies 11 (2004): 90–115. 42 The model is a slightly simplified version of the model in Fauconnier and Turner, The Way We Think, 46.

158 � Jesper Tang Nielsen A blend of a cultic sacrifice and an execution could, for instance, result in the idea of a martyr who sacrifices his life for a political cause. The two mental spaces are connected by the common generic structure of killing. This structure is projected into the blended space. In the blend the execution of the martyr is blended with the offering of the sacrificial animal whereas the political frame is transferred from the execution input space. From the sacrificial space the idea that a death serves a larger purpose is projected into the blend. Generic space: Killing

Input space:

Input space:

Execution

Sacrifice

Projection Mapping

Blend: Martyr

Frame

Frame

Figure 2: Cultic Sacrifice and Execution

In Gal 1:4 Paul has blended two mental spaces, one consisting of ideas of voluntary death and one involving an apocalyptic scenario. In order to understand this conceptual integration the two input spaces and their common generic structure must be defined. According to the conceptual blending theory, mental spaces are structured by frames that are common situations or conventional circumstances. Such frames organize the different elements of a mental space into a coherent whole. But the idea of a frame cannot account for the different types of actions in each space. Since any action involves a narrative structure, narratology can supplement the conceptual integration model and expose both the common structures and the unique character of the actions in the input spaces.

The Cognitive Structures in Galatians 1:4 � 159

The Narrative Structures Ancient as well as modern studies of narratives have shown that a change from an initial situation to something else is constitutional for a narrative. This applies to the overall narrative, which according to Aristotle evolves from beginning to middle to end (Poet. 1450b26), but it also applies to smaller narrative units. Each action in a narrative is an attempt – successful or unsuccessful – to affect a given situation. According to the French narratologist C. Bremond, any narrative action is completed through three steps.43 First, the result of the action is “virtual,” namely, before the action; then it is “actual,” namely, during the action; and finally it is “real,” namely, after the action. This process leaves open the possibility that the action may be prevented or interrupted so that the result will never be realized. On that basis Bremond defines four different types of narrative actions: “progression,” “degression,” “protection,” and “depression.”44 An action either turns the situation into something better (i.e., progression) or something worse (i.e., degression), or else it keeps the situation from becoming worse (i.e., protection) or becoming better (i.e., depression). This is the theoretical principle behind quite complicated and extended lines of actions. In this context the structure of protection and progression are especially important. Protection presupposes virtual or actual degression. A successful protection hinders that the virtual or actual degression will be realized. Progression presupposes a defective initial situation that may be the result of a realized degression. A successful progression transforms the initial situation into something better. The full narrative course of protection can be described as follows:45 (1) A narrative character is the virtual beneficiary of progression but at the same time the virtual victim of degression. If the degression is actualized a second stage sets in: (2) The narrative character is the actual victim of degression but at the same time the virtual beneficiary of protection. If the protection is actualized a third stage turns up: (3) The narrative character is the actual the beneficiary of protection. If the protection is successful the narrative course ends in a fourth stage: (4) The narrative character is the beneficiary of a realized protection. Of course, this stage is in fact a return to the initial stage.

�� 43 C. Bremond, Logique du récit (Paris: Éditions du Seuil 1973), 131. 44 Bremond, Logique du récit, 134. 45 Bremond, Logique du récit, 165.

160 � Jesper Tang Nielsen Another possible narrative course is progression that takes its starting point in a defective situation.46 First stage: (1) The narrative character is the victim of a realized degression but at the same time the virtual beneficiary of progression. If the progression is actualized the second stage follows: (2) The narrative character is the actual beneficiary of progression but at the same time the virtual victim of depression. If the depression is not actualized the narrative course ends in the third stage: (3) The narrative character is the beneficiary of a realized progression. This end phase is not identical with the initial stage. The narrative person has been transferred to a new and better state.

The Narrative Structure of the Mental Spaces In light of these narrative possibilities, the two ideas in Gal 1:4 appear to involve two different narrative courses. According to all the proposed backgrounds of the voluntary death, it involves protection, whereas the apocalyptic change of aeons is a progression. This may easily be substantiated for the apocalyptic input space. But because there is no single traditional background for the voluntary death, all the possible ideas must be analyzed in order to detect the common narrative structure. In the Fourth Servant Song (LXX) God gives the Suffering Servant for “our sins” (κύριος παρέδωκεν αὐτὸν ταῖς ἁμαρτίαις ἡμῶν, kyrios paredōken auton tais hamartiais hēmōn) (Isa 53:6). He is given over to death because of the sins (διὰ τὰς ἁμαρτίας αὐτῶν παρεδόθη, dia tas hamartias autōn paredothē) of the lawless from the people (ἄνομοι τοῦ λαοῦ μου, anomoi tou laou mou) (53:12, 8). Apparently, the result of this innocent (53:9) and obedient death (53:7) is that he can function as a sin offering (περὶ ἁμαρτίας, peri hamartias) so that the beneficiaries of this offering will have a long life (53:10). Who this group is, is not evident, but they belong to the Israelite people. Through the vicarious suffering of the servant they obtain peace, health, and long life (53:5, 10). This is probably a re-establishment of a relation to God that has been damaged by their sins and lawlessness. Whether it is protection or progression depends on the interpretation of the situation of the group mentioned as “us.” Have their sins and lawlessness destroyed their relation to God, so that the vicarious act of the Servant places them in a new situation? Or does he take on the role of a sin offering that removes what endangers their relation to God? The text may be too enigmatic to

�� 46 Bremond, Logique du récit, 166.

The Cognitive Structures in Galatians 1:4 � 161

provide clear answers, but the fact that the beneficiaries already belong to God’s people points in the direction of a protective, and not a progressive narrative structure. The OT sacrificial system evidently involves protection. When Moses commands that the Israelites must bring sin offerings, it is not to establish a new situation but to prevent a collapse of the situation that is already given. According to J. Milgrom, sins contaminate the temple and make the people unclean. Because of the impurities, God’s presence in the temple and his relation to the people are endangered. Sin offering is a purification that prevents God’s departure from the temple.47 Because sins threaten to ruin the Israelites’ relation to God, a sin offering (τὰ περὶ τῆς ἁμαρτίας, ta peri tēs hamartias) must intervene and protect the initial situation. In narratological terms, sins actualize a degression of the relation between humanity and God. But the degression is not realized because the sin offering sets up a protection by removing the sins that threaten the initial positive situation (Lev 6).48 Structurally the same process is involved in the Day of Atonement (Lev 16). The temple has been infected by the sins of the people which must be atoned for by the offering of a bull (περὶ τῆς ἁμαρτίας/περὶ τῶν ἁμαρτιῶν, peri tēs hamaritias/peri tōn hamartiōn), just as the people are atoned for when the goat carries their sins into the desert. Atonement is necessary because sins have started a degression that may ruin the relation between God and the people.49 For that reason God has instituted the Day of Atonement to remove the sins from the holy place and cleanse the holy people. By means of sin offerings the Day of

�� 47 J. Milgrom, Leviticus 1-16 (AB 3; New York: Doubleday, 1999), 253-61. 48 A conflicting interpretation of OT sin offerings does in fact describe it as a progression. According to H. Gese and B. Janowski, atonement delivers humans from a fundamentally forfeited existence (H. Gese, “Die Sühne,” in Zur biblischen Theologie: Alttestamentliche Vorträge [BEvT 78; München: Chr. Kaiser, 1977], 85-107 [101]; B. Janowski, Sühne als Heilsgeschehen: Traditions- und religionsgeschichtliche Studien zur priesterschriftlichen Sühnetheologie [2nd ed.; WMANT 55; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2000], 255). In narratological terms, the starting point is a realized degression because of sin. By way of the ritual act a realized progression changes the situation into something else. But it does not seem convincing that the atonement rites presuppose a completely deprived situation. The Israelites are still members of the privileged people and have access to God’s mercy through his cultic institutions. It would be more precise to define the Israelites’ situation as an actualized degression because their sins threaten to destroy their relation to God. But this has not happened yet. Atonement produces a protection that hinders the realization of the degression. It does not introduce a new situation but saves the initial positive situation. 49 Milgrom, Leviticus, 1079-84.

162 � Jesper Tang Nielsen Atonement protects the initial positive situation from being destroyed but it does not establish a new situation. When the language of offering is used in martyrological literature, the martyrs are portrayed as an instrument of reconciliation. It is not always clear if it is the death of the martyrs, their vicarious trust in God, or their supplication on behalf of the people that has a positive effect on God’s relation to Israel. Nevertheless, it is explicit that the deed of the Maccabean martyrs brings the wrath of God to an end. They give up their body and soul for the laws of the fathers (προδίδωμι περὶ τῶν πατρίων νόμων, prodidōmi peri tōn patriōn nomōn) and make a plea to God and the people in order to stop God’s wrath (2 Macc 7:37). Because of (ἐν, en) the martyrs, God should change his mind toward the people and again show mercy on them (2 Macc 7:38). Structurally, the case is not different in 4 Maccabees although the martyrs’ death functions as a ransom (ἀντίψυχον, antipsychon) for the people’s sins (4 Macc 6:29; 17:21). Their vicarious deaths defeat Israel’s enemies and provide God’s benevolence (4 Macc 17:20-22). The martyrs explain their acts as an intervention in an actualized degression. The relation between God and the people is jeopardized because of the people’s sins, which have provoked God’s wrath. The intervention prevents the realization of this conflict, which would be a termination of the relation between the people and God. Since this has not happened yet, the martyrs are able to act as a protection. Their deeds establish a transition from an endangered situation back to the initial safe situation. The pagan concept of ὑπεραποθνήσκω (hyperapohnēskō) obviously concerns protection. In Euripides’ prototypical tragedy about Alcestis, her husband is destined to be collected by Death when he seeks someone to take his place. As Alcestis complies, Admetus remains alive. He was exposed to a degression but Alcestis’ deed prevented it from being realized, i.e., she performed a protection. On the basis of this narratological interpretation of actions in the proposed traditional backgrounds of the first part of Gal 1:4 it may be concluded that the idea of giving one’s life for sins belongs in a kind of sacrificial mental space that includes voluntary death but does not necessarily presuppose a cultic frame. In all cases a sacrifice or a voluntary death involves a protective narrative structure. Vicarious suffering and death, sin offering and representative faithfulness all protect against an ongoing destruction of the relation to God. All actions establish a transition but not from one situation to another; rather, they transform a jeopardized situation into a safe one. Some Jewish traditions do so by removing the sins that threaten to destroy the positive situation in which the beneficiaries already stand. Other traditions secure a situation by means of voluntary death, which protects against an outer enemy.

The Cognitive Structures in Galatians 1:4 � 163

The input space of the other part of Gal 1:4 needs less discussion. The apocalyptic frame involves a transition between two opposite aeons. The present aeon is evil and will be replaced by another new and heavenly aeon when God intervenes in history at the Last Judgment. God’s final intervention divides time in two: the present time before the Last Judgment and the future age after the end of this aeon. Apocalyptic writings are based on this contrast between the present aeon and the coming one. When the future age is introduced, the wicked will be condemned and the righteous will be saved. It is a salient feature of the apocalyptic worldview that there is no continuity between the aeons. God invades the present age and establishes his kingdom, which is the new age. The new aeon is a complete break with the old one. Everything is changed and made into something new (Rev 21). It is evident that the narrative structure of the apocalypses is progressive. The course takes its starting point in an unsatisfactory initial situation and establishes a realized progression. Contrary to the protective narrative course the initial situation is not re-established but replaced by a new and better one. God offers a new creation instead of the present evil age.

Blending the Spaces According to Fauconnier and Turner, blending consists of the projection of a common generic structure and semantic units from two input spaces into an emerging new space. In this space new concepts arise. The two input spaces of Gal 1:4 are narratologically different. One involves protection, the other progression. One removes the sins that endanger the relation to God, the other replaces a present evil age with a radically different future age. The first happens through a voluntary death, the other by God’s intervention. But the two concepts have a generic structure in common as well. They both involve a narrative act insofar as they both are concerned with a transition from one situation to another. This abstract structure permits blending the two separate mental spaces.

164 � Jesper Tang Nielsen The cognitive process is illustrated in the conceptual integration network: Generic space: Transition

2. Input space: Apocalyptic progression

1. Input space: Protection by voluntary death

Projection Mapping Frame

Blend: Apocalyptic progression by voluntary death

Figure 3: Liberation from Sins and the New Aeon

The common generic structure is projected into the blend. But the transformation in the first space from a sinful and endangered state to a sinless and safe one is blended with the change from this evil aeon to a new aeon derived from the second space. The resulting blend is an idea of a change from an evil sinful aeon to an ideal sinless aeon. In the same way the different means for the transitions are blended. The voluntary death for sins is blended with God’s eschatological intervention in the world. In the blend this means that Jesus’ voluntary death is God’s intervention that marks the turn from this age to the new creation. The result of the conceptual integration is that Jesus’ death liberates from sins and at the same time snatches out of the present evil aeon. In the blend the idea emerges that God intervenes in this evil aeon when Jesus gives himself up for human sins and thereby snatches sinners out of their sinful situation in order to insert them into a new creation. The integration of the protective structure by voluntary death and the progressive apocalyptic transformation furthermore results in a specific theological idea: Jesus’ death not only removes sins but also establishes a new ideal relation to God which results in eternal life. This conception cannot be derived from either of the two traditional conceptions. Only the innovative integration of them through the cognitive blending process can explain how this central idea emerged.

The Cognitive Structures in Galatians 1:4 � 165

The Argument in Galatians Without going into exegetical detail, it is possible to show how Paul structures his argument in Galatians on the basis of his innovation in Gal 1:4. Having established that Jesus’ voluntary death brings humans out of the present aeon, he is able to claim that believing humans are liberated from the present evil aeon in order to belong to the new creation (6:15). By introducing a dualistic structure this inclusio forms the rhetorical basis for Galatians. The basic structure of the letter is the dualistic opposition between a positive and a negative side. Throughout the argument Paul invests these sides differently according to the theme in question. But it is a steady feature that the Christ event has transferred the believers from the negative to the positive side of the dualism. The rhetorical idea is to argue that Christ-believers are liberated from everything Paul places on the negative side of the opposition.50 One very important example of this technique is 2:16, which is part of Paul’s response to Peter’s behavior in Antioch. The theme of the context is justification and Paul places works according to the law on the negative side of the structure and faith on the positive side. He argues that he and Peter, knowing that works according to the law do not justify, came to believe in Christ and were justified because of his faith. In this pericope the Christ event is expressed as Christ’s faith (πίστις χριστοῦ, pistis christou). His faithfulness is of benefit for humans who participate in Christ’s faith by believing him.51 Works according to the law belong to the present evil aeon and faith to the new creation. Further in the same rhetorical context, Paul turns the opposition between faith and works into a more general opposition between God and the law (2:19). He places living for the law in opposition to living for God. Consequently, he insists that he is dead to the law in order to live for God. The reason is that he has been crucified with Christ (2:19). Because he participates in Christ’s crucifixion, he is dead to the law and lives for God. Again, the transfer between the two �� 50 The dualistic rhetorical structure of Galatians is, of course, commonplace in exegetical studies. However, the foundational role of Gal 1:4 is seldom explicated. Cf., e.g., J.L. Martyn, “Apocalyptic Antinomies,” in Theological Issues in the Letters of Paul (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1997), 111-23; Breytenbach, “For Us,” 182; F. Tolmie, “Salvation as Redemption: The Use of ‘Redemption’ Metaphors in Pauline Literature,” in Salvation in the New Testament: Perspectives on Soteriology (ed. J. van der Watt; NovTSup 121; Leiden: Brill, 2005), 247-69 (265-66); G. Hallbäck, “Galaterbrevet som helhed,” in Læsninger i Galaterbrevet (ed. L. Fatum; København: Forlaget Fremad, 2001), 25-42. 51 S.K. Williams, Galatians (Nashville: Abingdon, 1997), 69-70; cf. M.D. Hooker, “ΠΙΣΤΙΣ ΚΡΙΣΤΟΥ,” NTS 35 (1989): 321-42.

166 � Jesper Tang Nielsen opposites is made possible by the Christ event, which is of benefit for the believers when they take part in it through faith.52 Paul says this about himself in the following verse. He participates in the Christ event through his faith in the son of God so that he no longer lives himself but Christ lives in him (2:20). Throughout the letter there are several other configurations of the underlying structure, e.g., flesh versus spirit (3:1-5), the law versus the promise (3:1518), and the slave versus the heir (4:1-7). In the end of the theological part of the letter (chs. 3-4), Paul enacts the fundamental dualism in the opposition between Hagar and Sarah, which equals the opposition between the covenant from Sinai and the one with Abraham, which again refers to the present Jerusalem and Jerusalem from above. All these oppositions have the opposition between slavery and freedom in common (4:21 – 5:1). Paul’s intention with this allegory is, of course, to affirm the Galatians’ identity as belonging to the line of freedom. They are children of the promise just like Isaac (4:28). In the end of the pericope, which is also a bridge to the following admonition, Paul again points out that Christ has established the transition from slavery to freedom (5:1). To start obeying the law is to go back to slavery, which would be to return to the present evil aeon and neglect Christ. This is the consequence Paul draws in the next paragraph. Having established the range of oppositions and presented Christ as the means of being transferred from the negative to the positive side in the opposition, Paul’s argument culminates in yet another opposition: Christ versus circumcision. If the Galatians choose to be circumcised, Christ is of no benefit (5:2). Putting faith in anything but Christ means to return to the negative side of the structure (5:4). Old identity markers belong to the negative side and have no significance for those in Christ (5:6). After the culminating admonition, Paul transforms the opposition between spirit and flesh into an ethical discourse (5:13–6:10). Although this paraenetical part of the letter consists of general exhortations about the Galatians’ ethos, it builds on the structure that establishes the argument of the entire letter.53 He claims that Christ has conquered the realm of flesh in his crucifixion and thereby established a realm of the spirit for the believers (6:24). For that reason Paul exhorts the Galatians to follow the spiritual way of life that corresponds to their inclusion in the spirit (6:25). This underlying idea is that Christ has brought the believers from one identity to another. On that ground, Paul’s paraenesis consists in an appeal to realize the identity that the believers already have.54

�� 52 Williams, Galatians, 75. 53 J.M.G. Barclay, Obeying the Truth: A Study of Paul’s Ethic in Galatians (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1988), 205. 54 Barclay, Obeying the Truth, 215.

The Cognitive Structures in Galatians 1:4 � 167

The concrete versions of the underlying structure of Galatians change according to topics of the letter. At times the opposition is between Christ-faith and law-works or God and the law, at other times it is between spirit and flesh, and again at other times it is between freedom and slavery. But just as the fundamental structure is steady, it is an invariable element that the Christ event marks the transition from one side to another. At this point it is very important that Paul has constructed this transition as a progression. The Galatians have been inserted into a new identity, not just re-established in their initial situation. For that reason Paul can argue emphatically against returning to anything in the old identity. Even though the Galatians have never been under the law, it would in fact be a return to their old idols if they started obeying the law (4:9). And if they did, they would neglect Jesus Christ who has liberated them from the present evil aeon by giving himself up. Paul’s way of arguing testifies to his rhetorical genius. Once he has installed the basic dualistic structure in Gal 1:4, he can organize his arguments in pairs of opposition. If the readers think of themselves as being liberated from the present evil aeon by way of Christ’s voluntary death, they will be led to agree with Paul’s argument. Paul’s opponents, however, hardly accepted his oppositions.55 They did not construe the law and works according to the law in terms of an apocalyptic dualism; hence, they did not see a contradiction between Christ and circumcision or between God and the law. On the contrary, they understood the two as being in continuity. To them, obeying the law is an intrinsic part of belonging to Christ. Paul undercuts their argument by inserting Christ’s death in an apocalyptic frame and construing its effect as a radical progression. If the opponents should reply Paul efficiently, they would have to challenge this interpretation of the Christ event.

Conclusion In order to establish Paul’s interpretation of the Christ event, traditional models of voluntary death or apocalyptic change did not suffice. Paul had to integrate these two separate conceptions. This took place in Gal 1:4, where it laid the ground for Paul’s impressive argument in Galatians. Once the dualistic structure had emerged in the blend, he could invest the opposing sides according to the topic of his argument. In this way he was able to construct a contradiction be-

�� 55 Cf. Martyn, Galatians, 120-26.

168 � Jesper Tang Nielsen tween the past and the present. On that basis he was able to argue that it would be a regression and a denial of Christ to adhere to anything that he placed on the negative side of the fundamental opposition. Paul’s interpretation of Jesus’ death as the means for being included in the new creation liberated from the world of sin also formed the basis of a dominant trend in Christian theology. To mention one prominent example, when Luther explains what it means that Jesus is Lord, he says that he is the Lord, de my vorlaren und vordoemeden mynschen vorloeset hefft, erworwen, ghewunnen, unde van allen sunden, vam dode unnd van der gewalt des Duevels, nicht myt golde edder sulver, sonderen myt synem hylligen dueren blode und myt synem unschuldyghen lyden und sterven, up dat ick syn eyghen sy unde yn sinem ryke under em leve und em deene yn ewyger gerechticheyt, unschult und salicheit, gelyck wo hee ys up gestan vam dode, levet unnd regeret yn ewycheyt.56 [who has redeemed me, a lost and condemned creature, purchased and won me from all sins, from death, and from the power of the devil, not with gold or silver, but with His holy, precious blood and with His innocent suffering and death, in order that I may be His own, and live under Him in His kingdom, and serve Him in everlasting righteousness, innocence, and blessedness, even as He is risen from the dead, lives and reigns to all eternity.]

This quotation from The Small Catechism significantly construes Jesus’ deed as establishing a transition from one situation to another – from being damned under the power of death, the devil, and sins to being saved in the kingdom of Christ. This happens through his innocent suffering and death. According to Luther’s interpretation, Jesus’ death exonerates all sin and therefore defeats death and the devil and establishes his own kingdom. Believing humans are included in the kingdom and serve him in righteousness, innocence, and salvation. The fundamental act of deliverance in Luther’s theology is the cross, when Jesus establishes a transition from a sinful and damned situation to a righteous situation in God’s kingdom. When Luther and other Christian theologians understand Jesus’ death as a means of being liberated from a negative situation and inserted into its positive counterpart, they follow Paul’s interpretation. They invest the fundamental dualistic structure with notions from their own contexts but stay with the Pauline structure. In this way, their presentation of the significance of Jesus’ voluntary death is an elaboration of the idea that first emerged when Paul blended two different mental spaces in Gal 1:4.

�� 56 D. Martin Luthers Werke, Kritische Gesamtausgabe (60 vols.; Weimar: Böhlau, 1883-1980), 30I, 249b.

Miranda Vroon-van Vugt

Who Is in Charge? Mental Space Analysis and Visualization in a Textual Study, Applied to 1 Samuel 28:3-25 When we read in the Hebrew Bible that someone is saying, “I saw God,” it is important to know in what context this remark is made and within whose reality this observation is to be understood: in a priest’s, in the narrator’s, in a biblical character’s, in the present author’s? In the story of Saul at Endor, in 1 Sam 28, a woman makes the remark. She is called “a woman who controls ghosts,” and her profession is the general context of her remark. She is the one who sees god: “I see god[s], coming up from the earth” (v. 13). When King Saul asks her what this god looks like, she says, “An old man is coming up” (v. 14). But it is Saul, not the woman, who hears this “god” speak, and her answer allows Saul to conclude that it is in fact the prophet Samuel. The story line of 1 Sam 28:3-25 can easily be summarized. Saul, the first king of Israel, visits a woman in Endor. He wants her to summon up his prophet so that Samuel can guide him in war. However, as king, Saul has banned from the land those seeking knowledge from ghosts and spirits – mediums and diviners. Consequently, in a long conversation between the woman and Saul the pros and cons of his request are discussed and finally Samuel emerges and talks to Saul. The story ends with the woman caring for the terrified Saul, preparing food for him. The reader is faced with several problems in this text, especially with perspective and conceptualization. The role the woman is playing in this story is extensive and her actions are both illegal – a possible explanation for the disguise Saul puts on (v. 8) before going to her – and dynamic. The theological conceptualization differs from our modern belief system, at least for most of us. Asking guidance from God through dreams, Urim, or prophets is not within our day-to-day framework.1 In translations and exegeses, the idea of a foreign woman seeing God almighty is seemingly indigestible, as the Hebrew word in the remark – ‫הים‬ ִ ‫’ ֱא‬elōhim – is mostly translated with a word like gods. Other scholars contemplate the length of the dialogue between the woman and Saul, providing possible answers about why and what, without much textual evidence from the story itself. Some even describe the nature of the woman’s divi�� 1 I will refer to the proper name of God as Adonai, my Lord.

170 � Miranda Vroon-van Vugt nation without any such action being presented in the text. What could this extended dialogue show us? Can the application of a cognitive linguistic method shed light on this story? Does mental space theory offer us an instrument to verify or falsify conventional (exegetical) readings of a narrative text in general and of this story in particular? I will use Fauconnier’s Mental Space theory and offer a further adaptation of this theory for textual analysis. In particular, I propose a new way of displaying differences in speech and thought representations. Special attention will be paid to the special type of Question-Order-Request-space and the visibility of the story’s dynamics. Based on this adapted Mental Space theory, a textual study of 1 Sam 28 will be sketched, which will show biblical exegetes certain deficiencies in traditional approaches to the text and demonstrate for linguists the applicability of the new method proposed.

Mental Space Theory and Its Adaptation for Textual Studies A Short Sketch of Mental Space Theory In studying the relationship between mental space structures and syntax and semantics, evidence is gathered for the role played by natural language in expressing and guiding the setup of cognitive constructs. Examining these constructs has a use in linguistics. On the one hand, they provide substantial explanations for the forms and meanings of many grammatical constructions. On the other hand, they show how information in language is connected and thus how rich language data are cognitively used to construct meaning.2 Knowledge is not available without embeddedness in some form of reality. Knowledge is received through the belief spaces of people around us. People set up history and/or future spaces to position their knowledge in time, and give way to a wide range of imagination through counterfactual or possibility spaces. Even the base space – the specific conceptual context of the narration or discourse – of a certain chunk of information is embedded in some reality: of a speaker, a writer, a situation, a time and place. The elements in different mental �� 2 Gilles Fauconnier and Eve Sweetser, “Cognitive Links and Domains: Basic Aspects of Mental Space Theory,” in Spaces, Worlds, and Grammar (ed. G. Fauconnier and E. Sweetser; Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1996), 1-28.

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spaces are connected in a way that enables us to see and understand the connection and distinguish the different positions of the elements in the different spaces. The model of mental spaces can be used in studying narrative discourse because of its ability to provide insight into the connections of information. More precisely, the model enables a researcher of narrative discourse to account for embeddings in language, therefore providing a tool for the determination of perspective in a text. Embedded information enables a narrator to introduce a subjective point of view in a story. The embedded spaces restrict the validity or factuality of the embedded material, for example to a particular subject (person) in the discourse or to a certain moment in time. With the use of Mental Space Theory, boundaries between the narrator’s and the character’s subjectivity can be described. In other words, it is possible to determine whose vision is represented where.3 In a text, a mental space is opened as a mental picture painted within the first part of a sentence in a story or discourse, in which different language elements are connected. As the story unfolds, other elements are combined with these elements and other connections between these elements are constructed. Some elements are identified as space builders. These can be elements of time, of space, of possibility, etc., such as in John’s mind, in 1929, probably, possibly, Max believes..., I hope..., she thinks..., he sees…. As soon as the next picture is painted with the use of a space builder – for example, a hypothetical, future, past, counterfactual space – another mental space is created in our mind. Mental spaces are connected: a connector is capable of connecting triggers and targets in the parent and daughter spaces.4 Mental spaces are cognitive constructions that model how information in discourse is partitioned and accessed, and which mental space constitutes the viewpoint space from which the information partitioned in other spaces is accessed. Within the cognitive method of Mental Space theory I propose that we need to combine the time element of a story with perspectivization and content dynamics. Because it combines all these elements, the display method I propose allows us to clarify the dynamics of narrative more fully than other methods.

�� 3 José Sanders and Gisela Redeker, “Perspective and the Representation of Speech and Thought in Narrative Discourse,” in Spaces, Worlds, and Grammar (ed. G. Fauconnier and E. Sweetser; Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1996), 290-317. 4 Gilles Fauconnier, Mental Spaces: Aspects of Meaning Construction in Natural Language (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1985), 16-18.

172 � Miranda Vroon-van Vugt

From Line to Text, or: From Achilles to Saul In order to display the results obtained when we apply Mental Spaces methods to longer texts, the diagram models Gilles Fauconnier used in 1985 and 1994 – for the famous story of Achilles and the tortoise, for example – need to be transformed.5 Fauconnier’s blend diagram is based on a brief story, but the order of the sentences and events of the story are not recognizable in the diagram. In fact, the diagram is an abstraction of the story. It provides an insightful but atemporal picture of the story of Achilles and the tortoise. It is insightful because the different mental spaces that are involved in the story are clearly visible and their interconnections are perfectly clear. But it is atemporal because all the clauses that belong to a certain space are put in the same square box without consideration of their position in the story. Without the actual story present with the diagram, the story’s outline would not be easy to reconstruct from the visualization. In fact, although Fauconnier’s configuration shows at a glance the dynamics of language in even a rather simple-looking short story, the same configuration would be cluttered if the story was longer or more spaces were involved in it. With a larger text, a temporal picture would therefore be necessary in order to be able to follow the line of the story, and a visualization or diagram without the circles would be necessary to avoid cluttering. In the MST-Text diagram presented here, clausal distinctions, mental spaces, and textual structure are made visible. Such an adaptation is necessary since a presentation in a Fauconnier-style blend diagram would lead to a chaotic multitude of interrelated circles. In the adapted diagram the dynamics of the communication as shown in Fauconnier’s diagrammatic representation of small textual fragments is replaced by the dynamics of communication in larger textual units.6

�� 5 Gilles Fauconnier, Mappings in Thought and Language (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 44-48. 6 Other scholars have extended Fauconnier’s method and other cognitive linguistic methods to longer narratives. Early attempts include those by Ellen van Wolde and José Sanders in an article on the story of Solomon’s judgment in 1 Kgs 3: “Kijken met de ogen van anderen: perspectief in bijbelteksten,” Tijdschrift voor Theologie 34, no. 3 (1994): 221-45. More recently, Barbara Dancygier published excellent cognitive textual analyses in “The Text and the Story: Levels of Blending in Fictional Narratives,” in Mental Spaces in Discourse and Interaction (Pragmatics and Beyond Series 170; ed. Todd Oakley and Anders Hougaard; Amsterdam: Benjamins, 2008), 51-78. See also Barbara Dancygier, The Language of Stories: A Cognitive Approach (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012).

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Several clauses can be positioned within the continuum of each mental space. A clause, however, cannot be spread over different mental spaces, since a clause is considered to be the smallest grammatical unit in a text.7 In cognitive linguistic terms, in “a verbal concept that has achieved conceptual autonomy through specification of its essential participants and circumstances,” its perspective will not change within its boundaries.8 An essential key in Mental Space Theory is the fact that some mental spaces are embedded in other spaces. This will be the basis of the MST-Text visualization model presented here. The narrator’s space will be shown as a continuous space, with characters’ mental spaces or the narrator’s comment spaces embedded in it. The outline of the narrator’s space will be at the right margin, because the Hebrew language is read from the right to the left. The embedded spaces will be indented to the left, and on the following line, in order for the clauses to be read continuously in the correct reading order. The mental spaces embedded in the narrator’s space will be shown as smaller and indented spaces, but also as continuous spaces until the narrative either returns to the narrator’s space or a new mental space embedded in the narrator’s space is introduced. When a mental space is embedded in another mental space, that embedded space will be even smaller than the first mental space, but will remain within its borders. It will be continuous too until the narrative returns to another mental space or opens a new space. In order to show the basic principle of my MST-Text diagram, an example of one part of a verse will be shown in Figure 1. The spaces embedded in the narrator’s space (N) can be named differently, corresponding with their content. The most common embedded mental space in a narrative is a character’s mental perspective (e.g., speech, belief, thought) space (P). Other possible spaces could be a history space, a future space, and a counterfactual space. These spaces are embedded either in the narrator’s space, or in a character’s perspective space. Figure 1 shows the second clause positioned a little bit lower than the first clause. This resembles the outline of a text that has been divided into clauses.

�� 7 Paul Joüon and T. Muraoka, A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew (Subsidia Biblica 27; 2nd ed.; Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 2006), § 153. 8 Ellen van Wolde, Reframing Biblical Studies: When Language and Text Meet Culture, Cognition, and Context (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2009), 176. In contrast, a sentence may just be partly in one mental space, with the rest of the sentence being in another mental space.

