T&T Clark Handbook of Children in the Bible and the Biblical World 9780567672575, 9780567672568, 9780567672582

Table of contents :
Cover page
Halftitle page
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication
Contents
Tables and Illustrations
Contributors
Acknowledgments
Abbreviations
1 Introduction
Part One Orientation to the Field
2 History of Research on Children in the Bible and the Biblical World: Past Developments, Present State—and Future Potential
General Surveys and Bibliographies
The Hebrew Bible
The New Testament
Reception History
Methodologies
Final Reflections and Future Prospects
3 Accessing Childhoods: Interdisciplinary Tools at the Intersection of Biblical Studies and Childhood Studies
Using Childhood Studies to Diff erentiate Children from Childhoods
Is Child Psychology Useful for Biblical Scholarship?
Using the History of Childhood to Place Modern Childhood in its Broader Context
Children’s Literature and Literary Theory
Interpreting Archaeology of the Ancient World
Drawing Comparisons with Anthropology and Ethnography
Empirical Research Method toward Children’s Agency as Interpreters
Conclusion
Part Two Hebrew Bible
4 Methodology: Who Is a Child and Where Do We Find Children in the Ancient Near East?
Who Is a Child in the Biblical World?
Where Do We Find Children?
Concluding Remarks
5 The Logic of Sacrifi cing Firstborn Children1
Interpreting Exodus 22:28–29
“Darwinian Suicide”?
Firstborn Sacrifice as “Absurd”
Conclusion
6 Children of Diaspora: The Cultural Politicsof Identity and Diasporic Childhood in the Book of Esther
Gatecrashing Children
Children and the Biblical Scholar
Reading with Children of Diaspora
Mordecai vs. Esther
Hegemonic Masculinity and the Unmen
Survival from the Threat Within
Two Views on Cultural Identity and Diaspora
Conclusion: Esther and the Gatecrashing Children
7 Children in Proverbs, Proverbial Children
A Proverbial Worldview and the Proverbial Child
Proverbs and Proverbial Children in Contexts
Children and Proverb Performance
Impersonation, Personifi cation, and the Proverbial Child
The Tenuous Cultural and Socioeconomic Status of Children in Proverbs
Children, Education, and Discipline
Conclusion
8 God as a Child in the Hebrew Bible? Playing with the Possibilities
“A Still Small Voice”? A Small Possibility
Genesis 1:26–27 and a Child-Filled Lineage
From Children in Families to an Orphan: God as a Child in Psalm 10
Proverbs 8:30—Wisdom as a Child
Conclusion
Part Three Intertextual Issues and Intertestamental Texts
9 Children and the Memory of Traumatic Violence1
The Usefulness of “Trauma Studies” in the Biblical World
The Bible and Its Traumatized Children
Conclusion
10 A Road-Trip to Manhood: Tobias’s Coming of Age in Tobit 6–12
Characteristics of Boys and Men in the Classical World
Tobias’s Coming-of-Age Narrative
Conclusion
Part Four New Testament
11 Methodology: Who Is a Child and Where Do We Find Children in the Greco-Roman World?
Who is a Child in the Greco-Roman World?
The Intersection of Biology and Culture: Philo of Alexandria
The Intersection of Biology and Culture: The Mishnah
The Intersection of Biology and Culture: Greek and Roman
Where do We Find Children?
Concluding Remarks
12 Children Playing in the Marketplaces
Children Sitting in the Marketplace(s)
“Th inking with Children” in the Roman World
Children Playing in the Marketplace
Children Playing in the Marketplace among Children in the Gospels
Conclusion
13 “Theirs is the Kingdom”: Children as Proprietors of the Kingdom of God in Luke 18:15–17
Proprietors of the Kingdom
Economics ( oikonomika ) of the Kingdom
Conclusion
14 The “Lost Boys” (and Girls) of Q’s “Neverland”
The Impact of Women in Biblical Scholarship
Children in Q/Children among Q In-groups
A Summary of Q Passages Related to Children
Gendered Couplets and Understanding the Presence of Women in Q
Implications of Arnal’s work for child-centered studies of Q
Conclusion
15 Children, Parents, and God/Gods in Interreligious Roman Households and the Interpretation of 1 Corinthians 7:14
Part I: The Interpretation of 1 Corinthians 7:14b in Recent Scholarship
Part II: Children Who Are Consecrated to God, Potentially Saved
Part III: A Common Consecration to God and the “Beautiful” Roman Household
16 Fathers and Daughters in 1 Corinthians 7:36–38: The Social Implications of Marriage in Early Christian Families
Context
Philological Questions
Marriage in the Roman Empire
Putting Philological and Social Concerns Together
Conclusion
Part Five Early Christian Apocrypha
17 Absence and Presence of Children in the Apocryphal Acts
The Presence of Children
Presence or Absence of Children?
The Problem of Children
Jesus as a Child
Conclusion
18 Traveling with Children: Flight Stories and Pilgrimage Routes in the Apocryphal Infancy Gospels
Exile and Pilgrimage in the Ancient World
The Flight to Egypt in Christian Apocrypha
Concluding Remarks
Bibliography
Scripture Index
Other Ancient Sources
Subject Index