174 � Miranda Vroon-van Vugt

Figure 1: Example of a MST-Text diagram (sentence level), 1 Sam 28:23b-c

The main characters and the narrator are mentioned at the top of the diagram. The indentation of the embedded spaces corresponds with the outline of the character’s name, so that we can look at a glance at the text and see which or how many mental spaces belong to a certain character. Displaying the dynamics of change between narrators’ and characters’ mental spaces will be useful. The narrator’s space (N) as a whole is only visible in the diagram of the whole story; in the Figures only a part is visible, which can be found as a line on the right and left of the narrator’s text and space. The letters to identify a space rectangle are: narrator’s space (N/N2), character’s mental perspective space (P/P2), future space (F/F2), and history spaces (H/H2/H3/H4). An example is given in Figure 2 (see page 175). In biblical narrative, the base space coincides with the narrator’s space.9 The viewpoint shifts each time a mental space is embedded in another space, except when the embedded space is a relative clause. This is the case only in vv. 8h, 9c, d, and 21h. These clauses are easily recognized because of the relative pronoun ‫’ ֲא ֶשׁר‬asher, which in each of them. The choice to identify embedded spaces within embedded spaces – in the larger visualization diagram, for example, H-H2 – is prompted by a change in verb construction (v. 16d, wayyiqtol-clause after a we-x-qatal clause) or by causal markers such as ‫ ַכּ ֲא ֶשׁר‬ka’asher, “as” (vv. 17b, 18b), or ‫ ִכּי‬kî, “that, which” (v. 14g). In case of a change in time (in case of History or Future spaces) without a connector, the clauses are identified as separate (e.g., History) spaces, following

�� 9 Adele Berlin, Poetics and Interpretation of Biblical Narrative (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbraus, 1994), 55-56; see also Sanders and Redeker, “Perspective and the Representation of Speech,” 292.

Who Is in Charge? � 175

each other as embedded in the Narrator’s or Character’s Space as separate spaces (H-H), not as H-H2.

Figure 2: Example of a MST-Text diagram (text level), 1 Sam 28:14a-i

In Figure 2, the embedded spaces in the narrator’s space are clearly visible. In v. 14b and v. 14d-g, the narrator’s space is interrupted first by a mental space of the character Saul (v. 14b) second by a mental space of the character woman (v. 14d-e), and finally by a mental space of the character Saul (v. 14f-g). The first two embedded spaces are familiar types of embedded spaces: direct speech. The third embedded space looks the same, because in a mental space construction it is, but it contains not direct speech, but the thoughts of the character Saul, told

176 � Miranda Vroon-van Vugt through an indirect narrator’s text representing the viewpoint of the character Saul, and therefore a mental perspective space of this character.10

Figure 3: A detailed look at v. 14f-g; MST-Text diagram (sentence level)

In the visualization diagram, the most striking difference in arrangement between the two types of characters’ mental spaces is the insertion of the introductory clause into the character’s mental space in v. 14f instead of leaving it in the narrator’s space, as in v. 14a.c. I make this distinction because of the special type of space in v. 14f-g (cf. Figure 3). The space building verb ‫ ידע‬yāda‘, “to know,” does more than ground the content of the knowing, as does the verb ‫’ אמר‬āmar, “to say.” Intrinsically, the fact that the story tells something about the inner world of a character – beyond this and that happened, he or she did so and so, or he or she said – indicates a different level of communication: we look under the skin of the character. José Sanders calls this “the character’s implicit perspective.”11 Therefore I choose to add the introductory clause “then Saul knew” to the character’s mental space, with an added embedded space if and when a marker like ‫ ִכּי‬kî, “that, which,” opens a space even closer to the perspective of the character.12 Analogously, when a remark is made about a character fearing (like Saul in v. 5b), without a directly embedded space with the content of his fear, this clause is positioned in a character’s mental space. The perspective at that point is so close to the character that this justifies this

�� 10 On indirect narration, see Johanna Maria (José) Sanders, “Perspective in Narrative Discourse” (PhD diss., University of Tilburg, 1994), 69. 11 Ibid. 12 Sanders calls this “embedding in embedded discourse” (ibid.). For the connecting function of ‫ ִכּי‬kî, “that, which,” see Carl Martin Follingstad, Deictic Viewpoint in Biblical Hebrew Text: A Syntagmatic and Paradigmatic Analysis of the Particle ‫( ִכּי‬kî) (Dallas, Tex.: SIL International, 2001).

Who Is in Charge? � 177

choice.13 In v. 14f-g, the inner thoughts of Saul are looked at as belonging to his mental space; it is his knowledge, his responsibility, though put into words by the narrator. Nothing is stated about the narrator agreeing with Saul that it was Samuel, only about the beliefs of Saul that it was Samuel. At this stage only one dimension of the dynamics of the text is clarified by the outline of spaces related to the different characters or the narrator. However, a more complex situation is found in specific types of communication such as questions, orders or requests, in which it is not clear whose perspective is shared. If a question is being asked, the knowledge of the person spoken to is seemingly more important than the viewpoint of the person speaking. In the next section I will explore some aspects and try to implement the communication and therefore Mental Space dynamics in the diagram.

QOR-Spaces as a Special Type of Conversation Dynamics The QOR (Question-Order-Request)-space I identified in v. 14b, in this case a Question, contains a different type of communication dynamics. With a regular indicative utterance I would convey what is in my head, in my belief system, to the person I am talking to. Or by introducing another person’s beliefs, I convey what I believe to be in that person’s belief system: “I think that…” or “He believes that….” These communication dynamics change the moment I ask a question, give an order or make a request. It is my strong opinion that a question (Q), order (O), or request (R) anticipates the conceptualization of the hearer. The content of the remark is still in the hands of the person uttering it, but by asking, for example, “What does he look like?” as Saul does in v. 14b, he implies that the woman has knowledge that he (Saul) himself does not possess, that their representations of (or access to) reality are different on this point. In a text, mental spaces are being built up to construct a line of communication between author and reader.14 The author anticipates and relies on assumed knowledge within the mind of the reader(s) and passes down new information. �� 13 Dancygier observes that any representation of a character’s speech or thoughts indicates the viewpoint of that character, independent of the specific form of expression (Language of Stories, 88). 14 In this case I refer to the intrinsic mental spaces in a text as it is being written by the author, not to the ones constructed by a linguistic or biblical scholar studying the text.

178 � Miranda Vroon-van Vugt One of the possible tools of an author in constructing his story and leading the reader is introducing direct character speech. With direct speech, a new type of communication is started. This communication is embedded in the communication between author – present in the narration as narrator – and reader. Direct speech allows readers to step into the communication between characters. It opens a mental space of the character, directing the perspective of the reader in the character’s direction. Mental spaces shift as a character starts to talk, just as they shift when a character is described as a thinking, looking, hearing, etc., person. Mental spaces in a character’s speech are not that difficult to reconstruct when a character is telling something to another character. It gets more complicated when a character is asking a question or giving an order. How does communication work then? What kind of mental space is being constructed and of which character, the speaking or the hearing character? In functional grammar, all communication is viewed as transaction or transfer of information. When asking a question, a person anticipates and relies upon supposed knowledge of another person. The person asking the question presumes the other person has knowledge and wants to be told about it (e.g., “What happened to you yesterday?”), or he wants to know to what extent the other person shares his knowledge (e.g., “Do you know what happened to me yesterday?”). In both cases, a question is a means for signaling that one has some gap in one’s information and asks another person to fill in this gap. In the first example, the person asking the question signals a gap in his own information. In the second example, the person who asks suggests that there is a gap in the information of the person he is talking to.15 However, how does this work in terms of the theory of mental spaces? In her dissertation about Potawatomi discourse, Laura Ann Buszard-Welcher created a theoretical model for dyadic conversation that could shed light on the problem of the mental spaces in questions (and requests).16 Because Buszard-Welcher only addresses the possibility of questions, the parallel I see in requests or orders will be explained later. In Mental Space Theory, at any time in a discourse situation a mental space is in focus, i.e., currently being structured. BuszardWelcher observes that additionally, for a prototypical dyadic conversation, one participant is always profiled. In an indicative communication situation (information exchange from speaker to hearer), the speaker is both conceptualizer �� 15 Cf. Simon C. Dik, The Theory of Functional Grammar, part 1: The Structure of the Clause (2nd ed.; Dordrecht: Foris, 1997), 326-38, esp. 328-30. 16 Laura Ann Buszard-Welcher, “Constructional Polysemy and Mental Spaces in Potawatomi Discourse” (PhD diss., University of California, Berkeley, 2003) [cited August 8, 2012]. Online: http://linguistics.berkeley.edu/people/alumni.php.

Who Is in Charge? � 179

and profiled participant. In contrast, in a question, the speaker is seeking information from the hearer. To enable the description of the last possibility, Buszard-Welcher introduces two dimensions within the focus-principle: a content dimension and a context dimension. The content dimension elaborates on the content being structured in the Focus space. The location of the focus content depends on the viewpoint of the current sentence. Who is responsible for the content of the focus space? The context dimension is relevant “when a discourse participant…is brought into the foreground and thus commands our attention. FOCUS context therefore involves the highlighting of discourse participants.”17 According to Buszard-Welcher, this splitting of the focus dimension of Mental Space theory is especially useful in illocutions such as Wh-questions (What, When, Where, Why, Who, How), where the hearer’s role as profiled participant is put into the prominence although the story is being told from the speaker’s perspective. The Focus content lies with the speaker and the Focus context with the hearer. “The question word…implies that the hearer has knowledge that the speaker does not possess; that their representations of reality are different on this point.”18 Because the hearer is considered to be profiled as a participant, his or her conceptualizations form the context to which the speaker refers. Using this model in the application of Mental Space theory, this profiling of the hearer in question sentences would have consequences for the assignment of the “ownership” of mental spaces. Whereas in direct speech the focus usually is with the mental space of the character currently talking, that focus has to be shared with the addressee in cases of asking questions. Because the addressee is profiled as a participant, his or her mental space is accessed through the mental space of the character talking. The mental space, the viewpoint, of the addressee is not mentioned in the text explicitly, but the addressee’s space is accessed through the way the speaker is banking on his or her expectations of the mental space of the addressee. In the diagram this special Question space element will be shown with an added gray rectangle, stretching across the boundaries of the mental space in focus at that moment, to stretch the indentation to the outline of the character who is the profiled participant (Figure 4). To describe meaning construction in any (but primarily conditional) constructs, Dancygier and Sweetser distinguish between a content level and a speech act element of an utterance.19 A speaker-hearer relation can be reviewed

�� 17 Buszard-Welcher, “Constructional Polysemy,” 52. 18 Ibid., 51. 19 Barbara Dancygier and Eve Sweetser, Mental Spaces in Grammar: Conditional Constructions (Cambridge Studies in Linguistics, 108; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005).

180 � Miranda Vroon-van Vugt on both (and other) levels; the content can open a mental space directing the interpretation towards a specific epistemic context, or the mere fact that speaker and hearer are involved in a speech act can indicate conventions on how to react and what knowledge is presupposed.20

Figure 4: Example of a MST-Text diagram (text level), 1 Sam 28:14a-i

�� 20 Ibid., sections 1.2 and 5.2. This thought-provoking monograph invites further reflection on the epistemic context of the spaces and how to include it in a visual form, as does the Basic Communicative Spaces Network model and the study of discourse causality. See Ted Sanders and Eve Sweetser, eds., Causal Categories in Discourse and Cognition (Cognitive Linguistics Research 44; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2009); José Sanders, Ted Sanders, and Eve Sweetser, “Responsible Subjects and Discourse Causality: How Mental Spaces and Perspective Help Identifying Subjectivity in Dutch Backward Causal Connectives,” Journal of Pragmatics 44, no. 2 (2012): 191-213. The present paper’s limited scope is to focus on mental space theory and its application to a larger textual fragment.

Who Is in Charge? � 181

In his question Saul is clearly asking the woman about something only she is able to see. Her knowledge is unknown to him, but the question derives from the fact that he knows that she knows. His focus is her knowledge. The conceptual framework of the question is her vision. The profiled participant therefore has to be the woman. What has been said about questions could also be said about making requests/giving orders. The mental space of a character being given an order is not accessed the same way as the mental space of a character being asked something. In being asked something, the mental space of the speaker is directly linked with the supposed knowledge of the hearer. In being told to do something, the mental space of the speaker is directly linked with the hearer’s actions that have to follow. In any case, questions and orders have in common that they are illocutions, and therefore they both are embedded in the theory of speech acts, where they bring to the foreground the hearers role as a profiled participant.21 In addition to this cognitive adaptation of communication dynamics in Questions, the topic of a special type of question has to be met: rhetorical questions. Rhetorical questions, for example with ‫ ָל ָמּה‬lāmmāh, “why,” have implied answers with a counterfactual element: “There is no reason for X to happen/have happened.”22 In this story I identify three rhetorical questions with ‫ ָל ָמּה‬: the question of the woman in v. 12d: “Why have you deceived me?” and Samuel’s questions in v. 15b: “Why are you disturbing me?” and in v 16b: “Why do you ask me?” With the reflective remark of the woman about the dialogue between herself and Samuel in the prior verses, she is not asking for an answer, but she is connecting her interpretation of the dialogue to Saul. The same goes for Samuel. He uses his rhetoric to make clear that there is no room for any other explanation than his. It is pointless for Saul to summon Samuel, to ask him. That is the reason for the use of the rhetorical questions. Because they still have the form of a question and because the communication dynamics remain the same in that the profiled participant is still the hearer who is ordered to bring his conceptualization in conformity with the speaker’s, I will continue to identify rhetorical questions as QOR-spaces. �� 21 In contrast to locutionary (the act of saying) and perlocutionary (where the act is defined by reference to the effect it has on the hearer) acts, illocutionary acts are performed by the speaker by virtue of the utterance having been made. Examples include promising, commanding, requesting, baptizing, and arresting; see David Crystal, A Dictionary of Linguistics and Phonetics (Oxford: Blackwell: 1997, 2003). 22 Adina Moshavi, “A Pragmatic Analysis of Rhetorical ‘How’ and ‘Why’ Questions in Biblical Hebrew” (paper presented at the annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature, San Francisco, 18-22 November, 2011).

182 � Miranda Vroon-van Vugt

Who Is in Charge? � 183

and did obeisance

Figure 5: Communication dynamics in dialogue in 1 Sam 28:8e-14i. (Hebrew and English)

184 � Miranda Vroon-van Vugt In v. 13c, Saul’s question addressed to the woman begins with a ‫ ִכּי‬kî, “that, which,” clause. Although this clause has a special QOR Space element because of the interrogative that stands second in order, the ‫ – ִכּי‬with its ability to shift viewpoint – confirms that Saul’s viewpoint is being combined with the woman’s viewpoint. The QOR Space that profiles the addressee as central participant positions the woman at the center of the question. With the addition of ‫ ִכּי‬, Saul seems to focus even more on her conceptualization. Not surprisingly, because looking at the content of the question, Saul is asking her about her vision, which is invisible to him. He depends solely on her perspective. The QOR-spaces contain therefore a dynamic type of communication, represented in direct speech to paint a picture of characters exploring each other, dancing a delicate dance like boxers at the beginning of a match, checking each other out. In the case of the dialogue between Saul and the woman, the characters have a reason for such caution. In the beginning of the conversation, the woman would have no idea who the man in front her is, how dangerous he could be for her because of the decree of King Saul. Saul on the other hand would know his position to be at best awkward. In traditional exegesis the length of the conversation has been noted and some have focused on presumed omissions in the information. The intensity of the dialogue between the woman and Saul and consequently its function in the dynamics of the whole story become clear within the Mental Space analysis.

Assignment of ‫ לוֹ‬lō, “for him” (v. 17a), to ‫ְל ָדוִ ד‬ ledāwid, “to David” (v. 17d), Using the Access Path Principle in Mental Spaces Theory In Samuel’s monologue (1 Sam 28:16-19), Samuel refers to a “him” at the beginning of v. 17a: Adonai has done ‫ לוֹ‬lō, “for/to him.” Suggestions have been made that we should change the personal pronoun from “him” to “you” (Saul), to translate the word as a reciprocal, “himself” (God), or to leave it out in translation all together. However, none of these proposed alterations clarifies the meaning of the sentence. The mental spaces in the monologue suggest a possible and probable identification of “him” with the later-mentioned David, and the principle in mental space modeling of a conceptual access path is key. Early interpreters suggested changing the “him” to “you.” “You” then would refer to Saul, the addressee of Samuel’s monologue: Adonai has done to/for you. But since this personal pronoun (which occurs as a suffix – third

Who Is in Charge? � 185

person masculine singular “him”) can be identified in another way with the content of the story still making sense, a text alteration is unnecessary.23

Figure 6: Identification principle in 1 Sam 28:16c-17d

One of the methods of analysis within Mental Space theory is the access principle. This principle is used to follow the information across space boundaries at

�� 23 Cf. the critical apparatus to v. 17 of the BHS. The LXX (σοι, soi) and the Vulgate (tibi) have “you,” not “him.” Because the text of 1 Sam 28 is not conserved in the Qumran findings, they do not assist in looking for a possible original Hebrew Vorlage. On the one hand, one could say that especially the LXX contains a very old translation, but the LXX has been known to change the text with the intention of smoothing over problems in the MT; see Emanuel Tov, Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992), 335. On the other hand, the text used by BHS as source (the Leningrad Codex), the Aleppo Codex, and the Targum Jonathan (‫ ) ֵליה‬lēh render “him.” The Targum also testifies of a rabbinic tradition where this passage is read combined with the person of David, who is called an “enemy” of Saul. See Eveline van Staalduine-Sulman, The Targum of Samuel (Studies in the Aramaic Interpretation of Scripture 1; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 461-62. These text-critical elements are enough reason to keep “him” in the text.

186 � Miranda Vroon-van Vugt any given place in the story. As mentioned earlier (below Figure 2), the choice to identify an embedded space (H2) within H is based on the Hebrew original text. The wayyiqtol forms of vv. 16d, 17a, 17c, and 17d indicate one temporal unity in history; there is one continuing timeframe. This is supported by the content element of this part of the story. This timeframe differs from the one opened in v. 16c, with a we-x-qatal form. The causal marker ‫ ַכּ ֲא ֶשׁר‬ka’asher, “as,” refers briefly to yet another time in history, where the actions of H2 had been foretold. Therefore the final embedded space (H3) is shown as interrupting the larger timeframe of H2. Based on these choices, mainly the unity of H2, the access principle as element of an analysis within Mental Spaces theory (used to follow the information across space boundaries at any given place in the story) can lead to an identification of ‫“ לוֹ‬for him” in v. 17a. The access principle is most useful at places where the identification of space elements presents us with potential difficulties. Figure 7 presents the elements of the mental spaces in vv. 16c-17d in the way they are to be accessed following Mental Spaces methods. This means that the embeddedness of spaces gives the clue for the information paths; the paths (―― indicated with lines) follow the connections between the spaces (----- indicated with dotted lines).

Figure 7: Access path in 1 Sam 28:16c-17d

In the monologue of Samuel a key element is Adonai/he. In each space “he” is central. The adversary element is also part of the Adonai/he concept. The next key element is “you,” the addressee Saul. In personal and possessive pronouns Saul is present. Because the space H2 continues after the embedded space H3,

Who Is in Charge? � 187

the words “him,” “fellow,” and “David” are all elements within the same space. H3 is added to clarify the role of Samuel in this. Within the realm of the kingship (mentioned in v. 17c), David is both Saul’s fellow and the man who begets the kingship from out of Saul’s hands. After the blend of the two roles of David, the connection between “him” and David is evident. The access paths support this identification claim.

Dialogue / Monologue We can compare the dialogue between Saul and the woman (vv. 8-14) with the dialogue between Saul and Samuel (vv. 15-19). In the conversation between Saul and the woman, the numerous QOR-spaces indicate a dialogue with the speech partners accessing each other’s conceptual frameworks one after the other. The contrast is clear with the so-called dialogue between Saul and Samuel. There are three sections of speech: First, Samuel raises the question, “Why have you summoned me?” Then Saul tries to free his mind from all the worries troubling him. Finally Samuel again, laying out the past and future for Saul, starts with the question, “Why me?” There is hardly any form of interaction: no dance, but a distant calling out, each of them laying out his own view of reality. Even though most scholars still call this section a dialogue, a monologue of two players would be more accurate. The two partners seemingly have nothing to say to each other. Or they have plenty to say, but have no interest in the way their information is coming across with the other. This is amplified by the way the spaces are positioned differently in the mental spaces of Saul and Samuel. Saul’s mental space is structured with a lot of embedded spaces (v. 15). The way the spaces are embedded is unusual. More usual is an embedded space and the following space embedded in that first embedded space. In the case of the speech of Saul, the spaces are not subordinate but coordinate. One after the other History space follows. Each History space consists of just one clause. This paints a picture of phrases being thrown into space, of a man, desperate because of everything that had happened to him. To him, the events from the past are not connected. The unconnected events that happened to him in the past keep on haunting him to this day. He throws them in Samuel’s face: why is this happening to me, all of this? The Philistines lining up against me, God turning away from me, God not answering me; I could do nothing more than to turn to you, my prophet, to tell me what to do. With this last clause, Saul is turning toward the future. This is the reason he came; his prophet is the only one he can go to for guidance. The clauses about

188 � Miranda Vroon-van Vugt his past give away his desperation. He is completely lost; his past is not embedded into any reality that would make sense to him. He is left with separate events; he seems to be stuck in his own history. The chosen one, the anointed king, is left with only trouble. He has no idea why and what to do now. Samuel answers in a remarkably different way. First, he kicks the poor desperate king when he is not just down, but at his lowest: “Why do you ask me?” Then Samuel spins an elaborated framework of arguments and predictions. Carefully, he weaves a web, a labyrinth without possibility of escape. The framework starts with a History space, with embedded spaces and spaces embedded in embedded spaces. All the information Samuel gives about the past of Saul is connected. He ignores the events that Saul brought forward; instead he chooses his own events to point out Saul’s future. He explains: two times he uses the causal connector ‫ ַכּ ֲא ֶשׁר‬to connect the events with the reasons of the consequences. Remarkably, he puts everything in the context of Adonai, not the God (Elohim) Saul had been talking about; Samuel uses the name of Adonai. He even weaves his own role in the actions of Adonai into his speech (v. 17b). Verse 18c functions as a hinge between the interwoven History spaces towards the clear Future spaces of v. 19. We can tell that space F2 is embedded within F because of the adverb ‫( )וְ ( ָמ ָחר‬we) māḥ�ār, “(and) tomorrow.” This space builder is followed by a nominal clause (v. 19b) and in v. 19c with a xyiqtol, interrupting the wayyiqtol form (and corresponding time frame) in v. 19a. The Philistines that Saul mentioned return in a devastating statement: no hope for King Saul, for his kingship and heirs, for his people. No future for him. In the next clauses he reacts in the only way left: this tall man is afraid and falls full length to the earth, beaten down by content and structure.

Who Is in Charge? � 189

190 � Miranda Vroon-van Vugt

Figure 8: Monologue in Dialogue: lattice of spaces in 1 Sam 28:15-19 (Hebrew and English)

Who Is in Charge? � 191

Conclusions The story of 1 Sam 28:3-25 reads like a play. At first it seems clear whose point of view is in focus in what part of the story. After applying the methods of Mental Space theory to the story, showing the subtle variation in mental spaces, it becomes clear that the viewpoint dynamics are more complicated than it would appear at first glance. The lattice of spaces shows the viewpoint shifting back and forth from one character to the other, especially in the central conversation part of the story. The story is much more dynamic because of that. The woman and Saul are constantly assessing each other, weighing the questions and the answers, thinking very carefully about how to move in this delicate situation of an illegal summoning of a dead person. The pattern of spaces shows a fierce conversation. After Samuel appears, the dynamics change dramatically. The monologues of Saul and Samuel – in my opinion the title “dialogue” is not appropriate – have a different pace. The words, clauses, and sentences are thrown out; Saul’s despair becomes even more apparent because of the way he talks and the absolute nature of his hopelessness is even clearer after Samuel throws his view on history, present and future at him. The distinction between Saul’s subsequent ordering of events and Samuel’s consequent embedding and conceptual arrangement, as made visible in the embedding of Mental Spaces, explains the huge difference in power: the power of definition and consequential reasoning is with Samuel, not with Saul. Saul’s despair is among other things caused by the fact that he has no power to determine the ordering of facts. This becomes more visible with the use of Mental Space analysis and most clearly in its visualization. Saul’s despair thus appears to be based on lack of influence, which is supported by the words of Samuel. His harsh but unmistakably clear words, combined with the rhetorical power of the way his words are represented, identify his conceptual framework as totally different from Saul’s. Although he is dead, Samuel functions in the story as exerting much more power than Saul, who is still very much alive and king. Therefore, Samuel, the “god” the woman saw and Saul heard, is clearly in charge. The MST-Text diagram developed here for the study of biblical narratives turns out to be very helpful indeed. Both Mental Space theory and its visualization provide the tools to study the meaning of a text within the realm of Cognitive Linguistics. They elucidate how biblical texts in which characters communicate about God and about seeing God can be studied with verifiable methods that explicitly address the character’s mental representations and link them to the textually embedded mental spaces.

192 � Miranda Vroon-van Vugt

Ellen van Wolde

Cognitive Grammar at Work in Sodom and Gomorrah

The story of the behavior of the inhabitants of Sodom in Gen 18-19 is often read in splendid isolation from its cultural and textual context. Thus the Sodomites are condemned for immorality, for their homosexual intentions, or for their violation of hospitality. I will offer a cognitive linguistic study of this text in its broader conceptual framework, using Ronald Langacker’s Cognitive Grammar as the source of inspiration.1 In the end it will turn out that the people of Sodom are condemned for something completely different. The structure of the present study is a simple one: a description of Cognitive Grammar and the method of analysis will be followed by an examination of Gen 18-19.

Cognitive Grammar and Method of Analysis Cognitive Grammar Langacker’s Cognitive Grammar is one of the most comprehensive and most fully articulated approaches in cognitive linguistics. The scope and internal consistency of his theory are endorsed by many theoretical linguistic studies and applied with great success in studies of languages all over the world. In it, Langacker focuses on detailed relations between language, culture, cognition, and the context in which actual utterances are made. Elsewhere, I have developed Langacker’s work into an instrument for an integrated linguistic and cultural analysis of biblical concepts and texts.2 Here I will present a short summary of Langacker’s Cognitive Grammar and of the proposed cognitive method of analysis.

�� 1 R.W. Langacker, Foundations of Cognitive Grammar (2 vols.; Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1987, 1991). 2 E.J. van Wolde, Reframing Biblical Studies: When Language and Text Meet Culture, Cognition and Context (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2009).

194 � Ellen van Wolde In Cognitive Grammar, words and phrases are not viewed as an expression of “something” — an idea, a view, an action, or an event — per se, but as something or some relation that stands out as an instance on a certain ground or cognitive domain. For example, in order to understand the meaning of the word write, one needs to have an idea of the more general schematic type of writing in a certain time and context. In Europe or America in 2013, someone who reads about someone who is writing will commonly think of a person (male or female) who is typing on the keyboard of his or her PC or Mac. However, when we read that Erasmus was writing a letter, we construe a mental image of a man standing at his desk, writing with ink and a feather. To understand the meaning of write in ancient Babylonia would not entail paper as writing material, but a clay tablet. And what is entailed in the meaning of kōtēv (‫ )כותב‬and sōfēr (‫ )סופר‬in Biblical Hebrew? Both words express the idea of writing, yet the denominative participle of kātav is never used as a noun to designate a “writer” or “scribe,” but only to designate the ongoing activity of writing. In contrast, the denominative participle of sāfar is often used to designate a “scribe,” but then exclusively in reference to a scribe in an official function.3 This example shows that meaning is not only related to language and language-internal relations, but also to experience, perception, and cognition, and that these are embedded in culture and society. A crucial feature of meaning-building is, therefore, the notion of entailment; meaning is much more than what is explicitly expressed, and includes experiences and conceptions that are inherently and implicitly evoked by language. How should we investigate language utterances when so much else is involved? One of the tools Langacker developed is the distinction between profile, base, and cognitive domain. He defines a cognitive domain as any knowledge configuration that provides the context for the conceptualization of a language unit. In this definition, a distinction is made between the domain against which concepts take shape and the more specific base on which an entity is profiled. The base of an expression is the conceptual content that is inherently, intrinsically, and obligatorily invoked by the expression. A cognitive domain is a more generalized “background” knowledge configuration against which conceptualization is achieved. And the profile is what a term explicitly expresses. For example, the Biblical Hebrew linguistic unit sōfēr profiles the conceptual entity

�� 3 See “the king’s scribe” in 2 Kgs 12:11; Esth 3:12; 8:9; 2 Chr 24:11; the “army commander’s scribe” in 2 Kgs 25:19; Jer 52:25; and “an expert scribe” and “a scribe expert in” in Ps 45:2; Ezra 7:6.

Cognitive Grammar at Work in Sodom and Gomorrah � 195

[SCRIBE] and this profiling includes the conceptual base of [OFFICIAL FUNCTION].4 The cognitive domain in which the profile-base relationship functions is, among others, the domain of [OFFICIAL FUNCTIONS IN ANCIENT ISRAEL]. Another characteristic of Langacker’s Cognitive Grammar is his integrated approach to grammar and semantics. Whereas commonly grammatical categories are defined in separation from semantics, Langacker tries to understand the cognitive function of the grammatical word classes such as nouns and verbs. In his terminology, nouns profile an entity as a unity, as “some thing” or a “thing” and have a nominal profile. They enable their users to construe their perceptions, experiences, knowledge, or ideas as a single meaning configuration in the mind. Someone who is called “a terrorist” is tagged in our minds and the tag will determine its profile all the way through. Also pronominals and proper names construe something as a thing and have, therefore, a nominal profile. Verbs, prepositions, adjectives, and adverbs, however, put interconnections among conceived entities in profile and have, therefore, a relational profile. Consider the following example of the preposition near given by Polinsky.5 a. Dr. Jekyll is near Mr. Hyde. b. Mr. Hyde is near Dr. Jekyll.

The proper names Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde profile two persons as two “‘things” or unities and the preposition near profiles the spatial relation between the two. Although the sentences (a) and (b) could be used to talk about exactly the same situation, they differ in that they construe the situation differently. The difference has to do with the relevant prominence of the two nominal entities. In (1a), Mr. Hyde provides a reference point with respect to which Dr. Jekyll is situated: Dr. Jekyll stands out as the entity being assessed, and this assessment takes the form of a relationship to Mr. Hyde, and in (1b) the reverse is expressed. In Langacker’s words, in (1a) Dr. Jekyll is referred to as a trajector and Mr. Hyde as the landmark or point of reference, whereas in (1b) Mr. Hyde is referred to as a trajector and Dr. Jekyll as the landmark. In other words, in prominence building and its resulting relational profiles, one element is singled out as the primary

�� 4 Conceptual contents are conventionally expressed by terms in small capital letters in between square brackets. 5 M. Polinksy, “Situation Perspective: On the Relations of Thematic Roles, Discourse Categories, and Grammatical Relations to Figure and Ground,” in Conceptual Structure, Discourse and Language (ed. A. Goldberg, Stanford: Center for the Study of Language and Information Publications, 1996), 401-19 (401).

196 � Ellen van Wolde focus of attention.6 The trajector, or TR, is the more prominent entity within the conceptualization of a relation and the primary focus of attention, whereas the landmark entity, or LM, has secondary focus. Hence, a trajector is defined as the figure in a relational profile. Other salient entities are identified as landmarks or ground. The trajector/landmark asymmetry is, therefore, a special case of the figure/ground alignment.7 Relational profiles can either be of a temporal or of an atemporal nature. Temporal profiles designate processual relations and correspond to the class of verbs; they express an action or an event as a process and follow its evolution through time. For example, while the Hebrew nouns ṣā‘aqâ (‫ )צעקה‬or zā‘aqâ (‫)זעקה‬, “outcry,” express an outcry as a unity or a single meaning configuration, the verbs ṣā‘aq or zā‘aq (‫ צעק‬or ‫)זעק‬, “cry out for help,” express an outcry as a temporal process that spreads over a period of time. In the sentence “He cried out to the king for help,” the verb expresses a temporal process that has its starting and ending point in the past in reference to the moment of speaking. The pronoun “he” designates the trajector, the most prominent entity whose action is followed through time, whereas “the king” is the landmark, the entity with secondary focus whose state or action is not followed, but merely thought of or construed in relation to the TR, the help seeker “he.” The major word classes in a language can, therefore, be characterized in general terms by reference to the nature of their nominal or relational profile and the focus of attention. This gives us a first glimpse of meaning as expressed in grammar, which is the result of both construal and perspective. Nominal meaning is construed to the extent that something is categorized, conceived as a unity and expressed as a thing. It is perspectivized to the extent that the profiled entity, although inherently including a relation to the unprofiled base, does so from the perspective of the profiled entity only. Relational meaning is construed to the extent that an interconnection is profiled between a trajector and a landmark, whereas everything else is left unprofiled. It is perspectivized to the extent that in the interconnection only the trajector’s path (trajectory) is followed, whereas the path of the landmark is not followed and serves merely as the ground or landmark. Construal and perspective are not predictable in absolute terms, but constitute a dimension of conventional imagery.8 Every language offers people the cognitive ability to focus attention on different components of thought; to con�� 6 Another example of prominence building is currency exchange. When you say 1 Euro = 1.52 US Dollars, the Euro is the trajector and the Dollar the landmark; in 1 Dollar = 0.65 Euro, the Dollar is the trajector and the Euro the landmark. 7 Langacker, Cognitive Grammar, 1:231. 8 Langacker, Cognitive Grammar, 1:232.

Cognitive Grammar at Work in Sodom and Gomorrah � 197

strue them as a thing and express them in nominals, pronominals, or proper names; or to relate them mentally and consider them from different perspectives — thus selecting one component as the trajector and the other as the point of reference or landmark — and to trace trajectories between them.

The Proposed Cognitive Method of Analysis The method of analysis presented here is based on Langacker’s Cognitive Grammar and specified for biblical scholarship. It intends to provide an instrument to answer such questions as the following: Which concepts prevailing in the ancient Near East did the biblical author or redactor select and employ? How did the concepts he (or she) considered relevant or construed as relevant in these texts relate to cultural categories and concepts at the time? How did these views reflect individual or collective experiences and knowledge of the world? How can we take language usage events as the guidelines for our understanding of ancient concepts of meaning? The examination starts with cultural categorization and ends with a view on the specific reality of meaning that emerges from a single literary text. The cognitive method of analysis itself consists of three main stages. The first stage is directed towards the ancient Near Eastern, Levantine, Palestinian, and/or Israelite cultural categories and general domains, and the relevant secondary literature that discusses these categories and domains. Depending on the state of the discipline, the views of experts may be taken as points of reference for the cognitive analyses to follow. In the end, it will emerge whether the results of the cognitive analyses can be considered a confirmation, an elaboration, a specification, or a correction of these expert views. The concept of categorization explains how mental processing is conditioned by a cluster of previous “thinking.” Thus, to know or understand words and their dynamic relations means to relate them to culturally entrenched routines or schemata. The second stage focuses on the mental processes expressed by words embedded in the usage events of the Hebrew Bible. Words are standing out against the knowledge configurations that provide the context for their conceptualization, which is included in their inherently, intrinsically, and obligatorily invoked bases and in their matrix of cognitive domains. Hence, the aim of the second stage of the analysis is to make detailed studies of the word’s profilebase-cognitive domain relationships in the various (selected) usage events. The leading questions are: What is actually profiled in this word’s usage in this biblical text? What is inherently included in this word as its conceptual base? And

198 � Ellen van Wolde how do these bases and cognitive domains presuppose and express specific perceptions, experiences, or knowledge of the world? The third stage of the analysis is related to a single biblical textual usage event, its grammatical manifestations of meaning, and its unique, new, and intricate composite configuration of meaning. Each text is a meeting ground of all kinds of information that is processed, organized, and conveyed. This information is either construed as a unity or noun, an atemporal relation, or a temporal relation, in which the perspective of a trajector vis-à-vis a landmark entity is shared and sometimes tracked through time. These construals include in their bases cognitive domains and trajectory-landmark relations that presuppose and express a specific perception, experience, or idea of the world. The aim of this third stage is to answer questions like: How does a writer or composer select or construe, while including perspectives? More specifically, which nouns does he (or she) use to express his idea in order to address his audience and how are these grounded as nominals in the specific context of use? Which verb types does he (or she) use and how are the temporal relations grounded in the text? Are there any correspondences traceable in the semantic substructures expressed by these nominals, atemporal, and temporal relations? How are the distinct elements of meaning integrated? And, finally, what general picture emerges from the text? A study made with this analytical tool can be as elaborate and thorough as one may wish. The cognitive method of analysis itself represents three stages that each contains a series of steps.9 Its application differs, of course, with respect to the nature of the material under investigation. In fact, through all three stages one is able to open a narrower or wider window on biblical texts embedded in their ancient Near Eastern contexts and encyclopedias of knowledge.

Sodom and Gomorrah In the present study, this method of analysis will be applied to the story of Sodom and Gomorrah in Gen 18-19. I will concentrate first on the cultural categories and cognitive domains; subsequently on three words, namely, “outcry,” “to cry out,” and “city gate”; and, in the end, I will be able to investigate the text of Gen 18-19 in its wider textual and conceptual context.

�� 9 For a more elaborate description of the cognitive method of analysis and its application, see van Wolde, Reframing Biblical Studies.

Cognitive Grammar at Work in Sodom and Gomorrah � 199

Categories and Cognitive Domains: Juridical Terminology and Framework Since the 1980s, various scholars have discussed the juridical terminology widespread in the Hebrew Bible and in the Abra(ha)m cycle.10 Pietro Bovati analysed at large the way legal processes are linguistically expressed in the Hebrew Bible. Because of its great detail and its explicative power, Bovati’s study became standard for the years to come, and I will take his monograph as the starting point of the study of the juridical category and predominant cognitive domain in Gen 18-19. Bovati explains how the legal process in the Hebrew Bible is marked by terms derived from the root šāfaṭ (‫)שׁפט‬. The authority of judging is described by the noun šāfaṭ (‫“ )שׁפט‬judge” and the act of judging by the verb šāfaṭ (‫)שׁפט‬ “to judge.” Those who exercise a judge’s function are the elders (at the gates of the city), the priests (in the temple), the king (in the city gate or in the royal palace), or God. They not only fulfil this function in someone’s individual interest but in the general public interest. “Judging appears as the authoritative act of discerning, separating, deciding between what/whom is just and what/whom is unjust, between the innocent and the guilty.”11 The judgment itself is described by mišpāṭ (‫“ )משׁפט‬judgment,” which might designate a procedural action, a sentence, a subjective law or an objective law. In its most extensive form, the juridical process is, according to Bovati, expressed in the Hebrew Bible in three stages: the inquiry stage that relates to the origin and shape of the trial, the actual trial phase or the debate, and the pronouncement and execution of a sentence. The first stage, the inquiry stage, consists of four phases that are expressed by a series of more or less equivalent verbs. (1) The initiative of summoning a trial starts with verbs of movement such as bô’ (‫)בוא‬, “go,” or nāgaš (‫)נגשׁ‬, “draw near,” followed by the syntagm of the preposition ’el (‫)אל‬, “to,” and the court of judgment (e.g., “to go to the king”), and its motivation, commonly indicated by the term lemišpāṭ (‫)למשׁפט‬, “for justice.” Hence, the opening scene of a legal procedure can be summarized as: participant — goes/draws near — to the king/deity — for judgment in court. (2)

�� 10 P. Bovati, Re-Establishing Justice: Legal Terms, Concepts and Procedures in the Hebrew Bible (JSOTSup 105; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994); J.K. Bruckner, Implied Law in the Abraham Narrative: A Literary and Theological Analysis (JSOTSup 335; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001); S. Morschauser, “‘Hospitality,’ Hostiles and Hostages: On the Legal Background to Genesis 19.1-9,” JSOT 27, no. 4 (2003): 461-85. 11 Bovati, Re-Establishing Justice, 185.

200 � Ellen van Wolde The various individuals take up bodily positions. While the judge is “being seated,” the people who come for judgment brought for the judge must take up their position before the judge, expressed by the verb ‘āmad (‫)עמד‬, “stand,” usually with the preposition lifnê (‫)לפני‬, “stand before.” Hence, the positioning scene of a legal procedure can be summarized as: participant — stands in front of the judge — judge is seated. (3) The preliminary investigation of the case usually opens with one of the verbs of inquiry dāraš (‫)דרשׁ‬, “seek,” bāqaš (‫)בקשׁ‬, “search,” or ḥāqar (‫)חקר‬, “explore.” (4) This is followed by either the verb yāda‘ (‫)ידע‬, “know,” or by the verbs yāda‘ (‫ )ידע‬+ rā’â (‫)ראה‬, “know and see.” In short, the investigative stage of a legal procedure can be summarized as: judge investigates — knows / knows and sees. The verb yāda‘ (‫)ידע‬, “know,” or the pair yāda‘ (‫ )ידע‬plus rā’â (‫)ראה‬, “know and see,” is of central importance, because in Israelite courts of law the stage of (logical) certainty based on sensory experience or some other kind of evidence is the only one that can guarantee correct juridical proceedings. This certainty may be gained from witnesses or acquired directly by the magistrate. It is only when the judge is in a position of “seeing” and “knowing” that it becomes possible to pronounce a sentence in harmony with the law. On these four phases that form together the investigative part of the law court proceedings, follows the debate, in which the two parties to the case, formally distinguished as accuser and accused, confront each other in front of a judge. Each is granted the right to speak, and the alternation of speeches is expressed by rather generic verba dicendi, predominantly ’āmar (‫)אמר‬, “speak,” or ‘ānâ (‫)ענה‬, “answer,” plus ’āmar (‫)אמר‬, “answer and speak.” In this debate the act of complaint itself is expressed by the verbs ṣā‘aq or zā‘aq (‫ צעק‬or ‫)זעק‬, “cry out for help,” qārā’ (‫)קרא‬, “call,” or šāva‘ (‫ שׁוע‬Pi), “cry out for help,” to the tribunal, in order to get justice, lemišpāṭ (‫)למשׁפט‬, “for justice.” However, this ‘cry’ is not just a personal outburst or a simple instinctive reaction to suffering: it is essentially addressed to someone (‘el…) and demands to be heard in the name of right (…). In this way a complaint reveals another aspect of what constitutes it; it is a request for help addressed to an ‘authorized’ person, juridically bound by the actual cry.12

The content of the complaint is that the victim of an injustice cries ḥāmas (‫)חמס‬, “violence,” a term with a definite juridical meaning, since it is one of the ways in which a crime or misdeed is specified. The primary content of a complaint is, therefore, the denunciation of a crime being committed. The debate

�� 12 Bovati, Re-establishing Justice, 317.

Cognitive Grammar at Work in Sodom and Gomorrah � 201

that follows upon the inquiry in the legal procedure can be summarized as: party goes in front of judge — cries “violence” — for justice. The third and final stage Bovati distinguishes is the sentence and execution. Verbs that express this jurisdiction are mostly commonly šāfat (‫)שׁפט‬, “judge,” dîn (‫)דין‬, “judge,” or dāvar (‫)דבר‬, “speak,” in combination with mišpāṭ (‫)משׁפט‬, “justice.” These syntagms refer to the act of separation of the guilty from the innocent, expressed by the terms ṣādîq (‫)צדיק‬, “innocent,” and rāšā‘ (‫)רשע‬, “guilty,” and this act of discernment defines their juridical status. Upon this conclusion follow the verdict and its execution. The sentence in the law court procedure can be summarized as: judge judges— declare righteous / condemn as guilty — punishes. James Bruckner built on Bovati in his study of the implied law in the Abra(ha)m narrative in general and of the juridical framework and terminology of Gen 18-19 in particular. In surveying the long series of legal terms in Gen 1819, Bruckner demonstrates convincingly the juridical character of this text in a chapter-by-chapter and a verse-by-verse analysis. The phrase in Gen 18:19, “to keep the way of YHWH by doing righteousness and justice” (mišpāṭ, ‫)משׁפט‬ generally refers to uprightness in behavior, but in some texts it is a reference to the administration of a just court procedure. The terms ṣā‘aq or zā‘aq (‫ צעק‬or ‫)זעק‬, “cry out,” in Gen 18:20-21 and in 19:13 are technical terms for legal complaint, requesting deliverance. The inquest itself is present in Gen 18:21, “I must go down and see (rā’â, ‫)ראה‬,” which expresses YHWH’s role as judge. This becomes even more clear in the following verse, v. 22: “Abraham remained standing before YHWH,” where the syntagm of ‘āmad (‫)עמד‬, “stand,” and the preposition lifnê (‫)לפני‬, “before,” is the common description of the juridical position of those in trial. In the phrase “then Abraham came near” in v. 23, the verb nāgaš (‫)נגשׁ‬, “draw near,” has special procedural value when it is used in the context of litigation. Both in vv. 23 and 25 the triple usage of the opposition of the terms ṣādîq (‫)צדיק‬, “innocent,” and rāšā‘ (‫)רשע‬, “guilty,” and the widespread usage of the term ṣādîq (‫)צדיק‬, “innocent,” in ch. 18 point to the core business of a trial, namely, to separate the guilty from the innocent. In v. 25a, the syntagm dābar (‫)דבר‬, “word,” and mišpāṭ (‫)משׁפט‬, “justice,” stands for a “case,” meaning “legal case” or “juridical decision.”13 Also the Hiphil of the verb môt (‫)מות‬, “slay” or “put to death,” is used to describe the official action of a court in meting out punishment. In v. 25b, the syntagm “shall not the judge … make a just

�� 13 Bruckner refers to Gen 18:25; Deut 1:17; 17:8, 9, 11; 2 Sam 15:6; 2 Chron 19:6 (Implied Law, 100). The two other occurrences of the syntagm, 2 Chron 8:14 and Ezra 3:4, also have a legal context.

202 � Ellen van Wolde judgment?” is used in a technical sense to refer to the judge’s just decision.14 The subsequent verses vv. 26-29 continue on this line. The syntagm yĕš (‫)ישׁ‬, “here,” plus māṣâ’ (‫)מצא‬, “find” stands usually in combination with the particle ’îm (‫)אם‬, “if,” and means “if there is” or “if I find.” Here the particle ’îm (‫)אם‬, “if,” is absent but the same meaning is expressed: “if I find” or “suppose are found.” They are the typical biblical terms of a conclusion to the pre-trial inquiry, an expression of legal findings. With regard to Gen 19, Bruckner mentions the following legal expressions. In v. 7, “I beg you, my brothers, do not act so wickedly,” Lot indicates that the intended action of the men of Sodom is wrong, although the term used, rā‘â‘ (‫)רעע‬, “wickedly,” is not used in any technical way in legal contexts. In the phrase “only do nothing to these men for they have come under the shelter of my roof” in v. 8, the expression “shelter of my roof” is unique to this text. Lot discloses the obligation of hospitality and the implication is that those who have been welcomed in his house ought not to be abused. With regard to v. 15, “get up, take your wife and your two daughters who are here,” Bruckner notices that, with the repeated imperatives in vv. 12, 15, 17, and 22, the messengers of YHWH attempt to deliver Lot’s family from the destruction of Sodom. He calls these imperatives “royal” imperatives that result in the saving of the innocent. That these words were not spoken to the other inhabitants of Sodom is equally a royal verdict. In v. 23, “the sun had risen on the earth,” the sun’s rising is one of the metaphors suggesting the advent of justice by right judgment. In my view, Bruckner made a better analysis of Gen 18 than of Gen 19. This is because, first, Gen 18 does indeed contain the legal linguistic vocabulary Bovati examined, whereas Bruckner’s analysis of Gen 19 does not contain these elements. Second, the phrases Bruckner does select in Gen 19 do not necessarily have a legal meaning, but could also have a more general meaning. Scott Morschauser points at even more legal elements in Gen 18-19, seemingly unaware of Bovati’s and Bruckner’s works. First, he mentions Lot as the “man in the gate.” The gate, šaʿar (‫)שׁער‬, is the site of judgment, or the areas where legal disputes occur. Those situated therein were often engaged in ‘decision-making’, acting as ‘judges’ for the community. Clearly, the description of Lot as ‘sitting in the gate’ is not gratuitous or incidental to the narrative of Genesis 19. For an Israelite audience, the epithet would have led people to infer that the patriarch is an individual of influence and standing within the so-

�� 14 Bruckner shows that this syntagm occurs three times in the Hebrew Bible, always in the juridical sense (Gen 18:25; Deut 17:9; 1 Kgs 3:28) (Implied Law).

Cognitive Grammar at Work in Sodom and Gomorrah � 203

cial order of Sodom: he is one who—on some level—has been empowered to adjudicate for the populace-at-large.15

A city-gate presupposes a city surrounded by walls constructed primarily for defensive purposes. The gates are the city’s weak points, and are therefore guarded. Those guarding the gates would have been attentive to spies or other infiltrators. Lot “at the gate” was in effect on “guard-duty.” Second, the syntagm “the men of the city – both young and old” (19:4) represents not an undisciplined mob, but a legal delegation of all inhabitants of the city of Sodom. The “official” nature of the group is supported by the twofold designation and by the word “men,” which in the ancient Near East was used as a technical term for the citizens of a city, that is, those who were holders of a particular civic-status and authority within the body politic.16 Third, the verb yāda‘ (‫)ידע‬, “know,” is used in Gen 19:5 and has a juridical implication. It denotes the process of legal discovery or inquiry, where it has the meaning “to investigate (a person’s state or actions)” so as to make a decision. “Where are the men who came to you tonight? Bring them out to us, that we may know them”, is not a cry that the parties be turned over for ‘rape’ — homosexual or otherwise. The implication is that the men be produced for interrogation: to discover (legally), and to ascertain their true identity—whether they are friends or foes.17

Fourth and finally, Morschauser explains Lot’s offer of his daughters. His daughters are not valueless, but exceedingly valuable. His actions are neither an expression of patriarchal privilege, nor justification for its abuse, but are to be considered within the practice of “hostage-exchange.” A hostage is a person kept or given as a pledge in fulfilment of certain agreements. Accordingly, individuals are to be held in safekeeping until a condition or promise is satisfactorily carried out. The use of hostages is well attested throughout the ancient Near East as well as in the Hebrew Bible.18 By offering to hand over his daughters to the authorities in place of his charges, Lot is acting within the purview of a generally humane, legal practice. This is further confirmed by the terminology employed by Lot when he declares in Gen 19:8, “Act towards them according to what is good in your eyes; only to the men, don’t do a thing, for they have entered into the sanctuary of my roof.” The phrase, “to do good to (one) according to (one’s) eyes” is idiomatic and refers to the assignment of personal responsi�� 15 Morschauser, “Hospitality,” 464. 16 Morschauser, “Hospitality,” 467. 17 Morschauser, “Hospitality,” 472 (italics original). 18 Morschauser, “Hospitality,” 476-77, mentions Gen 42:16-20; 1 Kgs 20:39-40; 2 Kgs 10:24.

204 � Ellen van Wolde bility to an opposing party, which has an advantage in terms of opportunity or power. The individual or group is entrusted to act properly, as dictated by acceptable custom or oath.19 To conclude, the great number of legal terms and the series of actions that all fit in and represent the various stages of a juridical process allow us to study Genesis 19 in a juridical framework. However, I do not exclude a priori other cultural categories and cognitive domains, but take the juridical category as the starting point of the inquiry.

A Cognitive Study of the Words “Outcry” and “to Cry Out” Three times in our story, in Gen 18:20, 21 and 19:13, the outcry is presented as the reason YHWH springs into action. The question is, who is crying out for justice and to whom? Lot and his family? But nothing has happened yet. Lot is living peacefully in Sodom and the events to come have not yet taken place. The inhabitants of Sodom? Why would they cry out to YHWH? In order to answer this question, a study is made of the complete data set of the nouns ṣā‘aqâ (‫)צעקה‬ or zā‘aqâ (‫)זעקה‬, “outcry,” and the verbs ṣā‘aq or zā‘aq (‫ צעק‬or ‫)זעק‬, “cry out for help,” in the Hebrew Bible, in order to get some further insight in the conceptual content of these terms and their uses. The noun ṣā‘aqâ (‫)צעקה‬, “outcry,” occurs 20 times and the noun zā‘aqâ (‫)זעקה‬, “outcry,” 18 times in the Hebrew Bible. It appears that the two terms for outcry are used interchangeably throughout the Hebrew Bible. The 38 occurrences of these nouns in the Hebrew Bible are the following:20 Gen 18:20 Then YHWH said: “How great is the outcry of Sodom and Gomorrah” Gen 18:21 [YHWH to Abram] “I will go down to see whether they have done altogether according to the outcry that has come to me” Gen 19:13 For we are about to destroy this place, because their outcry has become great before YHWH Gen 27:34 When Esau heard his father’s words, he cries out a great and bitter cry Exod 3:7 [YHWH to Moses] “I have marked well the plight of my people in Egypt and have heeded their outcry because of their taskmasters” Exod 3:9 Now the cry of the Israelites has reached me Exod 11:6 And there shall be a loud cry in all the land of Egypt Exod 12:30 And Pharaoh rose in the night…because there was a loud cry in Egypt

�� 19 Morschauser, “Hospitality,” 478. 20 In this list, the biblical texts are presented in NJPS translation with the exception of “Lord,” which is transliterated YHWH. The noun itself is printed in italics.

Cognitive Grammar at Work in Sodom and Gomorrah � 205

Exod 22:22 [YHWH to Moses] “You shall not ill-treat any widow or orphan…I will heed their outcry” 1 Sam 4:14 and when Eli heard the sound of the outcry [of the city] 1 Sam 9:16 “for I [YHWH] have taken note of my people, their outcry has come to me” Isa 5:7 and he hoped for justice and there is injustice, for righteousness, but there is outcry Isa 15:5 They raise a cry of anguish Isa 15:8 Ah, the cry has compassed the country of Moab Isa 65:19 Never again shall be heard there [i.e., in Jerusalem] the sound of weeping and wailing Jer 18:22 Let an outcry be heard from their houses Jer 20:16 Let him hear shrieks in the morning Jer 25:36 Hark, the outcry of the shepherds Jer 48:3 Hark! An outcry from Horonaim, destruction and utter ruin Jer 48:4 Moab is broken; the cry of her young ones is heard Jer 48:5 On the descent to Horonaim a distressing cry of anguish is heard Jer 48:34 There is an outcry from Heshbon to Elealeh Jer 50:46 And an outcry is heard among the nations Jer 51:54 Hark! An outcry from Babylon Ezek 27:28 At the outcry of your pilots the billows shall heave Zeph 1:10 In that day there shall be a loud outcry from the Fish Gate Ps 9:13 For he [YHWH] does not ignore the cry of the afflicted Prov 21:13 Who stops his ears at the cry of the wretched Job 16:18 Let there be no resting place for my outcry Job 27:9 Will God hear his cry Job 34:28 Thus he [God] lets the cry of the poor come before him Job 34:28 He listens to the cry of the needy Qoh 9:17 Words spoken softly by wise men are heeded sooner than the scream of a lord in [the manner of] the fools Esth 4:1 He went through the city, crying out loudly and bitterly Esth 9:31 the obligations of the fasts with their lamentations/outcry Neh 5:1 There was a great outcry by the common folk and their wives against their brother Jews Neh 5:6 It angered me very much to hear their outcry and these complaints Neh 9:9 you heard their cry at the Sea of Reeds

An analysis of these usages of ṣā‘aqâ (‫)צעקה‬/zā‘aqâ (‫)זעקה‬, “outcry,” shows us that the noun is either used in the absolute state with a pronominal suffix (“their cry”) or without a pronominal suffix (“they raise a cry”) or in the construct state (“the outcry of”) and therefore designates an “outcry of someone.” In the vast majority of texts (34 of 38 occurrences), this “someone,” the trajector, is a plural entity: they, the Israelites, the poor, the needy, the widow and orphan, or the people.21 In the vast majority of texts (34 out of 38 occurrenc�� 21 The singular uses are Gen 27:34: “Esau cries out (verb ‫ )צעק‬a loud cry (noun ‫ ;”)צעקה‬Job 16:18: “my outcry”; 27:9: “his cry.” In Esth 4:1 Mordecai “cries out (verb ‫ )צעק‬a loud cry (noun

206 � Ellen van Wolde es), the trajector is either explicitly mentioned,22 indicated by anaphoric links to previously mentioned characters,23 or by locatives.24 These usages let us think of an outcry in terms of peoples, social groups, inhabitants, or nations, and indicate that the outcry entails the notion of a collective whose corporate identity is defined by need, destruction, and distress.25 In Langacker’s terms, the term ṣā‘aqâ/zā‘aqâ profiles [A LOUD RAISING OF THE VOICE] on the included base of [COLLECTIVE] and [NEED, DISTRESS] in a juridical cognitive domain. Another important conclusion is that in all their uses, these nouns never mark the outcry as directed or addressed against someone or against people. In short: The noun ‫ צעקה‬/ ‫( זעקה‬ṣā‘aqâ/zā‘aqâ), “outcry” – is used by a collective (people, inhabitants, nations) {the trajector} – is not explicitly directed towards someone {no primary landmark}, although it is sometimes heard by someone – is not used in an orientation against someone {no secondary landmark} – designates [A LOUD RAISING OF THE VOICE] (its profile) and includes in its base the notions of [PEOPLE] and [NEED, DISTRESS], and functions in a juridical cognitive domain – as a noun it conceives of the outcry as a single configuration or unity – can be translated as “an outburst out of distress,” not as “an outcry for help” (which would include a landmark)

The verb ṣā‘aq (‫צעק‬, qal) is used 48 times and the verb zā‘aq (‫זעק‬, qal) 61 times in the Hebrew Bible. It appears that the two verbs for “to cry out” are used

�� ‫)צעקה‬.” The word combination “cry out a cry” (verb plus noun) seems to be a fixed combination. So, only Job 16:18 and 27:9 stand out because of the irregular singular trajector. 22 Exod 3:9: “the cry of the Israelites”; Jer 25:36: “the outcry of the shepherds”; Jer 48:3: “the cry of the young ones”; Ezek 27:28: “the outcry of your pilots”; Ps 9:13: “the cry of the afflicted”; Prov 21:23: “the outcry of the wretched”; Job 34:28: “the outcry of the poor, the cry of the needy”; Qoh 9:17: “the scream of a lord in the manner of fools”; Neh 5:1: “a great outcry by the common folk.” 23 Exod 3:7; 22:21-22; 1 Sam 4:14; 9:16; Isa 15:5; Job 16:18; 27:9; Esth 9:31; Neh 5:6; 9:9. 24 Exod 11:6: “a loud cry in all the land of Egypt”; 12:30: “because there was a loud cry in Egypt”; Isa 15:8: “the country of Moab”; Jer 48:3: “an outcry from Horonaim”; 48:34: “an outcry from Heshbon to Elealeh”; 49:21: “an outcry at the Sea of Reeds”; 50:46: “an outcry among the nations”; 51:54: “an outcry from Babylon”; Zeph 1:10: “an outcry from the Fish Gate”; Neh 9:9 “their cry at the Sea of Reeds.” 25 Isa 5:7: “there is outcry”; 65:19: “never again shall be heard the sound of weeping and wailing”; Jer 18:22: “let an outcry be heard from their houses”; 20:16: “let him hear shrieks in the morning.” The subject of the cry is not mentioned. Implied in these texts is, however, a plural, not-further-identified subject, viz., the people who suffer from injustice.

Cognitive Grammar at Work in Sodom and Gomorrah � 207

interchangeably here and throughout the Hebrew Bible. The 109 occurrences of these verbs in the Hebrew Bible are as follows. Gen 4:10

[YHWH to Esau] “What have you done? Listen, your brother’s blood cries out to me from the ground!” Gen 27:34 When Esau heard his father’s words, he cries out a great and bitter cry, and said to his father: “Bless me too, Father!” Gen 41:55 And when all the land of Egypt felt the hunger, the people cried out to Pharaoh for bread. Exod 2:23 The Israelites were groaning under the bondage and cried out. Exod 5:8 That is why they cry “Let us go and sacrifice to our God!” Exod 5:15 Then the foremen of the Israelites came to Pharaoh and cried Exod 8:8 and Moses cried out to YHWH Exod 14:10 the Israelites cried out to YHWH Exod 14:15 [YHWH to Moses] “Why do you cry out to me?” Exod 15:25 so he (Moses) cried out to YHWH Exod 17:4 Moses cried out to YHWH Exod 22:22 [YHWH to Moses] “You shall not ill-treat any widow or orphan. If you do mistreat them, I will heed their outcry (n) as soon as they cry out to me” Exod 22:26 [YHWH to Moses] “Therefore, if he [someone’s neighbour] cries out to me, I will pay heed, because I am compassionate” Num 11:2 the people cried out to Moses Num 12:13 Moses cried out to YHWH Num 20:16 we cried to YHWH and he heard our plea Deut 22:24 the girl because she did not cry out for help in the town. Deut 22:27 though the engaged girl cried for help, there was no one to answer her. Deut 26:7 we cried to YHWH Josh 24:7 they cried out to YHWH Judg 3:9 The Israelites cried out to YHWH Judg 3:15 Then the Israelites cried out to YHWH Judg 4:3 the Israelites cried out to YHWH Judg 6:6 and the Israelites cried out to YHWH Judg 6:7 When the Israelites cried to YHWH on account of Midian Judg 10:10 Then the Israelites cried out to YHWH Judg 10:12 [YHWH to the Israelites] “when you cried out to me” Judg 10:14 [YHWH to the Israelites] “Go cry to the gods you have chosen” Judg 12:2 [Jephthah to Ephraimites] “I summoned/cried out you” 1 Sam 4:13 and the whole city broke out in a cry 1 Sam 5:10 the Ekronites cried out 1 Sam 7:8 [Philistines to Samuel] “Do not neglect us and do not refrain from crying out to YHWH our God to save from the hands of the Philistines” 1 Sam 7:9 and Samuel cried out to YHWH 1 Sam 8:18 [Samuel to Israelites] “The day will come when you cry out [to YHWH] because of the king” 1 Sam 12:8 [Samuel to Israelites] “your fathers cried out to YHWH” 1 Sam 12:10 they cried to YHWH

208 � Ellen van Wolde 1 Sam 15:11 he [Samuel] entreated/cried out to YHWH all night long 1 Sam 28:12 Then the woman recognized Samuel, and she shrieked loudly 2 Sam 13:19 she [Tamar] walked away, screaming loudly as she went 2 Sam 19:5 The king covered his face and the king kept crying aloud 2 Sam 19:29 [Mephiboshet to Saul] “What right have I to appeal/cry out further to Your Majesty?” 1 Kgs 20:39 as the king passed, he [the prophet] cried out to him [YHWH] 1 Kgs 22:32 they turned upon him to attack him, and Jehoshaphat cried out 2 Kgs 4:1 a certain woman…cried out to Elisha 2 Kgs 4:40 they began to cry out: “O man of God, there is death in the pot” 2 Kgs 6:5 and he cried out: “Alas, master, it was a borrowed one” 2 Kgs 6:26 once, when the king of Israel was walking on the city wall, a woman cried out to him: “Help me, your majesty!” 2 Kgs 8:3 the woman went to the king to cry out to the king about (the loss of) her house and farm 2 Kgs 8:5 in came the woman whose son he had revived, crying out to the king about her house and farm Isa 14:31 Howl, O gate; cry out, O city Isa 15:4 Heshbon and Elealeh cry out Isa 15:5 My heart cries out for Moab Isa 19:20 so that when they cry out to YHWH against oppressors Isa 26:17 Like a woman with child approaching childbirth, writhing and screaming in her pangs Isa 30:19 He will grant you His favor at the sound of your cry Isa 33:7 Hark! The Arielites cry aloud! Isa 42:2 He shall not cry out or shout aloud. Isa 46:7 If they cry out, it does not answer Isa 57:13 Shall not save you when you cry out Isa 65:14 and you shall cry out in anguish Jer 11:11 Then they will cry out to me [YHWH], but I will not listen to them Jer 11:12 And the townsmen of Judah and the inhabitants of Jerusalem will go and cry out to the gods to which they sacrifice Jer 20:8 For every time I speak, I [Jeremiah] must cry out Jer 22:20 Climb Lebanon and cry out Jer 22:20 Raise your voice in Bashan, cry out from Abarim Jer 25:34 Howl, you shepherds, and yell/cry out Jer 30: 15 Why cry out over your injury? Jer 47:2 The towns and their inhabitants. Men shall cry out Jer 48:20 Moab is shamed and dismayed; Howl and cry aloud! Jer 48:31 Therefore I will howl for Moab, I will cry out for all Moab Jer 49:3 Cry out, O daughters of Rabbah! Ezek 9:8 I flung myself on my face and cried out, “Ah, Lord GOD!” Ezek 11:13 I threw myself upon my face and cried out aloud, “Ah, Lord GOD!” Ezek 21:17 Cry and wail, O mortal, for this shall befall My people Ezek 27:30 They shall raise their voices over you and cry out bitterly Hos 7:14 But they did not cry out to Me sincerely As they lay wailing Hos 8:2 Israel cries out to Me, “O my God, we are devoted to You”

Cognitive Grammar at Work in Sodom and Gomorrah � 209

Joel 1:14 and cry out to YHWH Jonah 1:5 In their fright, the sailors cried out, each to his own god Mic 3:4 Someday they shall cry out to YHWH Hab 1:2 How long, YHWH, shall I cry out and You not listen Hab 2:11 For a stone shall cry out from the wall Ps 22:6 To You they cried out and they escaped Ps 34:18 They cry out, and YHWH hears Ps 77:2 I cry aloud to God Ps 88:2 O YHWH, God of my deliverance, when I cry out in the night before you Ps 107:6 In their adversity they cried out to YHWH Ps 107:13 In their adversity they cried to YHWH Ps 107:19 In their adversity they cried to YHWH Ps 107:28 In their adversity they cried to YHWH Ps 142:2 I cry aloud to YHWH Ps 142:6 So I cry to You, O YHWH Job 19:7 I cry, “Violence!” but am not answered Job 31:38 If my land cries out against me (‫)עלי‬ Job 35:12 Then they cry out, but he [God] does not respond Lam 2:18 Their heart cried out to YHWH Lam 3:8 and when I cry and plead, He shuts out my prayer Esth 4:1 He (Mordecai) went through the city, crying out loudly and bitterly. Neh 9:4 and cried in a loud voice to YHWH their God Neh 9:27 In their time of trouble they cried to you [YHWH] Neh 9:28 Again they cried to You, and You in heaven heard 1 Chr 5:20 for they cried to God in the battle 2 Chr 13:14 they cried out to YHWH 2 Chr 18:31 Jehoshaphat cried out and YHWH helped him 2 Chr 20:9 and we shall cry out to You in our distress 2 Chr 32:20 Then King Hezekiah and the prophet Isaiah son of Amoz prayed about this, and cried out to heaven.

An analysis of the usages of the verbs ṣā‘aq (‫ )צעק‬and zā‘aq (‫)זעק‬, “to cry out,” shows that these verbs designate a temporal process in which a trajector, an identified singular or plural entity, is crying out to someone who is identified and who is the action’s primary landmark. In the majority of cases the outcry is addressed to YHWH (primary landmark) and the trajector are the Israelites. In cases where the outcry is addressed to a person, this person is hierarchically in a superior position (king, prophet, judge) who is competent to judge and help. The verbs never designate someone’s crying out for help against someone else or directed against other people (there is, therefore, no secondary landmark).26 �� 26 J.R. Taylor, Cognitive Grammar (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 214, gives a helpful explanation of the difference between a primary and secondary landmark: “For a number of relational items we need recognize more than one LM. Of the two LMs, one (the primary land-

210 � Ellen van Wolde In Langacker’s terms: the verb ṣā‘aq/zā‘aq profiles the temporal process of [A on the included bases of [INDIVIDUAL OR COLLECTIVE], [NEED, DISTRESS], [HELP ORIENTATED], and figures in a juridical cognitive domain. The verb ṣā‘aq/zā‘aq is often used to put the interconnection among the conceived entity Israelites and YHWH in profile and this relational profile is of a temporal nature, that is to say, we as readers follow the Israelites’ crying out to YHWH through time. In short: The verb ‫ צעק‬/‫( זעק‬ṣā‘aq/zā‘aq), “to cry out” – is used by an individual or a collective {the trajector} that is explicitly mentioned – is directed to YHWH or to a Superior {the primary landmark} – is not used by an individual or collective directed against someone {no secondary landmark} – designates [A LOUD RAISING OF THE VOICE] (its profile) and includes in its base the notions of [INDIVIDUAL OR COLLECTIVE], [NEED, DISTRESS], [HELP ORIENTATED], and functions in a juridical cognitive domain – as a verb it conceives of this outcry as a temporal process, and follows the action through time – can be translated as “to cry out for help”

LOUD RAISING OF THE VOICE]

This examination of the usages of the nouns ṣā‘aqâ (‫ )צעקה‬and zā‘aqâ (‫)זעקה‬, “outcry,” and of the verbs ṣā‘aq (‫ )צעק‬and zā‘aq (‫)זעק‬, “cry out for help,” has demonstrated that the option that these terms designate a cry against someone is to be excluded. It is mainly the literary context and the interpretation of that context that brought biblical scholars to the conclusion that Gen

�� mark) is more prominent that the other (the secondary landmark). Compare the verbs steal and rob. These verbs are understood against the same conceptual base. There is, namely, an event in which a person illegally takes a thing away from its rightful owner. There are three participants in the event: the person who takes the thing, the thing taken, and the rightful owner. The two verbs differ in how they construe the relative salience of the landmark entities. Compare: (a) The thieves robbed the Princess of her diamonds, (b) The thieves stole the diamonds from the Princess. Rob focuses on the relation between the thieves (the TR) and the Princess (the primary LM). The act of robbing primarily affects the Princess. The prepositional phrase of her diamonds specifies the way in which the Princess was affected by the act. It is significant that the secondary LM (the diamonds) need not be mentioned; They robbed the Princess is a perfectly coherent statement. Steal, on the other hand, focuses specifically on the relation between the thieves (the TR) and the diamonds (the primary LM); the sentence tells us specifically what happened to the diamonds. The Princess is now the secondary LM. Again, the secondary LM may be omitted: They stole the diamonds is a perfectly coherent statement.”

Cognitive Grammar at Work in Sodom and Gomorrah � 211

18:20–21 and 19:13 express “the outcry against Sodom and Gomorrah.” Therefore, the modern standard Bible translations are wrong when they translate theses verses, “Then the Lord said, ‘How great is the outcry against Sodom and Gomorrah and how very grave their sin!’” (NRSV) or “Then the Lord said, ‘Because the outcry against Sodom and Gomorrah is great and their sin is very grave’” (ESV).27 Instead we should read the outcry (ṣā‘aqâ, ‫צעקה‬, in Gen 18:21 and 19:13, and zā‘aqâ, ‫זעקה‬, in 18:20) as not directed against the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah, but as uttered by them. The people of Sodom and Gomorrah are conceived as a collective whose corporate identity is defined by need and distress. Their outcry is not directed to YHWH, but YHWH is acting on this request to lead an inquest. In short, the noun ṣā‘aqâ (‫ )צעקה‬or zā‘aqâ (‫)זעקה‬, “outcry,” stands out against the cognitive domain of jurisdiction. As such, the term profiles the [RAISE OF THE VOICE] or [OUTBURST] on the included base of [COLLECTIVE] and [NEED, DISTRESS], and can, therefore, best be translated with “outburst out of distress.” The collective trajector is defined as “the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah.” They did not direct their outcry to YHWH whom they did not know. Nevertheless YHWH initiates a legal inquest, and is acting, therefore, as judge.

A Cognitive Study of the Word “City Gate” The word šaʿar (‫)שׁער‬, “gate,” is used 373 times in the Hebrew Bible to express an [ENTRANCE STRUCTURE] in an enclosing structure of an [ARCHITECTURAL COMPLEX]. One of the three following bases is included in its meaning structure:

I. II. or

[ENTRANCE STRUCTURE] / [CITY] i.e., gate in a city wall, city gate [ENTRANCE STRUCTURE] / [TABERNACLE] i.e., gate in a tabernacle’s enclosure, tabernacle gate [ENTRANCE STRUCTURE] / [TEMPLE] i.e., gate in a temple’s courtyard, temple gate

�� 27 Equally wrong are: “Then the LORD said, ‘The outcry against Sodom and Gomorrah is so great and their sin so grievous’” (NIV); “Then the LORD said, ‘The outcry against Sodom and Gomorrah is immense, and their sin is extremely serious’” (HCSB); “Then Yahweh said, ‘The outcry against Sodom and Gomorrah is so great and their sin is so grave’” (NJB); “The outrage of Sodom and Gomorrah is so great, and their sin so grave” (Gen 18:20) and “For we are about to destroy this place, because the outcry against them before the Lord has become so great that the Lord has sent us to destroy it” (Gen 19:13, NJPS).

212 � Ellen van Wolde III. [ENTRANCE STRUCTURE] / [PALACE] i.e., gate in a palace’s courtyard, palace gate

To specify the base included in the mental concept of the city gate a study was made of all 249 occurrences of šaʿar (‫ )שׁער‬I, “city gate,” in the Hebrew Bible.28 I will focus here only on the book of Genesis, in which the noun šaʿar is used nine times, always in the singular construct state. In the first appearance, in Gen 19:1-2, “Lot was sitting in the gate of Sodom,” it is obvious that the concept of city is included in the gate’s base. The use of the verb and preposition of “sitting in” indicates a sitting place or at least some sitting space in the gate area. In the second text, Gen 22:17, God promises Abraham to make his descendants as numerous as the stars of heaven: “your seed shall seize the gate of its enemies.” Here the city gate stands both for the city and its inhabitants; no reference is made to a specific city and its leaders, but people are imagined as enemies of the Abraham clan, and the city gate represents these fiendish (Canaanite) people. In the third speech event, in Gen 23:10, Abraham asks Ephron to sell a burial site for his deceased wife Sara: “Ephron the Hittite answered Abraham in the hearing of the Hittites, all who entered the gate of his city…. I give it to you in the presence (literally, ‘in the eyes’) of my people.” The “hearing” and “seeing” of Ephron’s fellow townsmen assembled in the city gate suggests an architectural structure of a certain size and with an administrative and juridical function. Genesis 23:18 is repeating the phrase of Gen 23:10 (but for the preposition), “all who entered the gate of his city,” and Gen 24:60 talks about “the gate of their haters,” this time from Rebekah’s offspring’s point of view. In the sixth text, Gen 28:17, Jacob evaluates the place of his dreams as “heaven’s or heavens’ gate.” Since the word šaʿar profiles an entrance structure in an enclosing architectural structure, the question is: What does the text presuppose as its base? Is heaven conceived as a city where deities live, as a palace, or as a temple? Or is it metaphorically used? In this context it is not possible to pay more attention to these intriguing questions. The seventh, eighth, and ninth usage events are part of the Dinah story in Gen 34, occurring once in v. 20 and twice in v. 24: “Hamor and his son Shechem went to the gate of their city” and “all who went out of the gate of his city listened to Hamor and his son Shechem, and all males, all those who went out of the gate of his city were circumcised.” The city gate is associated with the assembly of the inhabitants of the city of Shechem and their leader Hamor as is represented by the syntagm “all men.” Pictured is an assembly of male citizens, which convenes in an official manner to decide on

�� 28 See Van Wolde, Reframing Biblical Studies, 72-103.

Cognitive Grammar at Work in Sodom and Gomorrah � 213

the important occasion of the marriage of their leader’s son, with considerable consequences for the city’s property and inheritance. Hence, the concept of city gate includes in its base the notions of a city gate structure of a reasonable size and with an official function. A first characteristic that emerges from these nine usages in the book of Genesis is that citizens are described as “all those who entered the city gate,” or as “all those who went out of the city gate.” Apparently the city gate is considered the defining element of the non-Israelite citizen. A second characterizing feature is that in Gen 23:10 the narrator in the presentation of YHWH’s words and in sharing his viewpoint represents the citizens as those who enter the city: the profiled situation presupposes a starting point outside the city. In contrast, the narrator of Gen 34:20 shares Hamor’s and Shechem’s viewpoint and represents the citizens as those who leave the city; the profiled situation presupposes a starting point inside the city. In both cases the point of referent is the collective of Canaanite citizens defined in terms of the city gate. The third characteristic is that in these Genesis texts the city gate is either marked by a city name (the city of Sodom) or by a possessive suffix. It is, therefore, always conceived as someone’s city gate. This person is either the city’s leader or the city’s inhabitants, and the latter are sometimes defined from the Israelite viewpoint as the city’s fiendish inhabitants. Consequently, in Genesis, a city and a fortiori its city gate is conceived as the main representative of its citizens — often ethnically defined — and their leader(s), so that we can conclude that the word šaʿar (‫ )שׁער‬profiles an [ENTRANCE STRUCTURE] or an [EXIT STRUCTURE], depending on the viewpoint shared in the usage event, and includes in its base the notion of the [CANAANITE CITY]. This profile-base relation stands out against the matrix of two cognitive domains: (Canaanite) [HABITATION], (Canaanite) [ADMINISTRATION] or [JURISDICTION]. Based on this cognitive linguistic analysis, we must conclude that Morschauser is right in his description of the city gate as the site of judgment or decision-making (“acting as ‘judges’ for the community”) and also in his statement that “the description of Lot as ‘sitting in the gate’ is not gratuitous or incidental to the narrative of Genesis 19.” However, his idea that Lot is therefore “an individual of influence and standing within the social order of Sodom; he is one who—on some level—has been empowered to adjudicate for the populace-atlarge,”29 is incorrect. Since the city gate is conceived as the main representative of its citizens and Lot, a resident alien (gēr, ‫)גר‬, is a marginal figure who cannot be part of the administrative and juridical board of the city, his conduct would �� 29 Morschauser, “Hospitality,” 464.

214 � Ellen van Wolde have been offensive to the men of Sodom. He, a sojourner, is sitting in the city’s gate as if he were in charge, and he is admitting men who came to the city by night. And then he even invites them to stay at his place! This is what they actually accuse him of in Gen 19:9: “That fellow came here as an alien, and already he acts the judge/ruler, šāfat šāfôt (‫)שׁפט שׁפוט‬, “judge” (with emphasis). Wrapping up the results so far, we see that the secondary literature on the juridical framework and terminology in the Hebrew Bible and in Gen 18-19 is a valuable starting point to understand the cultural entrenched routines and categories working at the background of this text. From the cognitive word analyses of “outcry” and “city gate” it transpires that the cognitive analyses specify and elaborate on the expert views. The cognitive word analyses showed us the difference between the verb “to cry out” and the noun “outcry.” The verb conceives of the raising of the voice as a temporal process that is oriented towards help and the person addressed is asked to provide the help, while the noun conceives of this cry as an outburst of distress pictured in one single configuration. For Gen 18-19 this led to the conclusion that the outcry of Sodom and Gomorrah was not directed towards YHWH.

A Cognitive Study of the Text of Genesis 18-19 in Its Wider Conceptual Context It all started with the outburst of distress of Sodom and Gomorrah, on which YHWH decided to act as a judge to see what is happening in Sodom. No, actually, it all started much earlier with YHWH’s election of Abraham, as is clearly visible in Gen 18:16-21. In Gen 18:16-21, the outcry (zā‘aqâ in v. 20, ṣā‘aqâ v. 21) of Sodom and Gomorrah that sparks of YHWH’s inquest follows immediately upon YHWH’s mentioning his election of Abraham in v. 19: “for I have known (yāda‘, ‫ )ידע‬him [Abraham] that he may instruct his children and his posterity to keep the way of YHWH by doing righteousness and justice.” In effect, in vv. 17-19 YHWH is already acting as a judge, as the term yāda‘ (‫“ )ידע‬know” shows. Bovati demonstrated that in Israelite courts of law the stage of certainty based on sensory experience or some other kind of evidence is the only one that can guarantee correct juridical proceedings. YHWH is depicted in Gen 18 as the judge who is in a position of “seeing” and “knowing” and who pronounces the sentence that righteousness is safe in Abraham’s hands. The phrases “keep the way of YHWH” (šāmar dĕrĕk YHWH, ‫ )שמר דרך יהוה‬and “do righteousness and justice” (mišpāṭ weṣĕdāqâ, ‫)משׁפט וצדקה‬, together with “to know” (yāda‘ ‫)ידע‬, confirm this juridical per-

Cognitive Grammar at Work in Sodom and Gomorrah � 215

spective. On this confirmation, in his discourse in vv. 20-21, YHWH expresses the intention to act as a judge with reference to the people of Sodom and Gomorrah: “I will go down and see (rā’â ‫ )ראה‬their outcry that came to me…and I will know (yāda‘ ‫)ידע‬.” After his decision to act as a judge, YHWH sends his messengers to go to Sodom to see whether there are innocent or righteous people living there and to separate them from the guilty and evil ones. Abraham’s plea to save the innocent inhabitants of Sodom in his discussion with YHWH in Gen 18:22-33 confirms that righteousness is indeed safe in his hands and that YHWH was right in choosing him as judge. The discussion closed, the actual story in Sodom starts in Gen 19:1 with the arrival of the two messengers at the city gate. In a literary reading, Lyn Bechtel pointed out that the characters in Gen 19 represent distinct groups: the outsiders, the insiders, and a marginal figure.30 The divine messengers are the outsiders, or even spies, as is known to the readers only, sent out by YHWH to see and check. Yet, for the other characters in the story, these messengers are merely recognizable as human beings. The second character is Lot, a resident alien in the city of Sodom, and as such a marginal figure. And finally, the third group introduced in v. 4 is “the men of the city, the men of Sodom, from young to old, all the people to the last men.” They are the insiders, characterized as one group, the city’s mature adults responsible for its administration, including its juridical procedures. So far the story contains but groups — characters who are not defined as separate individuals, but as insiders, outsiders, and marginal people. Only the marginal people, the outsiders sojourning in the land that is not theirs yet, are specified and identified by name: Lot, and in the previous chapter, Abraham. Their god has a name, too: YHWH. The messengers come to the city of Sodom by night (v. 1). This differs greatly from their arrival at Abraham’s place, because the three men visit Abraham “as the day grew hot.” Their intentions are presumably not meant to be perceived in broad daylight. This is actually the starting point of the inquest by the inhabitants of Sodom in v. 5. “Where are the men that came to you by night?” They use legal terminology: “bring,” “before us,” and “so that we may know them.” The conceptual meaning of the verb yāda‘ (‫)ידע‬, “know,” in the juridical cognitive domain is crucial in this and any juridical inquest, for it means “to investigate (a person’s state or actions)” so as to make a decision. The

�� 30 L. Bechtel, “A Feminist Reading of Genesis 19.1–11,” in Genesis: The Feminist Companion to the Bible (ed. A. Brenner; FCB2; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 108–28.

216 � Ellen van Wolde Sodomites are to judge whether these foreign men represent danger to the city or not.31 Lot’s reaction is astonishing. His behavior is in the first place secretive. He comes out of his house, but closes the door behind him (v. 6). He then asks the city’s community not to do evil. Morschauser could be right in his interpretation that Lot’s offer of his daughters is meant to be a hostage exchange. If so, the cognitive domain is that of treaty and negotiation, while the category of thinking is that of war and Lot’s proposal to do whatever is “good” in their eyes (v. 8) is standing out against the cognitive domain of war law. Whether or not this is the case, it is sure that Lot’s behavior implies that he takes up the role of negotiator or even representative of the party he is hiding in his home. The men of Sodom react furiously to Lot’s offer. They are offended and use legal terms to express their dismay. First, they tell Lot to draw near (nāgaš ‫)נגשׁ‬, because he is the person who brought the men in and whose offer brings the community in danger. They want to question him. Consequently they draw near the door, so that they will know what kind of men he is hiding in his house. The juridical terminology is obvious here, as well as in the subsequent verses. Those who want to “know and see,” yāda‘ (‫ )ידע‬and rā’â (‫)ראה‬, are now struck with blindness. They are rendered unable to know and see, to judge, or to act as judges. Even stronger, they are, from now on, denied the right to judge. Those who denied that Lot had a right to judge them find that they are struck blind. By whom? By the messengers of YHWH, the one who is called by Abraham in Gen 18:25 the judge of the entire earth. Thus it turns out that the conceptual framework is not only that of jurisdiction, but also that of contested jurisdiction, and, consequently, of contested rule. The first element that points in this direction is the trajector of the outcry identified in Gen 18:20 as “Sodom and Gomorrah,” yet the following chapter, Gen 19, only regards the citizens of Sodom. Why also Gomorrah? What is the conceptual content the syntagm Sodom and Gomarrah conveys? The only other time this syntagm occurs is earlier on in the book of Genesis, in ch. 14, where the kings of Sodom and Gomorrah appear in a setting of war against invading foreign kings. Genesis 14:10–12 describes how the kings of Sodom and Gomorrah threw themselves into the bitumen pits in the valley of Siddim, while the other Canaanite kings fled into the hill country and escaped. “The invaders seized all wealth of Sodom and Gomorrah and all their provisions, and went their way. They also took Lot, the son of Abram’s brother, and his possessions, and departed; for he had settled in Sodom.” Later, Abram and his allies were �� 31 Cf. Morschauser, “Hospitality.”

Cognitive Grammar at Work in Sodom and Gomorrah � 217

able to defeat the eastern invaders and to release Lot. The use of both names, Sodom and Gomorrah, in Gen 18:20 seems to allude to this episode, since this is the only other text in Genesis in where Sodom and Gomorrah appear side by side. The context is one of war and of the loss of land and possessions. Earlier still, in Gen 13:12–13, Abra(ha)m, Lot, and Sodom co-occur, when the separation between Abram and Lot is described: “Abram remained in the land of Canaan, while Lot settled in the cities of the Plain, pitching his tents near Sodom. Now the inhabitants of Sodom were very wicked and sinned against YHWH.” No further explanation is given of the nature of their wickedness; it is just a comment, but they are tagged “wicked” in the readers’ minds and the tag will determine its profile all the way through. The king of Sodom appears again in ch. 14, when he is mentioned as the leader of the four Canaanite city-state kings who fought against five foreign kings. This makes Sodom the representative of the Canaanite city-states. Genesis 14:13–24 offers an extensive report of the reception of the returning hero Abram by the kings of Sodom and Salem. The king of Salem is introduced by name, Melchizedek, and the narrator tells us that he brings Abram food and blessings. His words are extensively covered in a directly reported speech, in which Melchizedek attributes the victory to Abram’s God, El Elyon (’ēl ‘ĕlyôn, ‫אל‬ ‫)אליון‬, God Most High, saying, “Blessed be Abram of El Elyon, possessor of heaven and earth. And blessed be El Elyon, who has delivered your foes into your hand” (Gen 14:19). The king of Sodom, on the other hand, is not introduced by name, is not said to have given bread, and but a few of his words are reported in direct speech. The king of Sodom does not speak of God or El Elyon as the possessor of the world nor of his victory, but approaches Abram as the victorious combatant, saying, “Give me the persons, and take the possessions for yourself” (Gen 14:21). It seems to be part of a negotiation, although Abram responds differently. He, too, refers to El Elyon as the possessor of heaven and earth, equalizing YHWH with El Elyon, and says to the King of Sodom: “I lift up my hand to YHWH, El Elyon who possesses heaven and earth. I will not take so much as a thread or a sandal strap of what is yours” (Gen 14:22). In other words, the defining feature of this El Elyon is, both according to Melchizedek and to Abram, that he is the most powerful deity, the possessor of the entire heaven and earth, and Abram apparently equalizes YHWH with this El Elyon, God Most High. In Gen 18:25, furthermore, Abraham proclaims that YHWH is the judge of all the earth. This YHWH sends his messengers to Sodom and decides in the end for the purpose of destroying the town, so he does indeed turn out to be judge of Sodom and Gomorrah. In all these chapters in Genesis, only the perspective of Abraham and Lot is shared, and hardly that of the inhabitants of the land and their cities. It was

218 � Ellen van Wolde demonstrated above that the cry out for help could not have been directed against the Sodomites, nor could they have directed their outcry to YHWH whom they did not know. Nevertheless YHWH initiates a legal inquest. The message is conveyed that it is YHWH’s right to start the inquest, as a powerful and righteous judge of all the earth, including the city of Sodom. The behavior of the townsmen of Sodom does not legitimize the deity’s severe punishment or their total destruction. Their wish “to know” is completely regular. Yet what is at stake here is the right to judge. The insiders are denied the right to deal with administrative, social, legal, and religious matters in their city gates according to their own rules. Those who come from abroad, the Abraham family and their outsider God, are going to win: they are to judge and they will make the rules. All textual characters, with the exception of the Sodomites, defend this view. The messengers share YHWH’s perspective; Abra(ha)m shares it; Melchizedek, the king of Salem shares El Elyon’s perspective and acknowledges him as the rightful Most High deity. They all confirm YHWH’s right to act as a judge of the entire earth. The exceptions are the king of Sodom, who in Gen 14 does not speak of YHWH, and the male inhabitants of Sodom who in Gen 19 wished to know the identity of the messengers of YHWH and what they were planning to do. Their final reaction to Lot in Gen 19:9 says it all: “Stand back! The fellow came here as an alien and he acts as the judge! Now we will deal worse with you than with them.” That is exactly the point: the outsiders and their God Yhwh have come to take over, because they consider their God to be the God Most High. It is from their perspective that the text is written. Since then all readers have interpreted the text through their eyes only and grew used to blaming the men of Sodom for their unlawful behavior.

… And in an Even Wider Conceptual Context Scholars have generally noted the shared conceptual framework of and the intertextual relationships between the various biblical references to El Elyon in Gen 14, Deut 32:8–9, and Ps 82. A short detour to these texts may help us to understand the wider background of YHWH’s behavior as judge in Gen 18–19. The first text is Deuteronomy 32:8–9: 8

When the Most High (Elyon) gave the nations their inheritance, When he divided the sons of a human being, He established the boundaries of peoples, according to the number of the sons of Israel/El.32

�� 32 The MT of the Codex Leningradensis has “sons of Israel”; 4QDeutq reads “sons of El.”

Cognitive Grammar at Work in Sodom and Gomorrah � 219

9

For the portion of YHWH is his people, Jacob, his inherited measure.

Emanuel Tov comments on Deut 32:8–9: In its probably original wording, as reflected in 4QDeutq (and secondarily also in 4QDeutj and LXX), the Song of Moses referred to an assembly of the Gods (cf. Psalm 82; 1 Kgs 22:19), in which “the Most High, ‘Elyon, fixed the boundaries of peoples according to the number of the sons of the God El.” The next verse stresses that the Lord, ‫יהוה‬, kept Israel for himself. … It appears, however, that the scribe of an early text … did not feel at ease with the possible polytheistic picture and replaced ‫בני אל‬, “sons of El,” with ‫בני ישׁראל‬ “sons of Israel,” thus giving the text a different direction by the change of one word.33

In this picture, El Elyon is the head god who oversees the division of the world into nations given to the various gods of the world, and in this scenario, YHWH is one of the gods who receives his inheritance from El Elyon. Israel is his inheritance, whereas the other sons of El (“God”) inherit the other nations. A further step in the dynamics of YHWH’s relation to the nations is Ps 82. We follow Mark Smith in his literal translation and treatment of Ps 82.34

Psalm 82 1 Elohim stands (sg.) in the council of El Among the elohim he pronounces judgment: 2 “How long will you judge perversely, Show favour to the wicked? 3 Judge the wretched and the orphan, Vindicate the lowly and the poor, 4 Rescue the wretched and the needy, Save them from the hand of the wicked.” 5 They neither know nor understand, They go about in darkness, All the foundations of the world totter. 6 “I had taken you for gods, Sons of Elyon, all of you; 7 However, you shall die like a human, Fall like one of the princes.” 8 Arise (sg.), O Elohim, judge the earth, For You inherit all the nations.

�� 33 E. Tov, Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992), 269. 34 M.S. Smith, God in Translation: Deities in Cross-Cultural Discourse in the Biblical World (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 131-215.

220 � Ellen van Wolde The juridical context of this psalm is visible in the four-times-repeated verb šāfat (‫)שׁפט‬, “judge.” The contrast between the assembly of gods (elohim) who are supposed to judge, to know, and understand, and to support the wretched and the needy (vv. 1–5), and the one and only God (elohim) who is incited to stand up to judge the entire earth and all nations (v. 8) is the central topic of this psalm. The figure Elohim (God) indicts as mere mortals the other gods (’elohim, verse 1b and 6), whom he had thought were all sons of Elyon (verse 6). As the indictment indicates, the denounced figures were considered to be gods, all divine children of Elyon, but now they are to be viewed not as god but as dead like humans (verse 7). The psalm concludes (verse 8) with the human speaker calling on Elohim to “judge, rule” (less likely, to “prevail”) and to assume all the nations his “inheritance.”35

Elohim was originally seen as one of the members of the larger divine assembly of the gods, and v. 1 describes how he literally takes his place in the divine council or council of El, with all other gods or sons of the God Most High, ’El ‘Elyon. Then Elohim realizes that the other gods have no knowledge or understanding whatsoever. They are not, therefore, able to judge properly. In fact, so he states, they are not proper deities and will die like human beings. Only Elohim is the righteous judge of the entire earth, and he will inherit all the nations. The operating assumption in Psalm 82 is that the other gods had been the gods of all the nations, but now in its final prophetic call, Elohim the god of Israel is to assume divine authority over all the nations. In short, Psalm 82 calls for an end to translatability. It is evident that Psalm 82 presupposes, even as it disputes, an older worldview of the nations each headed by its own national god. The translatability expressed in the worldview is acknowledged at the same time that it is being rejected.36

When we read Gen 18–19 against the background of Deut 32:8–9 and Ps 82, we can see Abraham’s proclamation in Gen 18:25 that YHWH is the judge of all the earth and YHWH’s consequent behavior as judge of Sodom in a new light. It turns out that Gen 18–19 expresses in a narrative form what Ps 82 states explicitly. It is a testimony of the takeover by YHWH who started as the judge and deity of one clan only, but ends here as the judge of the entire earth. Although the outcry was not directed against the inhabitants of Sodom, this outcry is placed in a literary context that qualifies their behavior as sinful and functions as a pretext for YHWH to act as judge. Although the Sodomites’ wish to know the �� 35 Smith, God in Translation, 134. 36 Smith, God in Translation, 139.

Cognitive Grammar at Work in Sodom and Gomorrah � 221

identity of the people that Lot hid in his house is legally justified, the narrator confirms Lot’s misunderstanding of the kind of knowledge they sought. In the end, all threads lead into a single network of meaning in which YHWH is presented as the only rightful judge of the entire earth, including the Canaanites and among them, the Sodomites.

Conclusions In this essay Ronald Langacker’s Cognitive Grammar is used for an analysis of the story of Sodom and Gomorrah in its conceptual context. It was demonstrated that the words used in this text figure in (at least) three cognitive domains: jurisdiction, rule/administration, and war or contested jurisdiction. The analysis made of the noun ṣā‘aqâ (‫ )צעקה‬or zā‘aqâ (‫)זעקה‬, “outcry,” which profiles the [RAISE OF THE VOICE] on the included base of [COLLECTIVE] and [NEED, DISTRESS], shows that the people who are crying out are the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah. These people could not have directed their outcry to YHWH, whom they did not know. Nevertheless YHWH initiates a legal inquest. Because the narrator shares in these chapters of Genesis only the perspective of Abraham and his family, and not the perspective of the Canaanites of whom the kings of Sodom and Gomorrah are the most representative rulers, the intended Israelite audience understands the message of this text, namely, that YHWH is the superior judge who has chosen Abraham and his offspring as the righteous owners and rulers of the land that until now is under Canaanite rule and jurisdiction. The behavior the Sodomites are accused of is not that they are intending sexual assault, but that they consider YHWH’s messengers as spies, Lot as an intruder who wants to judge them, and more importantly, that they do not acknowledge YHWH as the judge of all the earth or the Abraham family as the rightful owners and rulers of the land.

222 � Ellen van Wolde

David Parris

1 John 1:5-10: Conditionals and Performativity

The nature of conditionals has been debated for over 2000 years. In the third century BCE, Callimachus parodied the debate in the following manner. “[And] see how the ravens squawk on the roof gathering/discussing and crowing what conditionals might be.”1 For the past two hundred years New Testament scholars have added their own voices to this rooftop debate. A great deal of the conversation has focused on how we should classify the Greek conditional – by grammatical form or temporal reference, or whether it is particular or generic in nature.2 A relatively recent contribution by Richard Young stands out for two reasons.3 First, Young criticized the assumption that there was a “one-to-one correspondence between form and meaning” that lay behind many traditional approaches to Koine Greek grammar. This was exemplified by the fact that they could not adequately cover the range of how conditionals were employed in the NT. In response he proposed that we should consider that, just as “lexical forms

�� 1 ἠνίδε κοἰ κόρακες τεγέων ἔπι κοῖα συνῆπται κρώζουσιν καὶ κῶς αὖθι γενησόμεθα (Callimachus, Epigrammatum Fragmenta, 393, in Thesaurus Linguae Graecae [Irvine: University of California, 2009]). 2 The modern debate can be traced to William W. Goodwin, who classified conditionals according to their temporal reference, particularity, and vividness (Greek Grammar [rev. C. B. Gulick; Boston: Ginn, 1930] §§ 1392-1436). B. L. Gildersleeve countered that conditionals should be grouped by the mood of the verb (“On εἰ with the Future Indicative and ἐάν with the Subjunctive in the Tragic Poets,” Transactions of the American Philological Association 7 [1876]). A. T. Robertson followed Gildersleeve (A Grammar of the Greek New Testament in the Light of Historical Research [Nashville: Broadman, 1934]). The persistence of Gildersleeve’s influence is evident in how BDF continues to follow a grammatical form approach (§§ 371-76). 3 R. A. Young, “A Classification of Conditional Sentences Based on Speech Act Theory,” Grace Theological Journal 10 (1989): 29-49. In a certain sense Young’s work is an extension of C.F.D. Moule’s critique of taking a formulaic approach to conditional sentences; he saw that the formula, “given certain conditions, certain results follow,” was wrongheaded and that we need to allow for a wide range of flexibility in their use (An Idiom-Book of New Testament Greek [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968], 148). See also Johan Van der Auwera, “Conditionals and Speech Acts” in On Conditionals (ed. Elizabeth Closs Traugott, et al.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 197-214.

224 � David Parris usually have many meanings (e.g., the word “run”); likewise, grammatical constructions often have multiple meanings….”4 Second, Young argued that conditional sentences can perform speech-acts (for example, they can persuade, make assertions, manipulate the hearer, exhort, or rebuke). Taking Young’s ideas that conditional constructions can convey a range of meanings and function as speech acts as our starting points, this essay will explore how resources from cognitive linguistics advance our understanding of how conditionals operate in 1 John 1:5-10. A second goal of this paper will be to probe points where a cognitive-theory approach overlaps with or departs from other grammatical approaches when interpreting the text.

Structure of the Passage We need briefly to assess the structure and stylistic features of this passage before our analysis of John 1:5-10 from the perspective of cognitive theory. 1 John opens with a proclamation of the message that John has heard, seen, touched with his hands, examined carefully, and announced to his readers (1:14). In v. 5 he gives the central thesis of this message in the form of a metaphorical image that lends coherence to the second half of this chapter: “God is light, and in him there is no darkness.” Immediately following, the author sets forth a string of five conditional sentences that express the relationship of this central metaphorical image to the beliefs and practices of his audience. The clause ἐὰν εἴπωμεν ὅτι (ean eipōmen hoti, “if we said that”) not only bookends the section (1:6, 10) but it is repeated a third time in the center (1:8). Each of these three conditionals presents an inappropriate theological stance. By contrast, vv. 7, 9 present the proper stance and practice. These two positive conditionals are set off from the three negative statements in a number of ways. First, in contrast to “claiming” one thing but doing something else, as in 1:6, 8, 10, the proper position is portrayed in terms of actions: “if we walk” (1:7) and “if we confess” (1:9). The appropriate actions (1:7, 9) are also distinguished by their verb tense. The introductory clauses “if we said” in vv. 6, 8, 10 are aorist, which contrasts with the present tense verbs of “doing” in vv. 7, 9. Stanley Porter argues that, since the aorist tense is the least marked tense form in Koine Greek, the emphasis in John’s argument lies in the more marked present verbs of “do-

�� 4 Young, “Conditional Sentences,” 32-33.

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ing.”5 Although I agree with Porter’s claim that the emphasis lies with the present tense verbs of “doing,” there is more to the picture than how morphologically marked the particular verb forms are. The construction of the protasis in the five conditional sentences creates another alternating pattern. Each protasis of the negative conditionals in vv. 6, 8, 10 comprises two clauses. Syntactically the “if we said” main clauses are followed by complementary clauses that supply their content (i.e., “we have no sin,” as in 1:8). The significance of this will be discussed below, but at this point I want to highlight how the bi-clausal structure of 1:6, 8, 10 contrasts with the singular “doing” protasis clauses in 1:7, 9. The oscillation between these clausal structures is illustrated in diagram 1, where the boxes around the clauses in the protasis draw attention to this construction. Finally, the message that the author announces in 1:5 – “God is light and there is not the least darkness in him” – creates a metaphorical framework that informs and gives coherence to 1:6-10.6 It establishes a metaphorical image that will allow John’s audience to conceptualize their fellowship with God and one another as they follow his argument. Verses 6-7 conceptually spring forth from this central metaphorical framework with their use of walking in darkness or light as metaphors for how one conducts one’s life. In 1:8, “claiming that we do not have sin” is linked with ἑαυτοὺς πλανῶμεν (heautous planōmen, “deceiving ourselves”). The verb πλανάω (planaō) conveys the idea of “to wander aimlessly,” or “to be lost.” As such, it is a development of the metaphorical image of walking in darkness where one cannot discern one’s way.7 In 1:9, the confession of sins and resulting cleansing extend the image of “light” in that one’s offenses are brought out into the open (no longer concealed) and by the associations between light and purity/cleanliness. The passage closes with one final possible denial of sins in v. 10. The following diagrams (1a and 1b, see p. 226) attempt to portray some of the structural elements of this passage discussed:

�� 5 Stanley E. Porter, Idioms of the Greek New Testament (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995), 263. 6 Although he does not follow a cognitive linguistic approach, Raymond E. Brown has an excellent discussion of John’s use of the image schemata of light/darkness and truth/deception (The Epistles of John [AB 30; New York: Doubleday, 1982], 194-201). 7 Within the Johannine corpus, πλανάω and its related cognates often appear in contexts where they stand in opposition to truth (the light) and in this way parallel his use of terms for lying or sinning to a certain degree (Brown, Epistles of John, 206-7). See also Rudolf Bultmann, The Johannine Epistles: A Commentary on the Johannine Epistles (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1973), 19.

226 � David Parris

Diagram 1a: Greek version. Underlining = concepts related to image schema of light/dark; single box = the conditional construction; double box = second clause in protasis, grey box = negative conditionals

Diagram 1b: English version (my translation)

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Cognitive Linguistics, Mental Spaces, and 1 John 1 Having considered a few of the main stylistic and structural features of this passage, we need to turn our attention to consider how cognitive theory can help explicate this passage. Gilles Fauconnier and Eve Sweetser assert that conditionals construct mental spaces that allow us to explore the relationship between these construed mental spaces and reality.8 Consider the following example: If I explain this well, you will understand how I am applying cognitive theory to 1 John.

The protasis to this sentence, “If I explain this well,” constructs a mental space about a state of affairs in which I successfully explain these ideas. This particular mental space construes a causal relationship between my explanation and your understanding. In this mental space we make predictions, or the likely results, based on the protasis. This result is only predicated within the mental space of the protasis.9 Some predictions or results are more certain than others. A conditional along the lines of “If I live to be 70 I will have grey hair” is based on common background knowledge about the aging process and is assumed to be more or less certain (excepting my having my hair color changed). However, conditionals that allow us to imagine alternate possibilities are more interesting in that they allow us to play out different predicted outcomes or implications.10 One of the most important functions that mental spaces serve in if-clauses is that they allow us to consider and explore different possibilities or eventualities. In the example above, “If I explain this well, you will understand…,” an alternate mental space in which I fail to adequately explain this idea is also constructed. This alternate space allows us to explore the possibility that I do a poor job of explaining these concepts and to project the extension from that alternative possibility that my attempt at explanation only results in confusing everyone. This can be diagramed as follows:

�� 8 “[M]ental spaces are small conceptual packets constructed as we think and talk, for purposes of local understanding and action. They are very partial assemblies containing elements, structured by frames and cognitive models.… Mental spaces are interconnected in working memory, can be modified dynamically as thought and discourse unfold, and can be used generally to model dynamic mappings in thought and language” (Gilles Fauconnier and Mark Turner, The Way We Think: Conceptual Blending and the Mind’s Hidden Complexities [New York: Basic, 2003], 102). 9 These mental spaces can be construed in a wide range of ways; cf. Barbara Dancygier and Eve Sweetser, Mental Spaces in Grammar: Conditional Constructions (Cambridge Studies in Linguistics 108; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 18. 10 Ibid., 31-32.

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Diagram 2: Mental spaces for “If I explain this well you will understand”

Because most conditionals construe more than one mental space they force us to consider more than one possibility. The prediction of two mental spaces invokes the hearer’s reasoning as to which mental space is more desirable. In the example above, I the author hope that the neutral mental space is perceived as more desirable by the reader: that I actually succeed in explaining these concepts well. As a result, predictive conditionals have the potential to perform wider heuristic functions than propositions or commands.11 Let us return to 1 John 1:6-10 and consider how mental spaces function in combination with the grammatical and lexical elements in that passage.

1 John 1:6 This is the first of the five conditionals and opens with particle ἐάν (ean, “if”) in conjunction with an aorist subjunctive verb εἴπωμεν (eipōmen, “we said”). This construction is repeated in vv. 8, 10. ἐάν plus a subjunctive verb is typically classified as a third class conditional. Most grammarians describe this class of conditionals as presenting a hypothetical situation in the protasis whose fulfillment is likely but not definitely certain.12 Although this description seems �� 11 Ibid., 31-32. 12 Third class conditionals occur over 300 times in the NT and are perhaps the most flexible of the five conditional classes in Koine Greek in how they are used (Daniel B. Wallace, Greek Grammar beyond the Basics: An Exegetical Study of the New Testament [Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1996], 696-97). There are two primary ways in which the conditionals in this passage have been interpreted. Some commentators argue that John is presenting merely hypothetical possibilities for the sake of the argument based on the grammatical classification (3rd

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appropriate for the conditionals in this passage, it does little to help us grasp how the author is employing the various grammatical and lexical elements in this passage to shape his argument and lead his audience to a particular point of view.

Conditionals, Verb Tenses, and Epistemic Distance The aorist tense of the verb εἴπωμεν (eipōmen, “we said”) in the protasis presents the reader with one of the first clues to how John is shaping his argument. It is a common feature in many languages for the verb tenses in a conditional to be backshifted. A conditional that refers to a future action will typically have the verb in the protasis backshifted to the present tense. The protasis in the sentence “If I explain this well, you will understand” anticipates my completing this explanation and your subsequent understanding. “Explain” has been backshifted from a future form (“will explain”) to a present in this instance. When a verb form that is more “past” than its backshifted form one would normally expect, the speaker’s stance in relation to the protasis is often transformed. For example, if “explain” were in the past perfect, “If I had explained this well, you would have understood,” a different mental space is projected. The two different verb forms evoke different relationships between the speaker and the verb process in the protasis. “If I explain this well” construes a verbal process that not only is taking place when I utter that statement but also creates proximity between the speaker and the verbal action. However, the verb form “had explained” imposes endpoints on the verbal process (discussed in more detail shortly). This allows the verbal process to be seen as a whole. This viewpoint on the verbal process as a whole lends itself to being used in contexts where the speaker wants to evoke a perspective where the verb process is seen from a distance. In this context, “had explained” conveys that I have conceptually distanced or dissociated myself from a positive fulfillment of the protasis.13

�� class) of this conditional. Other commentators, who focus on the tense form of the verbs, claim that aorist verbs in 1:6, 8, 10 are evidence that John is quoting his opponents teachings and not just positing hypothetical possibilities. See n2, above, for some of the grammarians who would support these two positions. 13 There is pervasive cross-linguistic evidence demonstrating that the use of a past tense verb form is one of the most common ways speakers communicate distance from what is being communicated. Careful consideration must always be given to the context in order to determine if the verb form is being employed for the purpose of backshifting or creating epistemic distance. See Dancygier and Sweetser, Mental Spaces in Grammar, 51-56.

230 � David Parris Let us return to v. 6 and consider in more detail the implications for the verb tense of εἴπωμεν (eipōmen, “we said”) and how the mental space in the protasis is construed. The nature of the aorist is all too often misunderstood as indicating a punctiliar, snapshot, or “once and for all” type of action.14 Since the late 1980s, contemporary linguistic approaches recognize that the Koine aorist conveys a perfective verbal aspect with little, if any, temporal reference.15 This is especially true given that the subjunctive mood of εἴπωμεν (eipōmen, “we said”) negates any temporal reference this verb may have conveyed. At the same time the subjunctive mood creates epistemic distance by presenting the verbal action as a possibility, uncertain or unreal.16 The perfective aspect of an aorist verb construes the verbal action as a whole and allows us to view the verb’s action in summary. In this way the entire verbal process is bracketed within the scope of the mental space construed in the protasis.17

�� 14 Frank Stagg, “The Abused Aorist,” JBL 91, no. 2 (1972): 222; see pp. 223-28 for examples of well-known biblical commentators whose works have fallen into this fallacy. 15 Stanley E. Porter and Buist Fanning are best known for their application of contemporary linguistic theories to the study of Koine verbs. They claim that the morphology of a Greek verb conveys “aspect,” a viewpoint on the action (or process) of the verb rather than the time in which it occurs (the traditional definition of tense). Their work has generated a great deal of interest and research in linguistic approaches to the Greek verbal system. Of all the authors, Porter is the best known, most likely because of the provocative thesis of his view: “In fact it appears that Greek does not grammaticalize tense in any of the three major tense categories” (Verbal Aspect in the Greek New Testament [New York: Peter Lang, 1989], 78). Donald Carson claims that the significance of their work cannot be overestimated (“Introduction to Porter/Fanning,” in Biblical Greek Language and Linguistics [Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993], 22, 25). Even though cognitive linguistics does not agree with the strong separation between semantics and pragmatics that Porter and others hold, this does not preclude adapting their results within a cognitive-based approach that also recognizes the value of verbal aspect. 16 Ronald Langacker, Cognitive Grammar: A Basic Introduction (New York: Oxford University Press, 2008), 304-7; Wallace, Greek Grammar, 461-63. 17 The scope of the mental space conveyed in the protasis is represented by the rectangular region. The dotted arrow on the bottom of the diagram represents the flow of time. The thick line in the middle represents the action of a perfective verb. The endpoints for this line are within the field of vision construed in the discourse indicating that the entire action of the verb εἴπωμεν (eipōmen, “we said”) is bracketed within the scope of predication.

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Diagram 3: Perfective nature of an aorist verb

A common illustration used to explain the aspectual difference between the aorist and the present is that the aorist conveys an image of the verbal action in a manner analogous to viewing a parade from a helicopter. You can see the entire parade, from start to finish, from your vantage point above the parade just as an aorist verb allows you to view the entire verbal process. Present tense verbs by contrast are like standing on the side of the street watching the parade go by. You are placed alongside the process of the parade passing by and may not have sight of either end. The present tense conveys an ongoing verbal process without landmarking the start or completion of that process. Because the entire verbal process is bracketed within the scope of predication, the aorist allows the speaker and hearer to picture the action of the verb from a distance.18 This distance can be either temporal or epistemic. In order to grasp the difference between these two forms of distance we may consider another conditional in John’s epistle. An example of temporal distancing is found in 1 John 4:11. ἀγαπητοί, εἰ οὕτως ὁ θεὸς ἠγάπησεν ἡμᾶς, καὶ ἡμεῖς ὀφείλομεν ἀλλήλους ἀγαπᾶν. agapētoi, ei houtōs ho theos ēgapēsen hēmas, kai hēmeis opheilomen allēlous agapan Beloved, if God loved us in this way, we ought also to love one another.

John exhorts his followers to love one another immediately prior to this verse. The basis for his appeal lies in the love that God demonstrated in sending his son into the world as an atoning sacrifice (4:7-10). His use of the aorist indicative verb ἠγάπησεν (ēgapēsen, “loved”) portrays perspective on God’s love as a whole or in summary. Within the context of this passage it carries a past temporal reference to Jesus’ life and death (4:10). The perfective perspective of the verbal process that the aorist projects allows us to see God’s love for us as a

�� 18 Porter, Idioms, 24; see also Langacker, Cognitive Grammar, 155-60.

232 � David Parris whole. Specifically, the aorist verb “loved” recalls the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus as a whole.19 The grammatical construction in 4:11 also differs from the conditionals in 1:6-10 in that this verse is usually classified as a first class conditional (the particle εἰ [ei, “if”] plus an indicative verb in the protasis). Although it is beyond the scope of this paper to discuss the differences between the first class conditionals (as in 4:11) and the grammar of third class conditionals found in 1:6-10 and how significant they are, one point is relevant to our discussion. The use of the indicative aorist verb in 4:11 conceptualizes a different perspective on the verbal process than the subjunctive aorists in 1:6-10. The indicative mood conceptualizes the verbal process as part of how the author conceives of reality for the sake of what is being argued. In other words, John’s conception of reality includes the idea that God loved us in the manner that he described in 4:7-10. He has taken a positive epistemic stance toward the protasis, “God truly loved us.” By contrast, the subjunctive mood verbs employed in 1:6-10 construe contingency or possibility and as such create epistemic distance between the author and the fulfillment of the conditionals.20 The question we have not answered yet is whether the aorist in 1:6 is used for the purpose of temporal backshifting or to create epistemic distance. Contextually there are three reasons to read this construction as creating epistemic distance. First, in this epistle John uses the verb λέγω21 (legō, “say”) in situations where he wants the reader to perceive that he has taken an unfavorable position in regard to what he is predicating. The verb λέγω (legō, “say”) is one of the least lexically marked of all Greek verbs for speaking and is commonly found in contexts where the author assumes a neutral stance in regard to what is being said. But that is not John’s literary style. The verb λέγω (legō, “say”) occurs eight times in this epistle and in each instance it is used in the context of a negative epistemic stance.22 Second, in each instance where this construction (ἐὰν … εἴπωμεν [ean … eipōmen, “if we said”]) is employed in this passage, the

�� 19 The adverb οὕτως (houtos, “so, in this way”) grounds the verbal process of ἠγάπησεν (ēgapēsen, “loved”) in what immediately precedes 4:11. 20 The conditional particle e0a/n (ean, “if”) contributes to the potentiality or contingency of the Greek third class conditional construction (cf. BDAG; Wallace, Greek Grammar, 696; Langacker, Cognitive Grammar, 306). 21 εἴπωμεν (eipōmen, “we said”) is the first person, plural, aorist form of λέγω (legō, “I say”). 22 Besides 1:6, 8, 10 λέγω (legō, “I say”) occurs in 2:4, 6, 9; 4:20; 5:16. In seven out of eight of these contexts this lexeme carries a negative connotation. It could be argued that its use in 5:16 is neutral; however, I read its use there as negative also, but that is beyond the scope of this paper.

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apodosis clearly indicates the negative implications if one were to affirm the protasis (“we lie,” 1:6; “we deceive ourselves,” 1:8; “we make him a liar,” 1:10). Third, the alternation between the aorist verbs in 1:6, 8, 10 and the present tense verb forms in 1:7, 9 contrast the positions he wants his readers to reject and those he wants them to follow. In light of this, it is best to read the aorist εἴπωμεν (eipōmen, “we said”) as a grammatical indicator that should apprise the reader that the author has distanced himself from the claims being made in the protasis (represented by the shaded box in diagram 4) and is more committed to the fulfillment of the alternate mental space.

Diagram 4: 1 John 1:6

How to adequately convey εἴπωμεν (eipōmen, “we said”) into English presents a challenge for translators, with most settling for some form of the present “we say” or “we claim.”23 If we translate it with a past tense verb, “if we said,” the English reader is able to discern John’s epistemic stance regarding the protasis. The problem is that the English tense system semantically conveys more temporal referentially than the Koine verb system. Thus the English reader may also read this as a reference to a claim someone made prior to John’s composition of this letter.24 If we leave it as a simple present “if we say,” we miss how in the

�� 23 The following is an exemplary, not exhaustive, list of translations to represent the present tense: KJV, NRSV, NASB, NIV (but it uses the present form of “claim” instead of “say”), and NET. 24 David L. Washburn, “Third Class Conditionals in First John,” Grace Theological Journal 11, no. 2 (1990): 223-24.

234 � David Parris Greek the aorist verb form signals a negative epistemic stance.25 To bring across the negative epistemic distance and perfective nature of the aorist verb I have chosen to translate εἴπωμεν (eipōmen) as “we said.”

Conditionals and Clausal Structure The compound structure of the clauses in the protasis in 1:6, 8, 10 was briefly discussed above. Verse 6 opens with a compound structure in the protasis. “If we said” followed by a ὅτι (hoti, “that”) clause supplies the content of that possible claim. The particle ὅτι (hoti, “that”) serves as a marker to alert the reader that the clause that follows is a representation of a thought or reasoning process. In cognitive linguistic terms, we would say that ὅτι (hoti, “that”) is a space builder, a lexical marker that “speakers can use to induce the reader to set up a new mental space.”26 This mental space opens innocently enough for John’s readers: “we have fellowship with God.” But it quickly turns into a contradictory scenario in which someone claims to have fellowship with God while they are walking in darkness. The nesting of the ὅτι (hoti, “that”) clause (see diagram 1) increases the epistemic distance of the thought process being represented from the reader through the layering of these clauses.27 The incongruent image represented in the ὅτι (hoti, “that”) clause (fellowship with God while walking in darkness) occupies a mental space within the originally projected space and is negatively framed by “if we said.” In fact, the nesting of this contradiction in “if we said” clause makes it possible to even consider the contradictory claim rep-

�� 25 For discussion of why the present perfective is problematic in English, see Langacker, Cognitive Grammar, 156-59. 26 Gilles Fauconnier and Eve Sweetser, Spaces, Worlds, and Grammar (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 10. 27 See diagram 1: The protasis is enclosed within a rectangular box. The ὅτι (hoti, “that”) clause is enclosed within a second rectangle to show how it is nested in the protasis. This same construction is employed in vv. 8, 10. Normally after verbs of saying (i.e., λέγω [legō, “I say”]) ὅτι (hoti, “that”) connotes direct speech. In this instance, after the conditional particle “if,” and given the content of what might be claimed in vv. 6, 8, 10 it is better to read the ὅτι (hoti, “that”) as introducing a possible line of reasoning or teaching that John is countering. See Margaret G. Sim, Marking Thought and Talk in New Testament Greek: New Light from Linguistics on the Particles “Hina” and “Hoti” (Eugene, Oreg.: Pickwick, 2010), 156-62. Although Sim’s work is based on relevance theory, her conclusions that ὅτι (hoti, “that”) and ἵνα (hina, “in order that”) are used to mark representations of mental processes is compatible with the concepts of mental spaces and image schema in cognitive linguistics. On the embedding of clauses and the stance taken by the conceptualizer, see Langacker, Cognitive Grammar, 414-19, 429-30.

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resented in the ὅτι (hoti, “that”) clause: that someone walking in darkness could even consider that they have fellowship with God, who is light (1:5). As a predictive conditional, this sentence projects two possible ways to perceive an alternative mental space in this instance. On the one hand, if we negate “if we said” in the alternate space, then John may want us to conclude that we would not claim that we are in fellowship with the God of light while we are living in darkness. On the other hand, if we negate “walk in darkness” then the protasis in the alternate space would read along the lines of “if we said we have fellowship with God and walk in the light.” The second reading is to be preferred for the following reasons. A simple reading of 1 John gives ample evidence that the author is engaged in a struggle with unorthodox and schismatic teachers within that ecclesial community. If we based our reading of this verse on a traditional classification of third class conditionals (based on its grammar and verb tense) then the ὅτι (hoti, “that”) clause in this verse could be read as reflecting a catchphrase of his opponents’ teachings.28 The alternate mental space would then be composed of a rejection of making any claims along these lines. Although I agree that this line of reasoning arrives at an appropriate reading for 1:8, 10, I do not think it is appropriate for v. 6. The contradiction projected in the protasis could include any member of John’s audience and most likely reflects the desire of them all to have fellowship with God. This would include those who followed his teachings as well as those who were being persuaded by his opponents. As a result, the alternate space that projects the idea of “walking in the light” would serve as an inducement that would reach both audiences. Since this is related to the central metaphorical image that John is writing to them, “God is light” (1:5), the inducement then serves as a rhetorical ploy to motivate the reader to give greater attention to his message. The rhetorical function of the second option for the alternate space, “we walk in the light,” is also evidenced by how it leads the reader into the line of

�� 28 Washburn claimed that the conditionals in 1:6, 8, 10 are not raising a hypothetical possibility but quoting the slogans of his opponents. He bases this on (1) Gildersleeve’s view that third class conditionals express present states or realities, and (2) the question of why John would bring up such positions if they were not being made in the church (“Third Class Conditionals in First John,” 224). For a summary of the different possible positions John’s adversaries were teaching see Brown, Epistles of John, 50-68; Bultmann, Johannine Epistles, 21. “Walking in light” and “walking in darkness” are part of a metaphorical development that the author is employing to shape his argument. These metaphorical images represent two different communities or audiences for this letter. This introduces a level of complexity to the analysis of this passage that is beyond the scope of this essay. See the discussion of “Metaspatial Conditionals” in Dancygier and Sweetser, Mental Spaces in Grammar, 136-37.

236 � David Parris thought projected in the next sentence. As this discourse unfolds, the reader will negotiate a series of predictive conditionals that project neutral and alternate mental spaces. As we move through these successive conditionals, we find that it is often concepts construed in the alternate space of one conditional that are picked up and brought into play in the protasis of the succeeding conditional. In this way, as we read this passage we negotiate a series of mental spaces that are projected by the conditionals. These mental spaces are related by conceptual elements that were invoked in the previous conditional and then are updated or reshaped in the following conditional.29

1 John 1:7 If 1:6 is an example of how the speaker takes a negative epistemic stance toward the protasis, then v. 7 presents us with a positive epistemic stance. The first indicator for the reader to follow the shift from a negative to positive epistemic stance is the postpositive conjunction δέ (de, “but”) which signals a contrast with the neutral mental space construed in the previous verse. This contrast continues both lexically and grammatically with the action verb περιπατῶμεν (peripatōmen, “we walk”) in the protasis. The aspectual nature of the present tense peripatw=men contributes to the construal of a positive epistemic stance in this conditional. In contrast to the aorist εἴπωμεν (eipōmen, “we said”) in v. 6, the imperfective aspect of the present tense projects a perspective on the verbal process that exceeds the scope of predication. Rather than portraying the verbal process as a whole the present tense communicates a verbal process that is ongoing or unfolding. 30

�� 29 See diagram 6 for how the alternate mental space in 1:6 is then employed in the protasis of 1:7. 30 As in diagram 5 above, the box area represents the scope of the discursive context and the dotted arrow at the bottom represents the passage of time. The line with the arrows represents the verbal process and is intended to indicate how this verb exceeds the scope that is construed in this discourse. In this way, an utterance that employs an imperfective verb, such as a present tense Greek verb, selects or profiles an internal portion of the verbal action and allows for a much closer perspective on the verbal process to be perceived by the reader. See Langacker, Cognitive Grammar, 155; Porter, Idioms, 24.

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Diagram 5: Imperfective aspect of the present verb

The aorist εἴπωμεν (eipōmen, “we said”) in v. 6 contributed to how the author communicated the negative epistemic stance he held toward that conditional. By contrast, the present tense περιπατῶμεν (peripatōmen, “we walk”) in 1:7 establishes immediacy or involvement with how the verbal process is being played out. If the perspective of an aorist verb is compared to seeing a parade from a helicopter (bracketing the entire verbal process that allows for distancing) then the perspective of a present tense verb can be equated to standing on the sidewalk and watching the parade pass by. In this way, the present tense conceptually characterizes an internal perspective, not distant, of the verbal process “we walk.”31 The lexical and grammatical choices made by the author allow us to perceive that he has taken a very different stance toward the content in v. 7. At the metaphorical level, the positive stance projected through “if we walk in the light” is reinforced with the clause “just as God is in the light.”32 On the one hand, this extends the central metaphorical schema “that God is light” (1:5); on the other, it stands in opposition to the “walking in darkness” (1:6). Although the protases in vv. 6-7 stand in opposition to each another, the two sentences are conceptually related in another manner. The notion projected in the alternate mental space of 1:6 contains the idea of “walking in the light.” And it is this idea that is picked up and forms the protasis of v. 7. In this way, we can see that, in v. 7, the author picks up and extends the alternate mental space projected in 1:6.

�� 31 Langacker, Cognitive Grammar, 155. 32 The particle w(j (hōs) introduces a perspective from which we are to view our walking in the light. We are to walk in the light “just as” God is in the light (BDAG 1104).

238 � David Parris

Diagram 6: 1 John 1:6 and 7

“If we walk in the light” is a mixed metaphor. Conceptually, “if we walk” is an instance of the LIFE IS A JOURNEY metaphor in which our lives are metaphorically conceived as extended travel along a path. Birth initiates that journey and death represents the final destination. “Walking” was a common metaphor for life in John, the Hebrew Scriptures, and ancient Greek culture.33 Combined with LIFE IS A JOURNEY is the conceptual metaphor of KNOWING IS VISION. “Light” and “darkness” activate this second conceptual metaphor. The source domain of “seeing” is mapped onto the target of “understanding.” This conceptual metaphor is grounded in our experience as embodied human beings that come to �� 33 See 1 John 2:6, 11; John 8:12. Cf. Cristina Psomadakis, “Mapping Metaphors in Modern Greek: Life Is a Journey” (paper presented at the Fifth Cambridge Postgraduate Conference in Linguistics, Cambridge, 2007); George Lakoff, “The Contemporary Theory of Metaphor,” in Cambridge Handbook of Metaphor and Thought (2nd ed.; ed. Andrew Ortony; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 202-51.

1 John 1:5-10: Conditionals and Performativity � 239

understand much of our world through our sense of sight. We need light to “see” and therefore to “know.” “Walking in the light” allows us to see where we are going and to avoid obstacles. However, to “walk in darkness” entails that we cannot see where we are going and as a result do not know where we are, become hopelessly lost, or find ourselves in a threatening situations. These two metaphors dovetail with each other since we need “light” to “see” the path and to “know” where we are going in our journey through life.34 This same metaphorical mapping will also be activated in v. 8. Once again, v. 7 is a predictive conditional that projects two mental spaces concerning our walking in light or darkness, and the apodosis allows us to play out the consequences of those choices. The contrast between these two conditionals, in 1:6-7, at all levels (grammatical, lexical, and metaphorical) and the way the mental spaces are construed require the reader to actively participate in the author’s reasoning process. Together these two conditionals force the hearer to choose between two paths: walking in darkness or light. The implicit perlocutionary effect of vv. 6-7 would have been to reaffirm John’s followers’ beliefs and the value of holding to the apostolic teachings. However, if one of his antagonists were to read this text the perlocutionary effect of the passage would not be one of affirmation but of persuasion. Hopefully, they would realize that the consequence of their not adhering to the apostolic faith was that they were walking in darkness and as a result neither practicing the truth nor standing in fellowship with the rest of the community.

1 John 1:8 Verse 8 opens with a construction that is identical to 1:6, “if we said,” used once again to set up a negative epistemic space. The ὅτι (hoti, “that”) clause that follows it, ἁμαρτίαν οὐκ ἔχομεν (hamartian ouk echomen, “we have no sin”), most likely represents a maxim of his opponents teachings35 and marks a progression in the author’s argument from the contradictory claim in v. 6 (to have fellowship with God but walk in darkness) to a specific position John wishes to address. The claim “that we have no sin” begins to specify what the metaphor “walking in darkness” entails. If KNOWING IS VISION then being in darkness

�� 34 I am indebted to Eve Sweetser for pointing out the two metaphorical mappings occurring in this section. 35 Washburn, “Third Class Conditionals in First John,” 224

240 � David Parris entails ignorance of the truth. If we are in the dark then we cannot “see” our sin and therefore it is sheer folly to make this claim. The verbal aspect of the present tense form (imperfective, ongoing action that exceeds the scope of the predication) of the verb ἔχομεν (echomen, “we have”) in the ὅτι (hoti, “that”) clause combined with the verb’s lexis communicates the idea of a state in which someone exists. Coupled with John’s choice of the verb “we have” is its object ἁμαρτίαν (hamartian, “sin”) which, in this instance, is construed as a mass noun. A count noun profiles something that is discrete, individuated, and bounded within the scope of predication. By contrast, a mass noun construes an amorphous subject that exceeds the scope of our attention in a particular discourse situation. Mass nouns differ from count nouns in that in most instances one would not use a mass noun to say “one gold,” or “one air.” There is nothing wrong with saying “two or three pencils,” because in most instances they are construed as a count noun. Depending on the sentence a particular noun may be construed as a mass or count noun.36 In this passage, the anarthrous form of ἁμαρτίαν (hamartian, “sin”) construes an indefinite or qualitative nature of the noun for “sin.” The construal of “sin” here as a mass noun means that we cannot specify how many “sins” they claim not to have. Instead the noun ἁμαρτίαν (hamartian, “sin”) profiles the entire concept or property of sin as an undifferentiated whole.37 The position of the direct object, ἁμαρτίαν (hamartian, “sin”), before the verb draws some attention to it and in this way helps the reader to notice the connection between the protasis of this verse with being cleansed from sin in the apodosis of the previous verse. Combined with the stative aspect of ἔχομεν (echomen, “we have”), a rough sketch of the ever-present reality of sin in someone’s life is drawn. John is refuting and distancing himself, and his readers, from the claim some of the oppos-

�� 36 John R. Taylor gives the following example for how the same noun can be construed as either a mass or count noun depending on its context. “You can eat your stew with ‘potato’ or ‘potatoes’. In the first case, the stew is accompanied by ‘potato-substance’ (probably, potatoes in their mashed form). In the second case the stew is accompanied by ‘potato-objects’ (probably, roast or boiled potatoes” (Cognitive Grammar [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003], 368; see pp. 266-80). See also Langacker, Cognitive Grammar, 128-46. 37 In 1:8, the noun ἁμαρτία (hamartia, “sin”) is construed as a mass noun; however, in the next verse it is construed as a plural count noun (confessing our personal sins, which can be individuated). For the Greek grammar of articular and anarthrous nouns see Wallace, Greek Grammar, 243-54. In this respect the traditional classification of an articular or anarthrous nouns in Greek partially overlaps with cognitive grammar’s categories of count and mass nouns.

1 John 1:5-10: Conditionals and Performativity � 241

ing teachers were apparently spreading, namely, that they were living in a state free from or outside the influence of sin.38

Construal and Verbal Voice One consequence of making such a claim is represented in the phrase ἑαυτοὺς πλανῶμεν (heautous planōmen, “ourselves we deceive”). As was mentioned above, the verb πλανάω (planaō, “I deceive”) is related to the metaphors of walking in light or darkness. This verb is often used to speak about “being lost” or “wandering” and is metaphorically extended to refer to being “deceived” (not knowing where one is going). It is difficult to know where one is going and to keep from wandering aimlessly when walking in the darkness.39 Not only does the tense of the verb project an image of how the verbal action is portrayed, but the voice of the verb plays a significant role as well. John could easily have used the passive form of the verb, πλανώμεθα (planōmetha, “we are deceived”) instead of the reflexive construction found here. But a passive construction would construe a different type of verbal action. A passive verb would conceal the agent performing the verbal action (“to deceive”) and primarily profile the verbal process (see diagram 7).40

�� 38 The clause ἁμαρτίαν οὐκ ἔχομεν (hamartian ouk echomen, “we have no sin”) has been the source of rich theological debate about its possible ramifications. The stative aspect of the verb and the mass quality of the noun may contribute to successive generations of interpreters trying to clarify what John meant by this clause with more precision. For a summary of this history, see Brown, Epistles of John, 205. 39 The link between πλανάω (planaō, “I deceive”) and darkness is perhaps most clear in Jude 13 in which the false teachers are compared to “wandering (πλανῆται, planētai) stars for whom the gloom of darkness has been reserved forever” (my translation). See also Brown, Epistles of John, 206-7. 40 The circles represent the agent and patient of the verbal process, and the arrows the verbal process. The greyed-out agent in the passive diagram conveys that the agent is concealed or absent in the particular context that verb occurs in. In the active voice, the “X” represents the patient who is deceived. In the passive voice the agent is concealed and thus greyed-out in the diagram.

242 � David Parris

Active

πλανῶμεν Χ we deceive X

Passive

πλανώμεθα we are deceived

Reflexive

ἑαυτοὺς πλανῶμεν we deceive ourselves

Diagram 7: Construal of verbal voice

In an active construction the agent performs the verbal process of deception on the patient(s): “we deceive them.” By contrast, the reflexive construction profiles the agent, “we,” and the patient, “ourselves,” as one and the same as the participant. It creates a split representation of this same participant that interacts with each other in a manner similar to how an active transitive verb’s agent and participant interact.41 By fronting the reflexive pronoun before the verb (“ourselves we deceive”), this clause also takes on an emphatic note in Koine. It places the responsibility and blame for straying from the truth squarely on the shoulders of those who would make the claim not to have sin. “To deny that human nature is sinful is to actively practice self-deception.”42 Some discussion of the middle voice verb ψευδόμεθα (pseudometha, “we lie”) in the apodosis of 1:6 should be included at this point. If the passive voice conceals the agent, and the reflexive construction profiles the agent and patient as the same participant, the middle voice verb in 1:6 lacks a patient against whom we lie. During the time of the NT, some of the finer nuances of the middle voice had been lost and in many cases a verb in the middle voice could be understood as a deponent verb that conveyed an active voice in meaning.43 If this is the case, then in 1:6 it is used intransitively, “we just lie,” and the patient is concealed. Although this verb does have active voice form in Classical Greek, its twelve occurrences in the NT are all in the middle voice. Six are in the present tense and in each instance there is no patient to the verbal action of lying.44

�� 41 Ricardo Maldonado, “Grammatical Voice in Cognitive Grammar,” in The Oxford Handbook of Cognitive Linguistics (ed. Dirk Geeraerts and Hubert Cuyckens; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 859. 42 Stephen S. Smalley, 1, 2, 3, John (WBC 51; Dallas: Word, 1984), 29. Smalley argues that the reflexive construction is more emphatic than a passive construction. 43 For a clear and concise discussion of the various uses of the middle voice in Koine Greek see Wallace, Greek Grammar, 414-30. 44 Twice this verb occurs in the present, middle, imperative form, with the patient indicated by a prepositional phrase (Col 3:9; Jas 3:14). In Acts 5:3 it occurs in the form of an aorist, middle

1 John 1:5-10: Conditionals and Performativity � 243

Therefore it is probably best to interpret ψευδόμεθα (pseudometha, “we lie”) as retaining the grammatical meaning of the middle voice reflecting an internal mental action along the lines of “we remember” or “I imagine.”45 Middle as active voice

True Middle voice

we lie to X

we lie

Diagram 8: Construal of middle voice

The self-deception practiced in 1:8 augments the line of thought that was introduced by the middle verb in v. 6, “we lie.”46 The practice of lying is now construed as deliberate self-deception by means of the more emphatic reflexive construction. In contrast to the bold claims of his antagonists, the alternative mental space construed implies that “we do not say that we do not have sin.”47 The effect of taking such a stance in the alternative space is that we admit the reality of sin in our lives.48 The corollary implied in the alternative apodosis of 1:8 of admitting the reality of sin in our lives would be that the “truth is in us.” Considering John’s propensities for polarities, such as light versus darkness, this appears to be paradoxical at first. Stated in the form of a metaphorical image, �� infinitive with an accusative object and in 5:4 as an aorist, middle indicative with a dative object. 45 Maldonado, “Grammatical Voice,” 853-63, esp. 855-56. The greyed-out circle represents that the patient is concealed in this use of the verb if it is understood to be a deponent verb. The circular arrow in the middle voice diagram represents the idea that the middle voice construes verbal actions that focus on the agent’s own sphere and is not extended toward patient. 46 A similar, but weaker, argument could be made for the intransitive use of the middle voice. Since there is no object to the verb, it is ambiguous as to who is being affected by the verbal process. This ambiguity is clarified in 1:8. 47 I have presented this idea with the double negative, which, although it is not appropriate in English, is grammatically acceptable in Koine Greek. 48 “The conditional construction exists precisely to set up a relationship between a conditional mental space and a proposition which applies specifically within that space, so subordination of the apodosis content to the protasis space is part of the deal” (Eve Sweetser, “Mental Spaces and the Grammar of Conditionals,” in Spaces, Worlds, and Grammar [ed. Gilles Fauconnier and Eve Sweetser; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996], 319).

244 � David Parris the central thesis of this passage affirms that “God is light” (1:5) and by inference is “God is truth.” However, that same line of inferencing does not map to John’s view of the human condition. The truth of the human condition involves the recognition that there is darkness in our lives (1:8-9) and we only come to know the truth through the light of the incarnation of God’s son (1:1-5). The truth (light) is in us when we admit the reality of sin (darkness) in our lives. Thus, to admit our sin involves an appropriate assessment of both our condition and the incarnation of God’s son. The grammatical structure and language employed in 1:8 is similar to that in 1:6, but its illocutionary force is stronger than its predecessor. In v. 6, the author attempted to persuade his readers to reject the contradictory claim to have fellowship with God while living in darkness. By contrast, 1:8 assumes the force of a warning or exhortation. The negative epistemic stance he takes toward the claim “we have no sin” and the delusional consequences of such a stance function as a warning to reject that line of thought. As we saw in the relationship between vv. 6-7, the alternate mental space in v. 8 prepares the reader for the concept of “confessing our sins” in the protasis of 1:9.

1 John 1:9 Verse 9 builds on the implicit admonition to admit “we have sin,” introduced in the alternative mental space of v. 8.49 As in v. 7, the author reverts to a positive epistemic stance in v. 9. This conditional opens with the present tense ἐὰν ὁμολογῶμεν (ean homologōmen, “if we confess”) that stands in contrast to the aorist εἴπωμεν (eipōmen, “we said”) in the protases of 1:6, 8. The lexical content of ὁμολογέω (homologeō, “confess”) is quite different from the generic λέγω (legō, “say”) that John employs to convey negative connotations in this epistle. In contrast to merely “saying” something ὁμολογῶμεν (homologōmen, “we confess”) conveys the idea of making a public confession or profession. As such, it is more specific and lexically foregrounded.50 There is also a shift in how the noun ἁμαρτία (hamartia, “sin”) is used. Whereas the anarthrous construction in 1:8 (“we have no sin”) conveyed a denial of sin as an abstract concept, in 1:9 the articular construction is utilized. As a result, the same noun is now construed as �� 49 Bultmann, Johannine Epistles, 21. 50 The lexical content of words in the same semantic domain can often be viewed as standing along a scale with its poles being broad, highly schematic concepts to very specific references. In this instance “I say” is the more schematic, generic term, while “I confess” is more specific. See Langacker, Cognitive Grammar, 19.

1 John 1:5-10: Conditionals and Performativity � 245

a count rather than mass noun as in 1:8. The confession of our “sins” is not an admission of a sinful condition but rather of particular transgressions. “The use of the plural, ‘sins’ (τὰς ἁμαρτίας), probably indicates that the confession of particular acts of sin is meant in context, rather than the acknowledgement of ‘sin’ in general.”51 The clausal structure in this sentence requires special attention. The protasis is fairly straightforward, as we saw in the previous paragraph. However, the apodosis is more complex and consists of two clauses. First, the clause πιστός ἐστιν καὶ δίκαιος (pistos estin kai dikaios, “he is faithful and just”) posits something about the state or nature of God and appears to be an epexegetical interjection that is not conceptually related to the content of the protasis or apodosis. If this clause were omitted from the apodosis, a clear cause-and-effect relationship between the protasis and the apodosis can be perceived: “If we confess our sins … he will forgive our sins and cleanse us.” If this clause were omitted we would miss how this conditional is linked to the central metaphorical schema in 1:5. Although John wants his audience to adopt the correct posture regarding their sin, it is essential that they take this posture in relation to an appropriate perspective on God’s nature, that “God is light and in him there is no darkness.” We have still not resolved the question of how “he is faithful and righteous” is related to the rest of 1:9. Speech Act theory provides some insight to this question. Consider how a salesperson might greet you when you enter a store, “If you need help, my name is Dave.”52 The apodosis (“my name is Dave”) is not connected to the protasis (“if you need help”) by means of a cause-and-effect relationship. Rather it is a speech act. This salesperson offers his name whether help is needed or not. The discourse takes place in a context in which a shopper may need assistance and the salesperson uses this context as the discursive space to introduce himself. He “asserts the ‘apodosis’ (or rather, engages in the speech act it represents) and contextualizes it within the protasis, which is an evoked and shared context.”53 In contrast to the previous three conditionals (1:6-8) that set up alternate mental spaces, a speech-act conditional does not set up an alternate space; it is a non-predictive conditional. The salesperson’s name does not change if the shopper needs help or not. There is no alternative mental space constructed

�� 51 Smalley, 1, 2, 3, John, 31. 52 This example is taken, mutatis muntandis, from Dancygier and Sweetser, Mental Spaces in Grammar, 110. 53 Ibid., 113.

246 � David Parris about the salesperson’s name, for example, “If you don’t need help, my name is not Dave.” In a similar manner, God’s nature is “faithful and just” whether we confess our sins or not. In v. 9 God’s character is affirmed within the context of our need for confession that is evoked in the mental space construed by the protasis. As such, the affirmation of God’s character is contextualized within a mental space of our need for confession and is put forward in a manner that invites us to call on him and confess the sins we have committed, just as the salesperson “offers his or her name as a means of summoning assistance and purports to do so on condition of assistance being needed.”54 However, unlike the conditional speech act “If you need help, my name is Dave,” v. 9 contains a third clause that creates a more complex line of inferencing. The final clause “to forgive and cleanse us” seems to raise the possibility that an alternate mental space is pictured in this conditional.55 This alternate space would project the possibility that “if we do not confess…we are not forgiven or cleansed.”56 Given the reasoning in 1:6, 8, 10, this must be taken as a real possibility for an alternate space for this verse. This then raises questions about whether the assertion about God’s character should be considered part of the alternate space. On the one hand, God’s character is affirmed in v. 9 whether we confess our sin or not. On the other hand, it seems rather implausible that the alternate last clause “we are not forgiven or cleansed” could be tied to the affirmation of God’s character in this context. Given this, it seems that the performative affirmation of God’s character is not projected in the alternate performative mental space.

Diagram 9: 1 John 1:9

�� 54 Ibid., 114. 55 This is in contrast to a speech-act conditional like “if you need help, my name is Dave,” which does not construct an alternate mental space (ibid., 110). 56 See the alternate space in Diagram 6.

1 John 1:5-10: Conditionals and Performativity � 247

Grammatically, the relationship between God’s nature and our forgiveness in the apodosis is difficult to perceive. The clause “to forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness” is introduced by the conjunction ἵνα (hina, “that, so that, in order that”). Traditionally, this conjunction is understood to introduce a subordinate purpose clause and less frequently a result clause.57 The problem is that both result and purpose clauses express the goal, aim, or result of an action expressed in the clause it is subordinate to. However, “God is faithful and righteous” does not construe an action but rather a state or quality about God and as such it is difficult to perceive how a purpose or result flows from this.58 The relationship between the two clauses in the apodosis appears to invoke a different set of inferential connections. Like the particle ὅτι (hoti, “that”) the Greek conjunction ἵνα (hina, “that, so that, in order that”) serves as a marker that alerts the reader that the speaker is about to give a representation of thought. In contrast to ὅτι (hoti, “that”) clauses that apprise the reader that the author is giving a representation of a real or probable line of thought, ἵνα (hina, “that, so that, in order that”) alerts the reader to a “potential or desirable state of affairs from the perspective of the writer or subject.”59 The particle ἵνα (hina, “that, so that, in order that”) alerts the reader to the potential and the desirable implications of what the affirmation “he is faithful and just” implies. “In this example it is clear that God’s faithfulness and justice are not in place for the purpose of forgiveness and cleansing from sin, but that the latter are possible because of such attributes of God.”60 Each of the clauses in v. 9 are nested within the clause that precedes them (see diagram 9). The speech act assertion of God’s character is embedded in the protasis and the ἵνα (hina, “that, so that, in order that”) clause, “to forgive and cleanse us” is embedded within the clause about God’s nature.61 In this way the final clause is inferentially related to the protasis, “if we confess,” but is gram-

�� 57 For an excellent survey of how classical and New Testament grammarians have understood the ἵνα (hina, “that, so that, in order that”) conjunction see: Sim, Marking Thought, 4-15. 58 A survey of English translations of 1 John 1:9 reveals that most of the modern versions do not render this conjunction as “in order that” or expressing purpose. See Sim, Marking Thought, 130. 59 Ibid., 172. 60 Ibid., 129. 61 Martin M. Culy, I, II, III John: A Handbook on the Greek Text (Waco, Tex.: Baylor University Press, 2004), 19.

248 � David Parris matically and sequentially separated from the protasis by the illocutionary assertion of God’s character.62

Diagram 10: 1 John 1:9

The same inferencing configuration is not found in the alternative space (see diagram 9). On the one hand, the illocutionary affirmation of God’s nature does not change whether we confess our sins or not. Just as in the example of the salesperson (where only one mental space was projected) his name does not change whether the shopper needs help or not, the same is true here in that God’s nature does not change based on our confessions. On the other hand, the triple-clause structure of 1:9 is more complex than that of the salesperson example. The inferential relationship between the first and last clauses form the ground for an alternative mental space to be projected, “If we don’t confess our sins … we are not forgiven and cleansed” (see diagram 9). If someone enacted the logic of the alternate space, it would place them in a position of denying what God says about our state as fallen beings and rejecting the offer of his help to address our fallen state. As a result, the affirmation of “he is faithful and just” would be infelicitous based on their stance. The perlocutionary effect of taking such a stance would be to deny the affirmation of God’s nature and in this way the alternative space prepares the reader for the next verse.

�� 62 I have attempted to illustrate this in diagram 6. The solid line arrows in the neutral space indicate the grammatical and sequential relationship between the clauses. The dotted line arrows represent the inferential connection between the first and final clauses.

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1 John 1:10 The final verse under consideration opens with the identical construction, ἐὰν εἴπωμεν (ean eipōmen, “if we said”) found in 1:6, 8. The repetition of this structure predisposes readers to assume a negative stance concerning the neutral space projected by this conditional before they even reach the third word. Just as we saw in previous instances, the morphology of the verb plays a significant role in how we interpret this sentence. First, as opposed to the present tense form of ἔχομεν (echomen, “we have”) in 1:8, which construed a state of having no sin, the verb in the ὅτι (hoti, “that”) clause in 1:10 is a perfect tense form. Second, the particular verb that is brought into play is derived from the same root ἁμαρτ- (hamart-, “sin”) that is used as a noun in vv. 7-9. In this final conditional the concept of sin is now construed as a verbal process. The perfect tense of ἁμαρτάνω (hamartanō, “to sin”) conveys an imperfective verbal process and construes an internal viewpoint of the verbal process (watching the parade from the side of the street) similar to the present tense.63 Although the present and perfect tense forms may construe an imperfective verbal process there are differences between these two tenses. Constantine Campbell claims that one of the semantic differences between the present and perfect tense forms in Koine Greek is that the perfect tense also encodes a heightened proximity between the viewer and verbal process.64 If the present tense communicates an imperfective aspect, in a manner analogous to someone watching a parade from the side of the street, the perfect verb tense conveys the same imperfective viewpoint but intensifies it in a manner comparable to a spectator walking off the sidewalk and into the street to gain a closer look at the parade.65 The verbal process of the perfect ἡμαρτήκαμεν (hēmartēkamen, “are sinning”) establishes a perspective on the verbal process that is more intimate and intense for the reader than a present tense verb conveys. Add to this the fact that the perfect tense is one of the more highly morphologically marked verb forms in Greek and we find that the protasis in 1:10 is highly emphatic.66

�� 63 Constantine R. Campbell, Verbal Aspect, the Indicative Mood, and Narrative: Soundings in the Greek of the New Testament (New York: Peter Lang, 2007), 184-88. One must take care to differentiate between the name given for the “perfect” tense and what linguists refer to as a “perfective” or “imperfective” verbal aspect. 64 Constantine R. Campbell, Basics of Verbal Aspect in Biblical Greek (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2008), 104. 65 Campbell, Verbal Aspect, 196-99. 66 Porter, Idioms, 23, 303.

250 � David Parris This emphasis continues in the apodosis, ψεύστην ποιοῦμεν αὐτόν (pseustēn poioumen auton, “we make him a liar”). The deceptive practices of “we lie” (1:6) and “deceiving ourselves” (1:8) has now been replaced with the much stronger “make him a liar.” “It is one thing to deceive oneself, it is far more serious to make a liar out of God.”67 This clause stands as a complete negation of the metaphorical schema in 1:5, that “God is light and in him there is no darkness.” The performative effect if someone were to utter the claim in the protasis in v. 10 would entail the transferal of God from one domain to its polar opposite. As such, the entire image portrayed in this conditional would have been profoundly shocking to John’s audience; it would have been an anathema. To his opponents, the perlocutionary force of this conditional would most likely have caused them to pause and reconsider their position: “If I make this claim then I would in effect be calling God a liar.” By claiming that they do not sin they scandalize God’s character. The final clause, “his word is not in us” forms an inclusio to this passage by returning us to the “message we have heard from him” that John communicated in 1:5. It also reiterates “the truth is not in us” from v. 8. But the idea of “his word” is more personal than the abstract “truth” from 1:8. It is God’s word of which we are now bereft. The alternative mental space to this conditional is fairly straightforward, “If we admit that we sin, we do not make him a liar and his word in within us,” or perhaps “If we admit that we sin, we validate God as true and his word is in us.” By following the alternate space we do not perform the scandalous speech act entailed in the claim “that we are not sinning” found in the protasis. The negative epistemic stance John takes toward this conditional, its highly emphatic nature, and the startling nature of the illocution in the protasis, “make him a liar,” serves as a strong warning to abandon any line of reasoning remotely resembling this conditional. As a result, the scene put forward in the mental space of this final conditional creates such a dramatic impact that it serves as a strong conclusion to his argument in this section.

Summary Cognitive theory provides a different set of interpretive tools and questions than traditional approaches (that focus on grammatical form, temporal reference, or

�� 67 Brown, Epistles of John, 212.

1 John 1:5-10: Conditionals and Performativity � 251

whether it is particular or generic in nature) to conditional constructions. The concept of mental spaces helps us to grasp how small, localized packets of thought are projected in a conditional’s neutral and alternate spaces. These mental spaces are interconnected with each other in 1 John 1:5-10 and they dynamically shift as we negotiate our way through the discourse. The shape of these mental spaces is related to the grammatical, lexical, and metaphorical elements within their respective sentences. The five conditionals in 1 John 1 perform a wide range of rhetorical tasks. They allow us to project and play out the different possible lines of theological reasoning in ways that exhortations can not. The implicit construction of alternate mental spaces in these “if” sentences allow the reader not just to think through the logic and propositional content of the argument; by placing a mental space against its alternate, the reader can play out the possibilities of taking that line of thought and its implications. There is a progression in the author’s argument. The conditional in v. 6 allows the reader to think through the incongruity of the claim to have “fellowship with God” and practice “walking in darkness.” By the time we reach v. 10, John’s argument has reached a crescendo: “if we say we do not sin we make him a liar.” To adhere to the claim in the protasis would entail performing the unthinkable to John and his readers. Interspersed between the three negative conditionals (1:6, 8, 10) are two positive conditionals. In a manner similar to the negative conditionals, there is a progression in the force of these sentences as well. The illocutionary affirmation in v. 9, “he is faithful and just,” not only asserts God’s nature but also functions as an invitation for us to confess our sins and experience the cathartic assistance he offers. The way that these conditionals are framed grammatically, lexically, and metaphorically not only allows the reader to know which turns the author identifies with as they navigate through this series of conditionals, but also influences which route the reader should follow. It is this cognitive selfinvolvement in the five conditionals that lend them their force to shape how we perceive our faith and relationship with God.

252 � David Parris

José Sanders

Translating “Thinking” and “Believing” in the Bible How Cognitive Linguistic Analysis Shows Increasing Subjectivity in Translations1 This cognitive linguistic analysis of biblical translations offers clarification of the ways in which language users understand discourse coherence as expressed by the biblical narrator. More specifically, it shows how the use of causal connectives expresses a growing degree of subjectification of the biblical narrator and characters between old and new translations.2 Those parts of texts in which the text’s conceptualizing subject is implicitly involved in the conceptualization of the on-stage content can be qualified as subjective.3 In narrative discourse, subjectification entails the foregrounding of both narrator and characters as conceptualizing subjects, that is, both the narrator (Speaker; S) and the characters (Embedded Speakers; SE). Such on-stage conceptualization can be established by a variety of linguistic means that express the temporal, spatial, attitudinal/epistemical, and social (discourse) position of the speaker.4 There are several indications that the use of such linguistic means has increased and that individual linguistic forms such as connectives and modals show a development of subjectification and even intersubjectification over time.5 For instance, by using connectives the Speaker signals more precisely how she or he interprets the discourse relation than in

�� 1 A previous version of this study was presented to the Cognitive Linguistics in Biblical Interpretation section at the Annual Meeting of the Society for Biblical Literature in Boston, November 2008. The study was supported by travel funding on behalf of the VU University Amsterdam, Faculty of Arts. I thank Hendrik Jan Bosman for his advice on aspects of Hebrew. 2 José Sanders, “Causal Connectives in Dutch Biblical Translations,” in Causal Categories in Discourse and Cognition (ed. Ted Sanders and Eve Sweetser; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2009). 3 Ronald Langacker, “Subjectification,” Cognitive Linguistics 1 (1990): 5-38. 4 Elizabeth C. Traugott and Richard P. Dasher, Regularity in Semantic Change (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 23. 5 Langacker, “Subjectification”; Eve Sweetser, From Etymology to Pragmatics: Metaphorical and Cultural Aspects of Semantic Structure (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990); Arie Verhagen, Constructions of Intersubjectivity: Discourse, Syntax and Cognition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005); Traugott and Dasher, Regularity.

254 � José Sanders translations from earlier centuries.6 As such, these developments involve higher levels of Speaker subjectivity in the semantics of the relevant connectives. In an earlier, small-scale, diachronic corpus analysis of Dutch biblical translations,7 it was found that new translations of Hebrew Bible narratives show more linguistic signs of subjectification, in that the speaker/biblical narrator chooses: – more strongly interpreting (causal) connectives, such as DUS (so) and OMDAT (because) in stead of EN (and) and WANT (for), – more modal expressions, such as KUNNEN (can) and MOGEN (may), and – more specific or semantically rich verbs of speech and thought, such as SMEKEN (to beg) or DENKEN (think) in stead of ZEGGEN (say). In this essay, I first investigate whether the diachronic tendency toward subjectification of speaker and characters in Dutch and English biblical translations could be generalized to the Bible as a whole. In this corpus analysis, causal connectives are taken into account as well as expressions of cognitive activity, such as THINK and BELIEVE. In addition, five causal8 fragments taken from Hebrew Bible and New Testament Gospel narratives are studied in detail. In the analysis, the roots9 of particles and verbs used in the source language are taken into account. For each fragment, a comparative analysis is made of the representation of old and new translations. Analysis using the Basic Communicative Spaces Network model clarifies how subjectification in new translations is established. This is an integrative model rooted in Mental Space Theory.10

�� 6 J. Evers-Vermeul and N. Stukker, “Subjectificatie in de ontwikkeling van causale connectieven? De diachronie van daarom, dus, want en omdat [Subjectification in the Development of Causal Connectives? The Diachronics of daarom, dus, want and omdat],” Gramma TTT 9, nos. 2-3 (2003): 111-40. 7 José Sanders, “Causal Connectives in Dutch Biblical Translations,” 61-90. 8 All selected fragments have a causal connective in at least one of the four translations involved: SV, NBV, KJV, and CEV. 9 The roots for Hebrew and Aramaic are vocalized as pi’el and hif’il “stems.” 10 Ted Sanders, José Sanders, and Eve Sweetser, “Causality, Cognition and Communication: A Mental Space Analysis of Subjectivity in Causal Connectives,” in Causal Categories in Discourse and Cognition (ed. Ted Sanders and Eve Sweetser; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2009), 21-60; José Sanders, Ted Sanders, and Eve Sweetser, “Responsible Subjects and Discourse Causality: How Mental Spaces and Connectives Help Identifying Subjectivity in Dutch Backward Causal Connectives,” Journal of Pragmatics 44 (2012), 191–213.

Translating “Thinking” and “Believing” in the Bible � 255

Causal Connectives In the present study, a quantitative analysis is conducted on the full biblical corpus with respect to causal connectives as well as verbs of cognition. The corpus analysis compares the Dutch Statenvertaling (SV) from 1637 and the English King James Version (KJV) from 1611, on the one hand, with the Dutch Nieuwe Bijbelvertaling (NBV) from 2004 and English Contemporary English Version (CEV) from 1999, on the other. Using an automatic word count,11 the frequencies of Dutch connectives EN(DE), WANT, DUS, and OMDAT12 were found for the full biblical corpus; for reference, they are compared to their English equivalents in Table 1.

En(de) / and Want / for Dus / so Omdat / because

Old Translations Dutch SV English KJV 46,677 60,437 4,260 10,926 11 2,294 618 1,379

New Translations Dutch NBV English CEV 29,441 30,457 2,097 5,049 456 3,276 889 1,742

Table 1: Dutch Connectives en(de), want, dus, and omdat and Their English Equivalents in Old and New Biblical Translations (Absolutes)

It appears that the use of the causal connectives Dutch OMDAT and English BEhave increased by 43% and 26%, respectively, while the use of EN(DE) (and) and WANT (for) have decreased by 37% and 50%, respectively. A vast increase is seen with the Dutch epistemic DUS (so, thus13). The following fragment exemplifies how WANT is replaced by OMDAT and FOR by BECAUSE. CAUSE

�� 11 The Jongbloed-edition was used because it counts all cases of OMDAT, including those that are spelled separately in the SV 1673 as OM DAT. Statenvertaling (Jongbloed-editie; United Bible Societies, NL versie). Online: http://www.biblija.net/biblija.cgi?l=nl. 12 The Dutch connective DEWIJL, now obsolete, is also used to translate the Hebrew particle ‫ִכּי‬ (ki); its frequency in SV (280) is not such that it alters the results. In KJV, these cases are translated by either for or because. Even less frequent (42 cases in SV) is OVERMITS (KJV: because), used in SV to translate ‫( ִכּי‬ki) and other particles as well as relative pronouns. 13 The English equivalent for Dutch DUS, so or thus, are not only used as connective but also as modal auxiliary in the meaning of in this manner. In Dutch, the word ALDUS is used in this sense. The frequency of ALDUS in SV is 64.

256 � José Sanders

Fragment 1 – Gen 21:16 SV En zij ging en zette zich tegenover, afgaande zo verre, als die met den boog schieten; want zij zeide: Dat ik het kind niet zie sterven; en zij zat tegenover, en hief haar stem op, en weende. “And she went and sat herself opposite, going so far, as those who shoot with the bow; for she said: That I do not see the child die; and she sat opposite, and raised her voice, and wept.”

KJV And she went, and sat her down over against him a good way off, as it were a bowshot: for she said, Let me not see the death of the child. And she sat over against him, and lift up her voice, and wept.

NBV Zelf ging ze een eindje verderop zitten, op een boogschot afstand, omdat ze niet kon aanzien hoe haar kind stierf. En terwijl ze daar zo zat, huilde ze bittere tranen. “She herself sat down a little further away, at a bowshot’s distance, because she could not bear to see how her child died. And while she was sitting there like that, she cried bitter tears.”

CEV Then she sat down a long way off, because she could not bear to watch him die. And she cried bitterly.

The Dutch (causal) connectives EN (and) and WANT (for), OMDAT (because) and DUS (so) express interpretation on the speaker’s part, but each in their own way. A Mental Space analysis of the causal relations by the various connectives may help us to understand the difference between the way causality is construed in the translators’ choices. The Basic Communicative Spaces Network offers a model to determine which spaces are involved in this construal.14 In their out�� 14 For the theoretical account and basic principles of the Basic Communicative Spaces Network (BCSN) the reader is referred to Sanders, Sanders, and Sweetser, “Causality, Cognition and Communication.” The BCSN starts its analysis from the Deictic Center of Communication, where Speaker and Addressee are actually present and communicate with each other. The literal utterance under analysis is always represented in the speech act space, because this is what S has literally said to A. Therefore, P and Q are also represented in the speech act space. As for interpretation, P’, Q’ are the corresponding representations in other spaces. When the relation is to be interpreted in other domains than the speech act one only, the diagram shows this, starting from the speech act space. A Subject of Consciousness (SoC) is either represented implicitly by S=SoC (when the speaker is the SoC) or by a variable x=SoC, which is then in turn specified: x = Jan. Implicit SoC (Speaker) is represented at the right side of the diagram, explicit SoC (narrative character) on the left side. The lines in the diagrams denote identity correspondences. Dotted lines are used for the relations P, Q and their counterparts, and separated lines for the relations between Speaker or X, Y and their counterparts. Space building is indicated by plain lines with an arrow.

Translating “Thinking” and “Believing” in the Bible � 257

line, Sanders, Sanders, and Sweetser specifically analyze Dutch forward causal connectives DAARDOOR (as a result), DAAROM (therefore), and DUS (so). Here, we want to extend this analysis to additive (EN/and) and backward causal connectives (WANT/for) in order to be able to compare the various translations. In the example from Gen 21:16, the NBV translation adds the backward causal connective OMDAT (because) which, just like its forward equivalent DAAROM, expresses volitionality: the intentional causal connection between an action and its preceding state of affairs by a Subject of Consciousness (SoC) in the text. In the source, the causality in this verse is indicated by ‫( ִכּי‬ki), a primitive particle (the full form of the prepositional prefix) indicating causal relations of all kinds, antecedent or consequent.15 In the older translations, the translation of WANT for signals that the causal relation is construed in the speech act domain. In other words, neither the female character (Hagar) nor the Speaker as SoC is responsible for the causal relation, but the here-and-now Speaker. One could paraphrase the causal combination of p (she went and sat her down …) WANT for q (she said: “x”) as: >. A BCSN-representation of the old SV translation is presented in Figure 1.

�� 15 Translations of Hebrew and Greek roots in this paper are obtained from Interlinear Scripture Analyser 2.0 basic: Online: http://www.scripture4all.org.

258 � José Sanders

Figure 1: BCSN representation Gen 21: 16, SV translation speech act WANT

Translating “Thinking” and “Believing” in the Bible � 259

Note that the direct speech by the character is represented in an embedded space which is accessed by the verb “zeide” (said). The content of this embedded direct speech space is a new basic speech act space, connected to the Embedded Speaker (SE)=character, Hagar. In contents of this space are therefore not primed; they are in their base, and get primes in the Speaker’s speech act space.16 In both of the newer translations, several things change. In the first place, WANT (for) is replaced by OMDAT (because). This connective signals that the causal relation is construed in the volitional content space connected to Hagar=SoC. Furthermore, an epistemic space connected to this SoC is opened by a modal verb “kon” (could [not]), and filled with inner emotions by the use of a semantically richer verb of seeing “aanzien” (bear to see) and by a subjective qualification of the tears “bittere” (bitterly). The direct speech by the woman, “Dat ik het kind niet zie sterven” (CEV: Let me not see the death of the child), is in both cases replaced by these inner emotions, represented in the SoC’s epistemic space, which is blended with the Speaker’s epistemic space: Speaker knows what goes on in SoC’s mind. A BCSN-representation is presented in Figure 2 (see page 260). In the example of Gen 21:16, the newer translations represent more of the character’s inner mind, which can be represented by an epistemic space connected to the character=SoC. By the choice of causal connective, readers can be instructed to develop epistemic spaces connected to the character=SoC as well as character specific reasoning content in these spaces.17 This is true not only for human characters, but also for the divine characters Jesus and YHWH. An example is given in the following fragment figuring Jesus in Mark’s Gospel.

�� 16 José Sanders and Gisela Redeker, “Perspective and the Representation of Speech and Thought in Narrative Discourse,” in Spaces, Worlds, and Grammar (ed. Gilles Fauconnier and Eve Sweetser; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 290-317 (specifically p. 297). 17 Sanders and Redeker, “Perspective.”

260 � José Sanders

Figure 2: BCSN representation Gen 21: 14, NBV translation Content volitional OMDAT

Translating “Thinking” and “Believing” in the Bible � 261

Fragment 2: Mark 2:8 SV En Jezus, terstond in Zijn geest bekennende, dat zij alzo in zichzelven overdachten, zeide tot hen: Wat overdenkt gij deze dingen in uw harten? >

KJV And immediately when Jesus perceived in his spirit that they so reasoned within themselves, he said unto them, Why reason ye these things in your hearts?

NBV Jezus had meteen door wat ze dachten en dus zei hij: ‘Waarom denkt u zoiets?

CEV Right away, Jesus knew what they were thinking, and he said, “Why are you thinking such things?

This fragment of Mark 2:8 exemplifies how translations represent thinking, knowing, and perceiving by having the characters use factive linguistic verbs such as BEKENNEN18 or WETEN (know). The SV translates: “he, acknowledging in his mind that X….” The verb form participium praesens is used in a reduced clause19 expressing the simultaneity of Jesus’ acknowledging and his saying. Thus, a temporal and implicitly causal relation is expressed; it is construed in the content volitional domain. The additive/sequential EN (and) connects Jesus’ sayings to the previous events (what they were thinking). Factive verbs such as BEKENNEN give access to SoC’s epistemic space, but the content of this space is percolated to the reality of the content space. In other words, the factive quality of KNOW does not facilitate blending between the Speaker’s and characters’ epistemic spaces. A BCSN representation is given in Figure 3. The temporal/implicitly causal relation is represented in the narrative content volitional space, connected to Jesus=SoC.

�� 18 Dutch BEKENNEN archaic for ERKENNEN, TOEGEVEN = English TO ACKNOWLEDGE, ADMIT. Van Dale Woordenboek. Online: http://www.vandale.nl/vandale/opzoeken/woordenboek/?zoekwoord= bekennen. 19 W. Haeseryn, K. Romijn, G. Geerts, J. de Rooij, and M.C. van den Toorn, Algemene Nederlandse Spraakkunst (2nd ed.; Groningen: Martinus Nijhoff Uitgevers; Deurne: Wolters Plantyn, 1997), 451, 788.

262 � José Sanders

Figure 3: BCSN representation Mark 2: 8, SV translation EN Additive / sequential

The NBV translation, by contrast, uses the embedding construction “he saw through right away what they thought and DUS he said….” The combination of “thought/saw that X” and preceding or subsequent actions with the subjective

Translating “Thinking” and “Believing” in the Bible � 263

connective DUS (so) not only indicates what Jesus was aware of, but gives the reader insight into the immediate internal mental processes of Jesus (SoC) while he is deciding what to say. It seems like a monologue interieure. The reader gets involved in a here-and-now moment of decision-making, represented in the past. Again, Mental Spaces Theory can be used to analyze this insight. The BCSN-configuration in Figure 4 shows that dus in NBV enables an epistemic interpretation (after all, dus is the prototypical marker of such relations20), in which the Speaker/SoC concludes that Jesus must have been aware of what they were thinking and that this knowledge must have been the reason to say what he subsequently said. A blending of the mental space of the two SoC’s takes place: we are interpreting the epistemic domain of the SoC=X (Jesus) as the epistemic domain of the Speaker.

�� 20 Sanders, Sanders, and Sweetser, “Causality, Cognition and Communication.”

264 � José Sanders

Figure 4: BCSN representation of Mark 2: 8, NVB translation. Blended epistemic spaces

Translating “Thinking” and “Believing” in the Bible � 265

Cognitive Verbs In the old translations of the previous example, Mark 2:8, it is reported that there is cognitive activity: Jesus knows (BEKENNENDE), and the other characters are thus reasoning within themselves (ALZO IN ZICHZELVEN OVERDACHTEN), referring to the characters’ directly quoted reasoning in the previous verse. The roots in the Greek source are, respectively, ἐπιγινώσκω (epignôsko, “to recognize”) and διαλογίζομαι (dialogizomai, “to reckon thoroughly”; in the genitive, “to deliberate”). In the NBV translation, these cognitive activities are, respectively, translated by the embedding construction “had meteen door wat ze dachten” (immediately knew [literally, had thought] what they were thinking), attributed to Jesus. New aspects are notable here. In the first place, the what-clause indicates access to Jesus’ epistemic space, more so than the factive verb/that-clause in the old translations (“bekennende, dat zij also in zichzelven overdachten,” that they so reasoned in themselves). The what-clause refers to what is previously stated about their thoughts but implies more knowledge of unmentioned thoughts as well. The that-clause solely refers to the previously mentioned thoughts and merely confirms that Jesus knows what has already been said. In the second place, the verb referring to “they” in the newer translations is less specific about their type of cognitive activity: “also in zichzelven overdachten” (so reasoned in themselves) is more precise on the type of cognitive action, and as such is closer to the Greek διαλογίζομαι (dialogizomai). The new translations compress this cognitive activity to “dachten” (were thinking). This is a more general phenomenon: thinking as lexical signal for character’s cognitive activity is more frequent in the newer translations. Data from the whole biblical corpus show that narrative attributions of “saying,” “thinking,” and “knowing” to third-person characters are differently distributed in new translations than in old ones. Table 2 presents an overview of the frequencies.

Zei(de)(n) /said (Ge)dacht(e)(n)/thought Wist(en)/knew

Old translations Dutch SV English KJV 3,986 4,402 94 130 57 201

New translations Dutch NBV English CEV 2,804 2,636 123 149 157 191

Table 2: Dutch Cognitive Verbal Expressions ZEIDE(N), DACHT(EN) and WIST(EN) and Their English Equivalents in Old and New Biblical Translations (Absolutes)

Whereas the frequency of ZEI(DE)(N) (said) has decreased by 30% (Dutch) and 40% (English), DACHT(EN) (thought) has increased by 30% (Dutch) and 15% (Eng-

266 � José Sanders lish). WIST(EN) (knew) is far more frequent in the new Dutch translation (increase of almost 200%) but, remarkably, 5% less frequent in the new English translation. In the next causal fragment, taken from Exod 2:25, we find another example of the translation of cognitive activity. Here, YHWH is the cognitive agent. “God (…) dacht aan het verbond (…)” (thought of).

Fragment 3: Exodus 2:24-25 SV En God hoorde hun klacht en God gedacht aan zijn verbond met Abraham, Isaak en Jakob. Zo zag God de Israëlieten aan en God had bemoeienis met hen. >

KJV And God heard their groaning, and God remembered his covenant with Abraham, with Isaac, and with Jacob. And God looked upon the children of Israel, and God had respect unto them.

NBV God hoorde hun jammerkreten en dacht aan het verbond dat hij met Abraham, Isaak en Jakob had gesloten. Hij zag hoe de Israëlieten leden en trok zich hun lot aan.>

CEV and God heard their loud cries. He did not forget the promise he had made to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and because he knew what was happening to his people, he felt sorry for them.

The old translations follow the source, which uses ‫( וַ יִּ זְ כֹּר‬wayyizkor) from the root ‫( זָ ַכר‬zakar), which means “to remember” (root meaning: “to mark [so as to be recognized]”). In this fragment, the NBV translation uses “dacht” (thought). Note that the CEV translates more closely to the source here – “did not forget”; but then adds a causal connective: “He did not forget the promise he had made to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and because he knew what was happening to his people, he felt sorry for them.” As in the example of Mark 2:8, the content of consciousness is uncovered by the what-clause.21

�� 21 The causal connective BECAUSE instructs the representation of a content-volitional subspace connected to the character God; no blending is needed here to construe the causal relation. See Sanders, Sanders, Sweetser, “Causality, Cognition and Communication.”

Translating “Thinking” and “Believing” in the Bible � 267

Representation of Cognitive Activity by THINK In fragments 2 and 3, the new Dutch translation NBV shows a compression of specific cognitive activity – reasoning in oneself and remembering, respectively – to DENKEN think. A closer look at the ways in which DENKEN (think) is used in the Dutch translations may reveal whether this is a more general phenomenon. In the old translation SV there are 94 verses in which the translator uses the thirdperson verb “(ge)dacht(e)(en)” (thought). When comparing these translated words with their source, it appears that they translate a total of six different Hebrew terms and two Greek terms: – Hebrew: ‫( זָ ַכר‬zakar, “to remember”) (Exod 2:24: ‫( וַ יִּ זְ כֹּר‬wayyizkor); properly, “to mark (so as to be recognized),” i.e., “to remember”; by implication, “to mention”; ִ ‫ ִדּ ִמּ‬, dimmithi); “to com– Hebrew: ‫( ִדּ ָמּה‬dimmah, “to mean”) (Num 33:56: ‫יתי‬ pare”; by implication, “to resemble, liken, consider, compare, devise, (be) like(-n), mean, think, use similitudes”; – Hebrew: ‫( זָ ַמם‬zamam, “to plan”) (Deut 19:19: ‫זָ ַמם‬, zamam); “to plan,” usually in a bad sense: “consider, devise, imagine, plot, purpose, think (evil)”; – Hebrew: ‫( ָח ַשׁב‬chashav, “to devise”) (1 Sam 18:25: ‫ ָח ַשׁב‬, chashav); properly, “to plait or interpenetrate,” i.e., (literally) “to weave” or, in the genitive, “to fabricate”; figuratively, “to plot or contrive” (usually in a malicious sense); hence (from the mental effort), “to think, regard, value, compute”; ֶ ֹ ‫וַ יּ‬, wayyo’mer); “to say”; – Hebrew: ‫( ָא ַמר‬amar, “to say”) (1 Sam 16:6: ‫אמר‬ – Aramaic: ‫ ִשׁית‬ֲ (ashith, “to reflect”) (Dan 6:4: ‫ ִשׁית‬ֲ , ashith); probably “to be sleek,” i.e., “glossy”; hence (through the idea of polishing), “to excogitate” (as if forming in the mind): “shine, think”; – Greek: ἐνθυμέομαι (enthymeomai, “to be inspirited”) (Acts 10:19: διενθυμέομαι dienthymeomai); from θυμός (thumos, passion)  “to be inspirited,” i.e., “ponder, think”; and – Greek: δοκέω (dokeō, “to seek”) (Heb 12:10: δοκοῦν, dokoun); “to think, seem, please.” All of these roots, except for ‫( זָ ַמם‬zaman, “to plan”), represent actions in the physical world that are metaphorically mapped on the cognitive domain. In the recent NBV translation, where “dacht(en)” (thought) occurs 123 times, the number of Greek roots translated by DENKEN (think) is even larger in comparison to the old SV translation. To the roots already found in the old SV, the following are added: – Greek: φημί (phêmi, “to say one’s thoughts”) (Luke 15:17: ἔφη, ephē); “to show or make known one’s thoughts,” i.e., “speak or say”: “affirm, say”;

268 � José Sanders –

Greek: λογίζομαι (logizomai, “to estimate”) (1 Cor 13:11: ἐλογιζόμην, elogizomēn); “to take an inventory,” i.e., “estimate” (literally or figuratively): “conclude, (ac-)count (of),” + “despise, esteem, impute, lay, number, reason, reckon, suppose, think (on)”; – Greek: μέλλω (mellō, “to intend”) (Heb 10:1: μελλόντων, mellontōn); “to intend,” i.e., “to be about to be, do, or suffer something”; and – Greek: φρονέω (phroneō, “to be disposed”) (Phil 4:10: φρονεῖν, phronein); “to exercise the mind,” i.e., “to entertain or have a sentiment or opinion”; by implication, “to be (mentally) disposed.” These various cognitive processes are, apparently, sufficiently captured by the more abstract category DENKEN (think). In natural semantic metalanguage theory, the mental predicate THINK is, along with five other mental predicates – KNOW, FEEL, SEE, HEAR, and WANT – considered as a universal semantic prime, i.e., an indefinable meaning which exists as the meaning of a lexical unit in all languages.22 Goddard shows that there is nevertheless considerable variety in both the semantics and the degree and mode of lexical elaboration. In the present case, it is not likely to presume that the current translations had less lexical means to express the various mental activities than did the Hebrew and Greek sources; an alternative explanation is that the latter did not (yet) have the overarching lexical expressions available for the semantic primes THINK and KNOW that Dutch, English, and other languages have available today. In any case, part of the elaborate, embodied semantics gets lost in the translations and is replaced by the abstract and purely mental semantics of THINK and KNOW. Yet another causal fragment, this one taken from the Gospel of John, exemplifies how the new Dutch NBV translation uses WETEN (know) to translate a complex utterance. Fragment 4: John 4:39 SV En velen der Samaritanen uit die stad geloofden in Hem, om het woord der vrouw, die getuigde: Hij heeft

KJV And many of the Samaritans of that city believed on him for the saying of the woman, which testified, He told me all

NBV In die stad kwamen veel Samaritanen tot geloof in hem door het getuigenis van de vrouw: ‘Hij weet alles

CEV A lot of Samaritans in that town put their faith in Jesus because the woman had said, “This man told me everything I

�� 22 C. Goddard, “Thinking across Languages and Cultures: Six Dimensions of Variation,” Cognitive Linguistics 14, nos. 2-3 (2003): 109-40.

Translating “Thinking” and “Believing” in the Bible � 269

mij gezegd alles, wat ik gedaan heb.

that ever I did.

van me.’

have ever done.”

“He said to me everything that I did” is compressed to “He knows everything about me.” Note that this utterance is at the same time more mental and more abstract, as well as implying more knowledge on Jesus’ part. Knowing “everything” of a person implies not only what this person did, but also what this person feels, thinks, and intends – past, present, and future; hence, this choice of words invites the reader to access the SoC=character’s epistemic space and through hers even (what she presumes is inside) SoC=Jesus’ epistemic space. Note that his example is also interesting because of the translation of the mental predicate BELIEVE. The Greek source has the term πιστεύω (pisteuō “to have faith” [in, upon, or with respect to, a person or thing], i.e., “to credit”; by implication, “to entrust”).

Translating BELIEVE Unlike THINK and KNOW, BELIEVE is not considered to be a semantic prime; rather, it is one possible elaboration of both THINK and KNOW. For instance, the English complement construction to believe that, which conveys commitment, conviction, and importance, is accounted for by Goddard as follows: X believes that [---] = when X thinks about it, X thinks that [---]; X thinks about it like this: I know that someone else can think not like this; I can say why I think like this; I can say why it is good if someone thinks like this.23 The question is whether the representation of the mental predicate BELIEVE has altered between old and new translations. In the example from John 9:39, the combination “geloofden in hem” (believed on him) is translated in varying ways. The NBV opts for “ kwamen tot geloof” (came to belief in him), whereas CEV translates “put their faith in Jesus.” Data from the whole biblical corpus �� 23 Goddard, “Thinking across Languages and Cultures,” 118-19.

270 � José Sanders indicate that GELOOFDE(N) (believed) – narrative attributions of “believing” to third-person characters – are less frequent in the new translations than in the old ones. Table 3 presents an overview.

Geloofde(n)/believed Vertrouwde(n)/trusted Vertrouwen+overtuiging/ faith+trust

Old translations Dutch SV English KJV 60 125 44 30 130 457

New translations Dutch NBV English CEV 28 50 452 120 387 689

Table 3: Dutch Cognitive Verbal Expressions geloofde(n), vertrouwde(n) and overtuiging and Their English Equivalents in Old and New Biblical Translations (Absolutes)

In contrast to expressions of THINK and KNOW, third-person verbal forms of BELIEVE appear to have decreased in number. When we compare the translations to the source both in Hebrew and in Greek, it appears that all cases of “geloofde(n)” believed translate one term only – in Greek, πιστεύω (pisteuô); and in Hebrew, ‫( ֶה ֱא ִמין‬he’emin, properly, “to build up or support”; “to foster as a parent or nurse”; figuratively, “to render (or be) firm or faithful, to trust or believe”). In the course of centuries, this mental predicate has developed into an existential cognitive verb in both Dutch and English. Compare the first meaning that Dutch and English modern dictionaries give with respect to GELOVEN/BELIEVE. – The verb GELOVEN/BELIEVE: – English: “to be sure that something is true or that someone is telling the truth”;24 – Dutch: “being convinced that something or somebody exists not only in imagination but in reality; being believing.”25 – The combination GELOVEN/BELIEVE IN somebody/something: – English: “to be sure that someone or something exists”; “to trust someone and be confident that they are effective, right, successful”;26 – Dutch: “to trust solidly.”27 �� 24 Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English (Pearson Longman) Online: http://pewebdic2.cw.idm.fr/ 25 Dutch: “er vast van overtuigd zijn dat iem. of iets niet alleen in de verbeelding, maar in werkelijkheid bestaat; gelovig zijn.” Van Dale Woordenboek. Online: http://www.vandale.nl/ vandale/opzoeken/woordenboek/?zoekwoord=geloven 26 Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English. Online: http://pewebdic2.cw.idm.fr/ 27 Dutch: “vast vertrouwen op.” Van Dale Woordenboek. Online: http://www.vandale.nl/ vandale/opzoeken/woordenboek/?zoekwoord=geloven

Translating “Thinking” and “Believing” in the Bible � 271

– The noun GELOOF/BELIEF: – English: “the feeling that something is definitely true or definitely exists”;28 – Dutch: “trust in the truth of something”; “solid and unshakable faith in God and God’s word.”29 In all cases, except for the Dutch combination GELOVEN IN, the first meaning is factive in that it connects the subject of the verb or noun to the existence and truth of the object. Going back to the examples from John 4:39, we can now point out differences in meaning. Readers today may interpret the SV translation “En velen der Samaritanen uit die stad geloofden in Hem” as And many of the Samaritans in the town trusted Him solidly, whereas readers of NBV may interpret “In die stad kwamen veel Samaritanen tot geloof in hem” as In that town many Samaritans came to trust in the truth of Him. Likewise, differences in the translation of BELIEVE are found in fragment 5, taken from Exod 4:31.

Fragment 5: Exodus 4:31 SV En het volk geloofde, en zij hoorden, dat de HEERE de kinderen Israëls bezocht, en dat Hij hun verdrukking zag, en zij neigden hun hoofden, en aanbaden.

KJV And the people believed: and when they heard that the LORD had visited the children of Israel, and that he had looked upon their affliction, then they bowed their heads and worshipped.

NBV De Israëlieten werden hierdoor overtuigd; toen ze hoorden dat de HEER oog had gekregen voor hun ellende, knielden ze en bogen ze zich diep neer.

CEV and everyone believed. They bowed down and worshiped the Lord because they knew that he had seen their suffering and was going to help them.

�� 28 Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English. Online: http://pewebdic2.cw.idm.fr/ 29 Dutch: “vertrouwen in de waarheid van iets; vast en onwankelbaar geloof in God en Gods word.” Van Dale Woordenboek. Online: http://www.vandale.nl/vandale/opzoeken/ woordenboek/?zoekwoord=geloof

272 � José Sanders The old Dutch SV translation, at this point, is completely sequential in its structure. Believing, hearing, bowing, and worshipping are all translated straightforwardly and, as in the source, presented as next or subsequent to each other. The that-clauses as objects of hearing are represented in epistemic clauses connected to the character “the people,” but the content of this space is percolated upwards towards the narrative content space because of the factive nature of the hear/that-clause combination. A BCSN representation is presented in Figure 5.

Translating “Thinking” and “Believing” in the Bible � 273

Figure 5: BCSN representation Exodus 4:31, SV translation additive / sequential EN

The new Dutch NBV translates SV’s “the people believed” as “the Israelites were convinced by this”: altering the verb from intransitive to transitive and from

274 � José Sanders static (believed) to dynamic (were convinced); introducing an active agent (i.e., the event that convinced them) and mental decision making in the object (the Israelites). A BCSN representation is given in Figure 6.

Figure 6: BCSN representation Exodus 4:31, NBV translation temporal TOEN

Translating “Thinking” and “Believing” in the Bible � 275

Note that in the English CEV translation the believe-construction is not changed, but subsequently an explicit causal relation is construed in the volitional content space indicated by the connective BECAUSE. The intention of the subject (everyone) =SoC is elaborated in their epistemic space where what they (everyone) KNEW (instead of heard) is explicated. Keeping in mind the factive connotation of GELOVEN/BELIEVE, the results presented in Table 3 are understandable: modern translators sometimes opt for lexical options such as “put their faith” and “were convinced” (in Dutch “vertrouwde(n)”/ “overtuiging”) which, in accordance with the root meanings in the source, do not primarily express the existence or truth of the object of belief, but rather a state of support and trust.

Concluding Remarks The picture that results from corpus analysis and detailed comparative analyses of causal fragments is paradoxical. In one respect, modern Bible translations, even when they aim to be loyal to the source, are more subjective in that they invite readers to represent more of the biblical narrative as the characters’ inner subjective cognitive activity, and more of the biblical narrator’s subjectively interpretative causal relation building, often blended with the character’s causal reasoning. This results in more complex, multi-embedding mental space representations. Paradoxically, the verbs representing the characters’ cognitive activity, especially THINK, have become more simple. This is understandable if we take into account that THINK is a disembodied and abstract verb, which in fact illustrates the aforementioned development of the biblical narrative from a physical world of sequential events to a more mental world of interpretations and intentions. An important remaining question is how these more complex and subjective narratives of new translations are processed and appreciated. From a psychological viewpoint, complex mental space structures should cost more effort to process. From a functional viewpoint, it must be presumed that these more complex structures are in fact understandable and appreciated for readers today. Possibly, readers gladly make the extra effort to process embeddings and blends because they are rewarded by the multiple subjective insights they would otherwise have missed. Alternatively, readers are used to complex and subjective space building to such an extent that processing these embeddings and blends comes “natural” for them. Once learned and appreciated, embedding character’s spaces, building epistemic spaces, blending these spaces with

276 � José Sanders narrator’s epistemic space – all could well be default in the narrative genre. Following this line of thought, it would be more difficult to process the old translations with their (relatively) flat structures. It would be interesting to put these hypotheses to an empirical test.

List of Contributors William A. Andrews Jr., Chicago Theological Seminary, USA Mary Therese DesCamp, Heart’s Rest Retreats, Canada Greg Schmidt Goering, University of Virginia, USA Joel B. Green, Fuller Theological Seminary, USA Bonnie Howe, Dominican University of California, USA Hugo Lundhaug, University of Oslo, Faculty of Theology, Norway Jesper Tang Nielsen, University of Copenhagen, Denmark David Parris, Fuller Theological Seminary, USA S. J. Robinette, Independent scholar, USA José Sanders, Radboud University, Centre for Language Studies, The Netherlands Eve Sweetser, University of California, Berkeley, USA Robert H. von Thaden Jr., Mercyhurst College, USA Ellen van Wolde, Radboud University, The Netherlands Miranda Vroon-van Vugt, Independent scholar, The Netherlands

Author Index Abrams, Meyer Howard 123, 123n8 Alexander, Elizabeth Shanks 121n1 Anderson, Bernhard W. 29n9 Andrews, Will 2, 4 Avrahami, Yael 121n1, 128, 128n26

Bruckner, James 199n10, 201, 201n13, 202, 202n14 Burnett, Joel S. 48n6, 49n7, 60n53 Buszard-Welcher, Laura Ann 178, 178n16, 179, 179nn17–19

Bache, Carl 86n34 Báez, Silvio 49n8, 51, 51nn16–17, 52nn24 & 27–28, 53nn29–30, 55, 55n38, 58n51 Balentine, Samuel E. 47n3, 48n7, 61nn58– 59, 69, 69n86 Barcelona, Antonio 79n17 Barclay, John M.G. 166nn53–54 Bargh, John A. 12, 12n10 Barrado, Pedro 49n8 Basson, Alec 55n36 Baumann, Arnulf 52n21 Beare, John I. 130n36, 39 131nn40–41 Bechtel, Lyn 215, 215n30 Ben-Porat, Ziva 83, 83n29 Benoit, André 148n12 Bergen, Ben 12n9 Berlin, Adele 174n9 Betz, Hans D. 146n1, 149n17, 150n20, 151n23 Boman, Thorleif 128n25 Bonnefille, Stéphanie 63n70 Boroditsky, Lera 12, 12n11 Bosman, Hendrik Jan 253n1 Bovati, Pietro 199, 199nn10–11, 200n12, 201, 214 Bovon, François 148nn12 &15 Bremond, Claude 159, 159nn43–45, 160n46 Brenner, Athalya 215n30 Brettler, Mark Zvi 1, 1n1 Breytenbach, Cilliers 147nn3 & 6–10, 148n15, 150n18, 152n28, 165n50 Brown, Raymond 225nn6–7, 235n28, 241nn38–39, 250n67 Brown, William P. 55n36 Brueggemann, Walter 47n2, 69, 69n87, 70nn88–89 Buckley, Jorunn Jacobsen 80n21, 97n59 Bultmann, Rudolf 225n7, 235n28, 244n49

Cage, John 49, 50n10 Calduch-Benages, Núria 133n44 Campbell, Constantine 249, 249nn63–65 Carasik, Michael 128, 128n26, 129, 129nn27–31, 130, 130nn32–33, 141n58 Carniti, Cecila 58n48 Carson, Anne 113, 114n53 Carson, Donald 230n15 Chidester, David 122n5, 127, 127n23, 130nn34–35 & 38, 131n42, 138, 138nn55–56 Classen, Constance 127n22 Clifford, Richard J. 26n4 Collins, John J. 153, 153nn34–35, 154nn36–37 Collins, Raymond F. 151n23 Colson, Francis H. 122n4 Conte, Gian Biagio 83, 83nn30–31 Coulson, Seana 75n9, 79n18, 99, 99nn1 & 4, 100n5–6 & 8, 102n16, 103n21, 104, 104n25 Craigie, Peter C. 26n2, 29n9, 36n21, 58n48 Crenshaw, James L. 118n61 Cross, Frank Moore 134n46 Crum, Walter E. 78n14, 94n51 Crystal, David 181n21 Culy, Martin M. 247n61 Cuyckens, Hubert 62n65, 242n41 Dahood, Mitchell 58n48 Damasio, Antonio R. 89nn36–37, 102, 102n17, 110n42 Dancygier, Barbara 3, 10, 10nn4–5, 12, 12n9, 63n70, 64n78, 172n6, 177n13, 179n19, 180n20, 227nn9–10, 228n11, 230n13, 235n28, 245nn52–53, 246nn54–55 Dasher, Richard P. 253nn4–5 De Jonge, Henk Jan 151n23 De Jonge, Marinus 151n23

280 � Author Index De Moor, Johannes C. 48n7 De Rooij, Jaap 261n19 DesCamp, Mary Therese 2–3, 9n2, 11, 11n7, 13, 13n12, 14, 14n15, 17n17, 53, 53n31 Devescovi, Urbano 49n8 Diels, Hermann 130n37 Dik, Simeon C. 178n15 Di Lella, Alexander A. 126nn18–19, 128n24 Dodd, Brian 105n29 Doran, Robert 71n90 Dunn, James 150n21, 151n23 Egger-Wenzel, Renate 133n44 Eschner, Christina 147nn3 & 10, 148n15, 150nn19–20, 151n22, 152nn27–28, 153n32 Eubanks, Philip 100n8, 119n63 Evans, Craig 91n43 Evans, Vyvyan 62, 63, 63nn66 & 68, 66n79, 75n9, 76n11 Evers-Vermeul, Jacqueline 254n6 Fanning, Buist 230n15 Fatum, Lone 165n50 Fauconnier, Gilles 3–5, 16n16, 21, 21n20, 28n6, 62n65, 63, 63nn67,69, 64, 64n74, 66, 66n80, 75, 75n9, 77n13, 79, 79n18, 99, 99nn2 & 4, 100nn5–7, 101, 101nn9– 15, 104n27, 107, 107nn35–36, 108nn37– 39, 111, 111nn45–46, 112, 112nn47–48, 117n57, 125, 125n16, 136, 136nn50–51, 138, 138nn52–54, 155, 155–56nn39–40, 157nn41–42, 163, 170n2, 171nn3–4, 172, 172n5, 227, 227n8, 234n26, 243n48, 259n16 Feldman, Jerome A. 104n26 Fillmore, Charles 5 Follingstad, Carl Martin 176n12 Fraade, Steven 122nn5–6, 124n10 Freedman, Amelia D. 48n7 Freeman, Margaret 79, 79n17 Fretheim, Terence E. 60n54 Frey, Jörg 151nn23–24 Friedman, Richard E. 49n7 Furnish, V.P. 149n17 Gaca, Kathy L. 113, 113n51, 117n58

Gavins, Joanna 76nn11–12 Geeraerts, Dirk 62n65, 242n41 Geerts, Guido 261n19 Geertz, Clifford 71, 71n92 Gerstenberger, Erhard 58n48 Gese, Hartmut 161n48 Gibbs Jr., Raymond W. 12, 12n8, 76n11, 89n38, 102n16 Gildersleeve, Basil Lanneau 223n2, 235n28 Glucksberg, Sam 64n77 Goddard, Cliff 268, 268n22, 269, 269n23 Goering, Greg Schmidt 4, 142n61 Goff, Matthew J. 118, 118n60, 121n1 Goldberg, Adele 5, 195n5 Goodwin, William 223n2 Grady, Joseph 13n13, 22n21, 75n9, 126, 127n20 Green, Joel 102n17 Green, Melanie 62, 63, 63nn66 & 68, 66n79, 75n9, 76n11 Gulick Rev., Charles Burton 223n2 Guthrie, William Keith Chambers 130nn35 & 37 & 39, 131nn40–41 Haeseryn, Walter 261n19 Hallbäck, Geert 165n50 Halperin, David M. 114n53 Haskell, Ellen Davina 19n18 Hasson, Uri 64n77 Hellholm, David 154n36 Hengel, Martin 151n24, 152n29 Herion, Gary A. 33n14 Herman, David 3 Hiraga, Masako 13n13 Hofius, Otfried 150n18 Hogan, Karina Martin 121n1, 125n17 Hogan, Patrick 3, 90nn39 & 41–42 Holladay, William L. 25n1, 26n2, 28n7 Hooker, Morna D. 165n51 Hougaard, Anders 86n34, 172n6 Howe, Bonnie 100n4, 108n37, 121n1 Isenberg, Wesley 73n1, 95n57 Janssen, Theo 79n16 Janssens, Yvonne 91n43

Author Index � 281

Janowski, Bernd 150n18, 161n48 Jaworski, Adam 50nn12–13, 55, 55nn39–40, 56, 56n43 Johnson, Christopher 13n13, 22, 22n21 Johnson, Mark 1, 8, 8n1, 10, 10n4, 12, 13n14, 55, 55nn41–42, 62, 124, 124nn12–15, 125, 126, 127n21, 133, 133n43 Joüon, Paul 173n7 Kay, Paul 5 Keck, Leander 71n90 Keel, Othmar 49n9 Kennedy, George A. 146n1 King, Karen L. 74n3 Kirchhoff, Renate 109, 109n40 Knowlton, Barbara 90n39 Knust, Jennifer Wright 115n55 Koenig, Jean-Pierre 13n13 Korpel, Marjo C.A. 48n7 Kövecses, Zoltán 54n34, 61, 61nn60–63, 100n6 Kranz, Walther 130n37 Krieger, Stephen 50n11 Kugel, James 141n59 Lakoff, George 1, 8, 8n1, 10, 10n4, 12, 13n14, 20, 20n19, 21, 26n5, 47, 47n4, 53, 53nn32–33, 55, 55nn37 & 41–42, 56n44, 57n45, 61n64, 62, 103, 103nn22–23, 124, 124nn12–15, 125–26, 127n21, 133, 133n43, 238n33 Lamberts, Koen 90n39 Langacker, Ronald 5–6, 193, 193n1, 194–95, 196nn7–8, 197, 206, 210, 221, 230n16, 231n18, 232n20, 234nn25 & 27, 236n30, 237n31, 240n36, 244n50, 253nn3 & 5 Layton, Bentley 73n1, 74n3, 92n45 Leipoldt, Johannes 73n2 Levenson, Jon 121n1 Liesen, Jan 121n3 Lohse, Eduard 150n18 Longman, Pearson 270n24 Lundbom, Jack R. 25n1, 28n7, 32n11, 35n19, 38n22 Lundhaug, Hugo 4, 74n3, 80n20, 97n60, 100n4 Luomanen, Patri 100n4

Luther, Martin 168, 168n56 MacDonald, Margaret 117n58 Mack, Burton L. 134n46 Maldonado, Ricardo 242n41, 243n45 Malherbe, Abraham J. 149n17 Marjanen, Antti 74n3 Martyn, James Louis 149nn16–17, 151n23, 153n34, 165n50, 167n55 Mazzinghi, Luca 123n7 McCann Jr., Jerry Clinton 29n8, 71nn90–91 McFague, Sally 10n3 McGuire, Anne 78n15 Meeks, Wayne A. 149n17 Ménard, Jacques-É. 93n49 Mendenhall, George E. 33n14 Miles, Jack 49n7 Milgrom, Jacob 161, 161nn47 & 49 Miller, Patrick D. 25n1, 26nn2–3, 28n7, 47n2 Mitchell, Margaret M. 110–11, 111n43, 113n49 Mopsuestia, Theodore 95n54 Moreau, Jules L. 128n25 Morschauser, Scott 199n10, 202–3, 203nn15–18, 204n19, 213, 213n29, 216, 216n31 Moshavi, Adina 181n22 Moule, C.F.D. 223n3 Muraoka, Takamitsu 173n7 Mussner, Franz 148n15, 149n16, 150n18 Neher, Andre 49n8 Nejsum, Peter 105n29 Nelson, Thomas 29n9 Nielsen, Jesper 2, 4–5 Oakley, Todd V. 75n9, 79n18, 99, 99n4, 100nn5–6 & 8, 102 Oatley, Keith 76, 76n12 Orlandi, Tito 94–95n54 Ortony, Andrew 53n32, 238n33 Painchaud, Louis 92n47, 94n52, 95n55 Panther, Klaus-Uwe 100n5 Parris, David 6 Pelikan, Jaroslav 95n54 Perdue, Leo G. 134n48

282 � Author Index Petersen, Eugene 35n18 Polinsky, Maria 195, 195n5 Porter, James I. 114n53 Porter, Stanley 224, 225, 225n5, 230n15, 231n18, 236n30, 249n66 Psomadakis, Cristina 238n33 Pucci, Joseph 83, 83nn32–33 Ramscar, Michael 12, 12n11 Ravasi, Gianfranco 60n52 Redeker, Gisela 5, 79n16, 171n3, 174n9, 259nn16–17 Richards, Kent Harold 33n14 Richardson, Alan 97n61 Robbins, Vernon K. 4, 99n3, 100n4, 103, 103nn20–24, 105n30, 106, 106nn31–34, 110n42, 117n56 & 59, 118n62 Robertson, Archibald Thomas 223n2 Robinette, Susan 2, 3, 31n10 Rohde, J. 148n15, 150n18 Romijn, Kristen 261n19 Ruiz, Eleuterio 51, 51nn18–20, 52n26 Sacks, Oliver 123n9 Salbayre, Sébastien 63n70 Sanders, Jack T. 128n24 Sanders, Johanna Maria (José) 5–6, 171n3, 172n6, 174n9, 176, 176nn10–12, 180n20, 253n2, 254nn7 & 10, 256n14, 257, 259nn16–17, 263n20, 266n21 Sanders, Ted 180n20, 253n2, 254n10, 256n14, 257, 263n20, 266n21 Sasse, Hermann 148n14 Saville-Troike, Muriel 50nn14–15 Schacter, Daniel L. 89, 89n36, 90nn39–40 Schenke, Hans-Martin 73nn1–2, 82n27, 87n35, 92n45, 94nn52–53 Schlier, Heinrich 150n18 Schmid, Herbert 80n20 Schökel, Luis Alonso 58n48 Schröter, Jens 151nn23–24 Segal, Moses Hirsch 126 Segelberg, Eric 93nn49–51, 94n49 Semino, Elena 3 Shanks, David 90n39 Shore, Bradd 89, 89n38 Siebenmann, Paul Charles 104n28

Sim, Margaret G. 234n27, 247nn57–60 Sinha, Chris 13n13 Skehan, Patrick 126nn18–19, 128n24 Slingerland, Edward 100n6, 101–2, 102nn16 & 18–19 Smalley, Stephen S. 242n42, 245n51 Smith, Mark S. 219n34, 220nn35–36 Smith, Morton, 74n3 Smyth, Herbert 113n50 Snyder, Bob 90n39 Soskice, Janet Martin 10n3 Spiegelman, Art 99 Spolsky, Ellen 97, 97n61 Stagg, Frank 230n14 Stead, George Christopher 74n4 Steen, Gerard 76nn11–12 Stockwell, Peter 103n21 Stuart, Douglas 33n14 Stukker, Ninke 254n6 Stuhlmacher, Peter 150n18 Sweeney, Marvin A. 29n9, 33nn12–15 Sweetser, Eve 2–3, 7, 9n2, 10, 10nn4–5, 11, 11n7, 12–13, 13n12, 14, 14n15, 17n17, 53, 53n31, 63, 63nn70–71, 64nn76 & 78, 66, 66nn81–82, 67nn83–84, 68n85, 79n16, 83n28, 121n1, 155n38, 156n39, 170n2, 171n3, 179n19, 180n20, 227, 227nn9–10, 228n11, 230n13, 234n26, 235n28, 239n34, 243n48, 245nn52–53, 246nn54–55, 253nn2 & 5, 254n10, 256n14, 257, 259n16, 263n20, 266n21 Sykes, Stephen W. 150n21 Taylor, John R. 209n26, 240n36 Terrien, Samuel L. 47, 47n1, 48, 48n7, 58n48, 71, 72nn93–94 Thaden Jr., Robert H. von 2, 4, 119n64 Tomasello, Michael 156n40 Thomassen, Einar 78n15, 94n49 Thornburg, Linda L. 100n5 Thiselton, Anthony C. 104n28 Tolmie, F. 165n50 Torresan, Paolo 49n8, 57n46 Tov, Emanuel 185n23, 219, 219n33 Traugott, Elizabeth Closs 223n3, 253nn4–5 Trautmann, Catherine 78n15 Tröger, Karl-Wolfgang 94n49

Author Index � 283

Tuckett, Christopher 94n52 Tulving, Endel 90n39 Turner, John D. 78n15 Turner, Mark 3–5, 10, 10n4, 16n16, 21, 21n20, 26n5, 28n6, 56n44, 66, 66n80, 75, 75n9, 76, 76n10, 77n13, 79, 79n18, 99, 99n2, 100nn5–7, 101, 101nn9–10 & 12 & 14, 104n27, 107, 107nn36–37, 108, 108nn37–39, 110, 110n41, 111n45, 112n47, 117n57, 125, 125n16, 136, 136nn50–51, 138, 138nn52–54, 155, 157nn41–42, 163, 227n8 Turner, Martha Lee 73n2 Urbrock, William J. 33n14 Van den Toorn, Maarten C. 261n19 Van der Auwera, Johan 223n3 Van der Watt, Jan 147n6, 165n50 Van Henten, Jan Willem 151nn23 & 25, 152n26 Van Staalduine-Sulman, Eveline 185n23 Van Unnik, Willem Cornelis 93n49, 94n49 Van Wolde, Ellen 2, 5–6, 172n6, 173n8, 193, 193n2, 198n9, 212n28 Verhagen, Arie 253n5 Versnel, Henk S. 151n24, 152nn26 & 28–29 & 31

Vickhoff, Björn 11n6 Vroon-van Vugt, Miranda 2, 5 Wallace, Daniel 228n12, 230n16, 232n20, 240n37, 242n43 Washburn, David L. 223n24, 235n28, 239n35 Webster, Brian L. 48n7 Weiß, Johannes 111, 111n44 Weiser, Artur 58n48 Wengst, Klaus 149n17, 152nn29–30 Wilcox, Sherman 13n13 Williams, Lawrence E. 12, 12n10 Williams, Michael Allen 74n3 Williams, Sam K. 151n25, 152n26, 165n51, 166n52 Wills, Lawrence M. 118n60 Wilson, Robert 73n2, 74n4 Witherington, Ben III 148n15 Wolff, Hans Walter 150n18 Wright III, Benjamin G. 118n60, 121n1 Xeravits, Géza G. 123n7 Yadin, Azzan 54n35 Yarbrough, Larry 115n55 Young, Richard 223, 223n3, 224, 224n4 Zsengellér, József 123n7

Subject Index analogy 21, 78, 89, 89n38, 107–12, 119 – compression 101, 107–12 – disanalogy 101, 107, 112 – frames and 21 – vital relations. See blends, vital relations aspect. See Cognitive Grammar, verbal aspect Basic Communicative Spaces Network model (BCSN) 6, 180n20, 254, 256, 256n14, 257–64, 272–74 blend diagram (specific diagrams presented) – Basic Conceptual Integration Network 76 – BCSN representation Exodus 4:31, NBV translation 274 – BCSN representation Exodus 4:31, SV translation 273 – BCSN representation Gen 21:14, NBV translation 260 – BCSN representation Mark 2:8 NBV translation 264 – BCSN representation Mark 2:8 SV translation 262 – Bring-to-Light-Instruction Blend 140 – Conceptual Blending Model 157 – The Cross as the Tree of Knowledge and the Tree of Life 91 – The Crucifixion and Ritual Practice 81 – Cultic Sacrifice and Execution 158 – Do Not Be Silent 68 – The Eucharist Is Jesus 93 – GOD IS FATHER Mappings 16 – Joseph the Carpenter 77 – Liberation from Sins and the New Aeon 164 – Mapping for Potter Metaphor 18 – Plant-Settler 44 – The Rending of the Veil and the Separation of Christ 96 – The Ritual Hunt 67 – The Tree of Knowledge 86 – The Tree of Knowledge and the Law 85 – The Two Trees of Knowledge 87 – The Two Trees of Knowledge (with Generic Spaces) 88

blends (Blending Theory, Conceptual Blending Model 3, 4, 5, 6, 9, 16–22, 27–28, 39–41, 43–45, 62–63, 66–69, 74–97, 99–103, 107–12, 116–19, 121–25, 127– 28, 135–43, 157–58, 163–64, 167–68, 172, 187, 227, 259, 261, 263–64, 266, 275. See also blend diagrams – blended space 16–18, 41, 43, 44 Figure 2, 67–69, 67 Figure 4, 68 Figure 5, 75n9, 76 Figure 1, 78–84, 81 Figure 3, 91, 91 Figure 5, 99–101, 99n9, 125, 136, 157–58, 157 Figure 1, 158 Figure 2, 164, 164 Figure 3, 168, 259, 264 Figure 4, 275 – building of 62–63, 171, 188, 234. See also mental space, space builders – compression 27, 69, 78, 100n7, 101, 107nn35 & n37, 108–12, 118–19, 267 – conceptual disintegration 86, 86n34 – conceptual integration 66, 75–80, 77, 77n13, 79n18, 80n22, 84, 86n34, 89–92, 99–102, 99n4, 101n13, 104–7, 111, 111n45, 112, 119, 136, 145–46, 155, 156n40, 157, 157n41, 158, 164 – decompression 107 – elaboration 112, 138, 179 – emergent structure of 100–101, 105, 107n35, 108–9, 111n46, 112n48, 116, 119, 138, 138nn53–54 – entailments 79–80, 88, 134 – generic space 16–18, 39, 43–44, 67–8, 76– 78, 81, 84–86, 88, 91, 93, 96, 100, 136–37, 140, 157–58, 163–64 – human scale 101–2, 102n19, 105, 111–12, 119 – input spaces 16–18, 39–40, 44, 47, 68–69, 75n9, 76–78, 78n15, 80n22, 81–86, 91, 93, 100–102, 107–8, 136–40, 156–58, 160, 163–64 – intertextual blends 4, 82–84, 83n28, 88– 90, 95 – metaphoric blends 9, 16, 18, 20–22, 27, 39, 41, 43, 69, 101, 102n16 – metonymy and 48, 110nn5–8, 109 – mirror networks 107–8, 107n37

286 � Subject Index – networks 46, 62, 64, 70, 75, 76, 77, 77n13, 78–80, 80n22, 84, 89–91, 100–103, 107– 8, 110–11, 145–46, 155, 157, 157n41, 163– 64, 180, 254, 256. See also conceptual integration; mental spaces – projection 41, 43, 79, 80n22, 86n34, 107, 111, 114, 156, 158, 163–64, 227, 229, 234– 37, 239, 246, 248–49, 251 – and interpretation 79 – selective projection 78n15, 100, 111, 113– 14, 119, 136, 156–58 – running the blend 111, 138 – types of blends – double-scope blends 84, 108 – mirror 107–8, 107n37 – multiple-scope blends 75 – single-scope blends 84 – megablends 111 – vital relations 101, 101nn9–15, 105, 107, 110, 112 – Analogy 101, 107–12, 119 – Identity 28, 28n6, 67, 78, 110, 111, 112, 118–19, 256n14 – Part-Whole 28, 101, 107, 109, 110, 112, 119 builders. See mental spaces categorization 5, 6, 25, 27–28, 90n39, 95, 106, 118, 180n20, 196–99, 206, 214, 216, 240, 253n2, 254n10, 268 – causal 180n20, 253n2, 254n10 – cultural 197–99, 204, 214 – entrenchment 197, 214 – nominal meaning and 196 – prototypes 76n11, 89n38 causality 6, 66, 67, 174, 180n20, 186, 188, 227, 253–57, 259, 261, 263, 263n20, 266, 266n21, 268, 275 – backward causal connectives 180n20, 254n10, 257 – causal construction 174, 275 – causal connectives 180n20 , 253–57, 259, 263, 266, 275 – causal markers 174, 186, 227, 263 Cognitive Grammar 5, 193–221 – base, conceptual base 194–98, 206, 210– 13, 221

– categories and 196–99, 214, 216 – cognitive domain and 194–95, 197–99, 204, 206, 210–13, 215–16, 221 – defined 193–95 – entailment and 194, 206 – ground 194, 196, 198, 232n19, 248 – landmark/trajectory 195–98, 205, 206, 209–10, 209n26, 216, 231 – meaning construal and 194, 196, 198 – profile, profiling 194–97, 206, 210–13, 217, 221, 236, 240–42 – profile-base relations 195, 213 – protasis. See conditionals – semantics and 195, 230n15 – usage event and 197–98, 206, 213 – verbal aspect 230–31, 230n15, 236–37, 237 Diagram 5, 240, 241n38, 249, 253nn1 &5 cognitive linguistics, definition of 1–6 cognitive literary theory 79–83, 79nn17–18, 83nn28–33, 97, 97n61, 123, 123n8, 210 communicative spaces 5, 6, 180n20, 254, 256, 256n14, 257–64, 272–74 compositional structure 79n16, 89, 89n38, 138, 139nn53–54 compression. See blends conceptual blending. See blends conceptual integration. See blends, integration, conceptual disintegration conditionals 6, 63, 63n70, 64, 64n78, 65, 179, 179n19, 223–51 – apodosis 65, 233, 233 Diagram 4, 238 Diagram 6, 239–40, 242–43, 245, 247, 248 Diagram 10, 250 – protasis 64–65, 225–30, 232–37, 243–51, 246 Diagram 9, 248 Diagram 10 construction grammar 5–6. See also Cognitive Grammar – asymmetry in 196 – form-meaning mappings in 170, 173, 195, 198, 223–51 constructions (specific constructions cited) – causation constructions. See causality – lexical constructions 6, 111, 117, 223, 228– 29, 265, 275. See also conditionals

Subject Index � 287

conversation, See dialog; narrative analysis, communication and conversation dynamics corpus study 2, 6, 141n59, 225n7 – diachronic analysis 254–55, 265, 269, 275 counterfactuals 117, 156n39, 170–71, 171n4, 173, 181 cultural assumptions, cultural models 4–5, 7–8, 11, 13, 13n13, 21–23, 30, 66, 79, 79n17, 89–91, 89n38, 103–4, 104n27, 106, 106n32, 108–9, 114, 116, 118, 127, 127n22, 128, 131, 133–35, 133n43, 134n47, 152, 193, 197–98, 204, 214, 219, 253n5 denominal verbs 194 dialog, cognitive analysis of 2, 5, 61, 69, 83n33, 156, 169–70, 177–78, 181, 181n21, 183 Figure 5, 184, 187, 190 Figure 8, 191. See also narrative analysis, communication and conversation dynamics disintegration. See blends, conceptual disintegration domain. See also frames – cognitive. See Cognitive Grammar, cognitive domains – concreteness vs. abstractness 10, 22 – cultural models of 4, 13, 21–23, 66, 124, 127, 194, 197–98, 238 – frames and 10, 12, 13, 21–23, 37, 62 – relationship between Source and Target 12–13, 21–23, 26, 27 Figures 1 & 2, 29, 34, 37, 40–43, 45, 55, 56, 56 Figure 1 elaboration. See blends embodiment, embodied cognition 2, 3, 13, 22–23, 61, 102, 102nn16–19, 108, 119n64, 124n12, 127, 127n20, 132–33, 142, 238, 268, 275. See also perception, senses epistemic context or domain 180, 180n20, 263 epistemic distance, epistemic stance 229– 39, 244, 250, 253, 255. See also conditionals

epistemic space 180, 180n20, 229, 229n13, 239, 259, 261, 264 Figure 4, 265, 269, 275–76 Event Structure Metaphor. See metaphor, Event Structure experience. See also embodiment, embodied cognition, perception, senses – cognitive domains and 10, 13, 21–23, 41, 55, 56, 62, 77, 103, 124–27, 138, 194–95, 197–98, 238 – collective and individual 9, 11, 13, 17, 19, 22–23, 48–49, 71, 128–30, 197 – comprehension of 7, 11, 14, 17, 22, 47–48, 54, 69, 71, 89, 122, 125, 127–30, 138–39, 141, 194, 238 – culturally constrained 7, 11, 13, 21–3, 50, 89, 89n38, 103, 114, 124, 127–28, 133, 194, 197–98, 214, 238 – events and 14, 31n10, 48, 55–56, 61, 71, 122, 142, 194 – as grounding for metaphor 13, 19, 21–23, 41, 49–50, 54–56, 55n42, 56 Figure 1, 61– 62, 68–69, 125–27, 133, 238 – mystical or visionary 7, 9–11, 18–9, 22, 23, 122, 128–30, 132, 138–39, 142 – religious 7, 9–11, 18–9, 22–23, 48 – as source of meaning 47, 77, 132, 141, 194– 98 – subjective or personal 7, 11, 14, 19, 31n10, 41, 47, 54, 124–27, 129, 132, 138, 214 – universal, cross-cultural 13, 26, 34, 41, 114, 127, 133, 238 frames, framing 2, 4, 9, 47, 47n4 – defined 103, 103n21 – cultural frames 2, 4, 13, 13n13, 21–23, 30, 91, 103–4, 104n25, 106, 108–9, 114, 116, 118, 193, 204, 214 – conceptual frames 2, 3 – experiential motivation 9–10, 13–14, 17– 23, 62, 103 – metaphor and. See metaphor, frames and – frame metonymy 28, 31n10, 37, 54, 109 – frame semantics 36, 79n16, n18, 156–57 – negating 47, 63n70, 234, 251 frames (specific frames cited) – Agriculture 81

288 � Subject Index – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Anti-Judaism 85 Apocalyptic 145, 163, 167 Apocalyptic Rhetorolect 103, 106, 108, 118 Authority 15 Baseball 104, 104n26 Battle 37 Change 15 Child 21 Christian Ethics 86 Control 15 Crucifixion 81, 85–86, 93 Divine-Human Relationship 9, 11–12, 14, 16–23 Divine, Divinity 7–9, 16–17, 20–21 Elephant 47 Father, Fatherhood 7–11, 13–17, 20–22 Father-Child Relation 15, 20–21 Father-Son Relationship 15–16 Human Body 107–9 Husband-Bride Relationship 19 Jewish Law 86 Judge 7–9 King, Kingship 7–11, 13, 15, 20–22 King-Subject Relation 15 Love Relationship 9–11, 18–19, 63 Marriage 18, 114–16 Mother 7–9, 14, 22–22 Mutual Asymmetric Relationship 14–16, 16 Table 1 Paradise 77, 81, 81 Figure 3, 85–86, 85 Figure 4, 86 Figure 5 Parenthood, Parenting 14–16, 20, 22 Physical Control 15–17 Physical Progenitor 15–16 Potter 17, 17–18 Table 2, 22 Power-asymmetric Relationship 13 Power to Punish 15, 20, 22 Priestly Rhetorolect 103, 106, 109, 111–14, 116, 118 Protection/Sustenance 15–16, 16 Table 1 Queen 7 Relationship 7–23, 36, 37 Table 4, 38 Table 5, 68, 68 Figure 5 The Righteous and The Wicked 28 Ritual Practice 81, 81 Figure 3, 86 Figure 5, 91 Figure 8, 93 Figure 9, 109 Shepherd 7–9, 13, 20

– Silence 56, 56 Figure 1, 62 – Soteriology 81 Figure 3, 82, 85 Figure 4, 86 Figure 5, 91 Figure 8 – Sports 104 – Student 8–9 – Trust 28, 36, 38n23 – Two Ways Doctrine 28–29 – Wisdom 29, 33, 103 – Wisdom Rhetorolect 103, 105–9, 114–18 – Worshipper 21 generic space. See blends, blending genitives 146–47, 265, 267 grammar. See also Cognitive Grammar, construction grammar – conditionals. See conditionals – functional 156n40, 178 – imperatives 62, 202, 242n44 – metaphoric expressions 235, 235n28, 237, 243n48 – natural language 170–71, 170n2, 171n3 – sentences, evaluation of 63, 79, 171–74, 173n8, 176 Figure 3, 179, 184, 191, 195–96, 210n28 – verbal aspect. See Cognitive Grammar ground. See Cognitive Grammar idealized cognitive model (ICM) 84, 103, 103n22 imagery 4, 12, 19, 45, 107, 121–22, 124, 196. See also metaphor, image metaphor image schema 225–26, 234n27 imagination 13n14, 66, 66n80, 72, 72n93, 170, 270 input space. See blends, blending intersubjectivity 10–11, 15, 17, 19, 22. See also experience intertextuality 3–4, 82–84, 88, 95, 218 – as blending 4, 82–84, 83n28, 88–90, 95 landmark. See Cognitive Grammar literary analysis 3, 30–33, 45, 57, 69, 79, 79n17, 82–83, 97, 123, 146, 149, 153, 210, 215, 220. See also narrative, narrative analysis

Subject Index � 289

mappings – analogical 21, 78 – blends and 9, 16–17, 16 Table 1, 18 Table 2, 27, 27 Tables 1–2, 39–41, 45, 63, 63nn67 & n69, 66–67, 67 Figure 4, 77, 77 Figure 2, 80, 84, 91, 91 Figure 8, 100–101, 100nn5– 8, 124–25, 136–37, 137 Figure 2, 139, 140 Figure 3, 157–58, 157 Figure 1, 158 Figure 2, 164, 164 Figure 3 – cognitive, conceptual 10, 16–17, 39–40, 56, 65–67, 65 Figure 3, 78, 80n22, 84, 100, 125, 136, 157–58, 157 Figure 1, 158 Figure 2, 164, 227n8 – counterpart 21, 78, 80, 84 – domains and 10, 21–22, 26–27, 27 Tables 1–2, 29, 34, 37–41, 38n22, 40 Table 6, 41, 55–56, 56 Figure 1, 66–67, 67 Figure 4, 84, 124–25, 125 Figure 1, 136, 155n39, 238, 267 – emergent structure 66, 100–101, 100n7, 138, 138n52, 157 – extension 37, 37 Figure 4, 41, 65, 78 – frames and 4, 9–10, 14–18, 16 Table 1, 18 Table 2, 20–22, 28–29, 37–38, 37 Table 4, 38n23, 56, 56 Figure 1, 63, 91, 91 Figure 8, 158, 158 Figure 2, 164, 164 Figure 3, 227n8 – identity 28, 28n6, 78 – inferences and 21–22, 38, 40, 66, 91,124– 25, 125 Figure 1, 244 – intertextual 84 – mental spaces and 9, 16–17, 39, 63, 66– 67, 77, 84, 91, 100, 100n5, 125, 125 Figure 1, 136, 155–56, 155n39, 156n40, 157–58, 227 n8 – metaphorical. See metaphor, metaphor mapping – projection 41, 78n15, 80n22, 100, 136, 156–58, 157 Figure 1, 158 Figure 2, 164, 164 Figure 3, 239 – selective 16, 18, 20, 78n15, 80n22, 100, 136, 137 Figure 2, 156–57 – unidirectional 20–22 meaning 1–2, 5–7, 10, 14, 25, 35, 45–46, 50, 62, 64–66, 69, 75–79, 79n18, 83–84, 89, 91, 99, 103–4, 111, 127n20, 155, 170– 71, 179, 184, 191, 194–98, 202–3, 215, 221, 223–24, 242–43, 268, 271, 275. See

also Cognitive Grammar, meaning construal – constructed 2, 25, 66, 75–77, 89n38, 99, 103–4, 155–56, 170, 170n2, 171n4, 179 – context-dependent 52n21, 79–80, 79n18, 89, 110–11, 127, 156, 170, 179, 194, 197– 98, 202–3, 221 – embodied. See embodiment, embodied cognition – emergent 66, 66n79, 69, 83–84, 197 – lexical 6, 111, 223, 268, 275 – universal semantic prime and 268 mental spaces (Mental Spaces Theory). See also blends – access principle 177, 179, 181, 184–86, 187 – defined 62, 62n65, 63n66, 77n13, 171 – focus space 178–81, 184, 191 – mapping. See mapping, mental spaces and metaphor theory and 9, 39, 41, 47–48, 62, 66, 66n79, 67, 69, 83, 101, 102n16, 125, 136, 235, 237, 239, 243, 250–51 – negative mental space 4, 48, 62–64, 63n70–1, 64nn74–76, 233–34, 236–37, 239, 244, 250–51 – protasis space 64, 65 Figure 3, 225–30, 228 Diagram 2, 233–37, 243–46, 243n48, 248–51 – space builder, space building 62–63, 171, 171n4, 176, 188, 234, 234n26, 256n14, 275 – theory of 5, 9, 48, 62, 62n65, 63, 63n66, 75n9, 99n4, 100, 125, 136, 155–56, 155n39, 158, 170–71, 173, 178–81, 184–86, 191 mental space blending. See blends, mental spaces metaphor 6 – asymmetry in 9, 13–16, 18 – as a blend 9, 16, 18, 20–22, 27, 39, 41, 43, 69, 101, 102n16, 125, 125n1 – cognitive and conceptual metaphor theory 1, 2, 4 – complex 127, 127n20, 133, 133n43, 134–35 – conventionality 12, 21–22, 26, 69 – “dead metaphor” theory 12 – Entailments 69, 134 – Event Structure 57, 57n45, 61 – frames and 9–10, 12–18, 20–23, 28–31, 36–38, 56, 56 Figure 1, 68, 114, 138, 251

290 � Subject Index – image metaphor 19, 19n18, 33, 36, 37, 41, 122, 124, 136, 224, 225, 235, 235n28, 241, 243, 250 – inferences 19, 21–22, 28, 30, 36, 38, 40, 43, 53, 124, 125 Figure 1 – metaphor mapping 1, 2, 4, 8–10, 14–16, 18, 20–22, 26, 27 Table 1, 28–29, 34 Table 3, 37 Table 4, 38 Table 5, 39–42, 40 Table 6, 42 Table 7, 45, 55, 56 Figure 1, 61, 63, 66– 67, 67 Figure 4, 84, 100, 124–25, 125 Figure 1, 136, 238–39, 238n33, 267 – metonymy and 3–4, 31n10, 36–37, 48, 54–55, 57n47, 79n17, 100n5 – motivated by experience 7, 9–14, 17–23, 31n10, 41, 47–48, 54–56, 55n42, 61–62, 68–69, 122, 124–28, 124nn13–14, 132–33, 138–39, 141, 238, 251 – networks 46, 61–62, 101 – Primary Metaphor 13, 22, 22n21, 37, 39, 41, 125–30, 127nn20–21, 128n26, 129n27, 130nn32–33, 132–33, 135 – Primary Scenes 13, 22, 22n21, 127n20 metaphors (specific metaphors cited) – AFFECTION IS WARMTH 12, 13 – ATOM IS A SOLAR SYSTEM 10 – CHOICES ARE FORKS IN THE ROAD 26–30, 27 Tables 1–2 – THE CHRISTIAN BODY AS SACRED SPACE 113–14 – COMMUNICATION IS SHARING (EVENTS OR OBJECTS) 61 – DIRECT KNOWING IS SEEING 132, 134 – DIRECT PERCEPTION OF WISDOM IS SEEING 134 – EVENTS ARE ACTIONS 54, 56, 61–2 – EXPERIENCES ARE OBJECTS 61 – FATHER IS GOD 21–22 – GOALS ARE DESTINATIONS 27 – GOD IS FATHER 9, 16, 21–23 – GOD IS KING 20 – GOD IS LIGHT 224–25, 235, 237, 244–45, 250 – GOD IS A MOTHER 23 – GOD IS OUR MALE LOVER 9, 19 – GOD IS OUR TEACHER 9 – GOD IS A POTTER 17–18 – GOD IS A SHEPHERD 20

– INDIRECT KNOWING IS HEARING 132, 135 – INDIRECT PERCEPTION OF WISDOM IS HEARING 135 – INTIMACY IS CLOSENESS 13, 61, 61n60, 62, 68 – KNOWING IS HEARING 126, 131–32 – KNOWING IS PERCEIVING 61–62 – KNOWING IS SEEING 124–26, 125 Figure 1, 131–32 – KNOWING IS VISION 238–39 – LIFE IS A JOURNEY 26–27, 27 Tables 1–2, 238 – LIFE IS A JOURNEY OF TWO WAYS 26–30, 27 Table 2, 46 – PEOPLE ARE CONTAINERS 61 – PEOPLE ARE PLANTS 41–42, 42 Table 7, 44 – A PEOPLE GROUP IS A PERSON 34, 34 Table 3 – PURPOSEFUL ACTIVITY IS MOVEMENT ALONG A PATH 26 – PURPOSES ARE DESTINATIONS 26 – A RELATIONSHIP IS A DISTANCE BETWEEN TWO ENTITIES 61, 61n63 – RESPONDING IS PERCEIVING 61–62 – SILENCE IS A CONTAINER (OR PLACE) 55– 56, 57n47 – SILENCE IS A SUBSTANCE (OR OBJECT) 55– 56, 56 Figure 1 – STATES ARE LOCATIONS 61 – STATES ARE OBJECTS OR PLACES 57 – TORAH IS LIGHT 123 – TRUSTING IS BEING PLANTED 36, 39–42, 40 Table 6, 45 – TRUSTING IS BEING TRANSPLANTED 41 – TRUSTING IS MOTION TOWARDS 36–37, 37 Table 4, 41 – TRUSTING IS SETTLING A LAND 35–36, 38– 39, 38 Table 5, 42–45 – TRUST IS NEARNESS 37, 39, 41 – WISDOM IS LIGHT 134 – WISDOM IS WORD 134–35 – THE WORSHIPPING COMMUNITY IS [GOD’S] FEMALE LOVER 19 metonymy 36–37, 48, 54–55, 57n47, 79n17, 88–89, 100nn5–6 & 8, 109. See also frames, frame metonymy – distinguished from metaphor 54, 79n17

Subject Index � 291

– part-whole 109, 110, 119 metonymy (specific metonymies cited) – CROSS FOR CHRISTIANITY 89 – FLESH FOR HUMAN 37 – GOD’S VOICE FOR GOD 54 – GOD’S VOICE FOR DIVINE ACTS ACCOMPLISHED THROUGH SPEECH 54 – LAW FOR JUDAISM 88 – NEW GLOVE FOR BASEBALL PLAYER 54 – PART FOR THE WHOLE 54, 109, 110, 119 – PRODUCT FOR THE PRODUCER 54 – SILENCE FOR DEATH 57n47 – SILENCE FOR DEFEAT 57n47 morality 13–17, 19–20, 27–30, 105–7, 109, 113–15, 193 narrative analysis, narrative structures 5, 63, 63n69, 153, 155, 158–63, 169–91, 172n6, 275. See also narratology – communication and conversation dynamics 169, 177–78, 184, 187, 191 – author’s space 169, 177–78, 177n14 – base space 170, 174 – character spaces 169, 171–79, 181, 184, 191 – conceptual access path 184, 186–87 – embedded spaces in 170–71, 173–76, 176n12, 178, 186–88, 191 – focus space 178–79, 184 – future spaces 170–71, 173–74, 187–88, 191 – history spaces 170, 173–74, 186–88, 191 – narrator’s space 169, 171, 173–78 – participant profiling 178–79, 181, 184 – QOR-spaces [Question-Order-Request] 177, 181, 184, 187 – MST-Text visualization model 172–76, 174, Figure 1, 175, Figure 2, 176, Figure 3, 180 Figure 4, 191 narratology 3, 99, 146, 158–59, 161–63 networks. See blends, integration perception 53, 58, 60, 62, 97, 101, 101n14, 123–24, 127–31, 131 Table 1, 133–35, 137 Figure 2, 140 Figure 3, 142, 194, 198. See also senses, sensory

performatives 66, 66nn81–82, 67, 67nn83– 84, 68–69, 246, 250 phrases, evaluation of 6, 31n10, 37, 41, 63– 64, 70, 143, 148, 187, 194, 201–2, 210n26, 212, 214, 241, 242n44 polysemy 13n13, 53, 111n45, 178n16, 179n17 predication 227, 230n17, 231–32, 236, 240, 268 prepositions 60, 63, 63n66, 147–48, 150, 152, 195, 199–200, 210n26, 212, 242n44, 257 Primary Metaphor. See metaphor, Primary Metaphor Primary Scenes. See metaphor, Primary Metaphor Protasis. See conditionals reading, readers 1–3, 6, 8, 22–23, 25, 28–30, 33, 35, 37, 43, 45–46, 52, 63, 74–80, 76nn10 & 12, 79n17, 83nn32–33, 84, 89–91, 95–96, 104–5, 108, 111, 117, 119, 123, 167, 169–70, 177–78, 191, 193–94, 210–11, 215, 217–18, 220, 224, 228–29, 232–36, 239–41, 244, 247–49, 251, 259, 263, 269, 271, 275 rhetorical criticism 2, 25–26, 30, 31n10, 46, 73–74, 83n30, 87–88, 87n35, 96, 99– 119, 99nn1 & 3, 100n8 rhetorolects 4, 103–16, 103nn20–24, 105n30, 106nn31–34 schematicity. See frames, mappings, mental spaces, metaphor, metonymy semantics 36, 48, 51–52, 79n16, n18, 147, 149, 156–57, 163, 170, 195, 198, 230n15, 233, 244n50, 249, 253–54, 268–69. See also domain senses, sensory 49, 53, 58–59, 59 Table 1, 84, 122nn5–6, 123, 125, 127–28, 135, 138, 138n55, 142, 200, 212, 214, – hearing, audition 4, 31n10, 49, 55, 68 Figure 5, 84, 122–33, 122nn5–6, 131 Table 1, 136–38, 137 Figure 2, 140 Figure 3 – odors, olfaction 123 – seeing, vision 53, 84, 122nn5–6, 122–32, 124nn10–11, 125 Figure 1, 127–32, 131 Table 1, 134, 136–38, 137 Figure 2, 140 Figure

292 � Subject Index 3, 181, 184, 191, 200, 212, 230n17, 238–39, 259 sentences, evaluation of 63, 79, 171–74, 173n8, 176 Figure 3, 179, 184, 191, 195– 96, 210n28 socio-rhetorical analysis 4, 99, 99n3, 102–3, 103nn20–24, 105, 108, 119. See also rhetorolects Source. See domain spaces, space builders. See mental spaces speech acts 50, 50nn14–15, 54, 55n39, 68, 179, 179n19, 180, 180n20, 181, 181n21, 223n3, 224, 245, 245nn52–53, 246, 246n55, 247, 250, 256n14, 257–58, 259, 259n16. See also performatives subjective, subjectivity 6, 11, 124–25, 127, 171, 180n20, 199, 253–76 synesthesia 121–43

Target. See domains Trajectory. See Cognitive Grammar translation 2, 3, 6, 19, 25–26, 30, 31n10, 32, 33n13, 35–36, 42–43, 48n5, 58, 58n48, 94, 94n49, 109, 113n50, 169, 184, 185n23, 206, 210–11, 219–20, 233–34, 253–76 verbal aspect. See Cognitive Grammar viewpoint 5, 14, 171, 174, 176–77, 177n13, 179, 184, 191, 213, 230n13, 249 vital relations. See blends