Citation preview

T&T Clark Handbook of Children in the Bible and the Biblical World

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T&T Clark Handbook of Children in the Bible and the Biblical World Edited by Sharon Betsworth and Julie Faith Parker

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T&T CLARK Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA BLOOMSBURY, T&T CLARK and the T&T Clark logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2019 Copyright © Sharon Betsworth, Julie Faith Parker, and contributors, 2019 Sharon Betsworth and Julie Faith Parker have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Editors of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on p. xiv constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover design: Terry Woodley Cover image © Grave Stele of a Young Girl, “Melisto,” c. 340 BCE Carved, Marble, probably from Sounion; 95.5 cm h × 49.2 cm w × 10 cm d (37 5/8 × 19 3/8 × 3 15/16 in.) Harvard Art Museums/ Arthur M. Sackler Museum, Alpheus Hyatt Purchasing and Gifts for Special Uses Funds in memory of Katherine Brewster Taylor, as a tribute to her many years at the Fogg Museum, 1961.86 Photo: Imaging Department © President and Fellows of Harvard College All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN:

HB: ePDF: ePUB:

978-0-5676-7257-5 978-0-5676-7258-2 978-0-5676-7259-9

Typeset by RefineCatch Limited, Bungay, Suffolk To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

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To all of my teachers and students who have taught me to read the biblical text for what and whom we are not seeing. ~ SB To Phyllis Trible Whose passion for the Hebrew Scriptures inspired my own. ~ JFP

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Contents List of Tables and Illustrations List of Contributors Acknowledgments List of Abbreviations 1

Introduction Sharon Betsworth and Julie Faith Parker

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Part One Orientation to the Field 2

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History of Research on Children in the Bible and the Biblical World: Past Developments, Present State—and Future Potential Reidar Aasgaard

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Accessing Childhoods: Interdisciplinary Tools at the Intersection of Biblical Studies and Childhood Studies Laurel W. Koepf Taylor

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Part Two Hebrew Bible 4

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Methodology: Who Is a Child and Where Do We Find Children in the Ancient Near East? Kristine Henriksen Garroway

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The Logic of Sacrificing Firstborn Children Heath D. Dewrell

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Children of Diaspora: The Cultural Politics of Identity and Diasporic Childhood in the Book of Esther Dong Sung Kim

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Children in Proverbs, Proverbial Children Ericka S. Dunbar and Kenneth N. Ngwa

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God as a Child in the Hebrew Bible? Playing with the Possibilities Julie Faith Parker

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Part Three Intertextual Issues and Intertestamental Texts 9

Children and the Memory of Traumatic Violence Kathleen Gallagher Elkins

10 A Road-Trip to Manhood: Tobias’s Coming of Age in Tobit 6–12 Stephen M. Wilson

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Part Four New Testament 11 Methodology: Who Is a Child and Where Do We Find Children in the Greco-Roman World? John W. Martens

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12 Children Playing in the Marketplaces Sharon Betsworth

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13 “Theirs is the Kingdom”: Children as Proprietors of the Kingdom of God in Luke 18:15–17 Amy Lindeman Allen

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14 The “Lost Boys” (and Girls) of Q’s “Neverland” A. James Murphy

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15 Children, Parents, and God/Gods in Interreligious Roman Households and the Interpretation of 1 Corinthians 7:14 Judith M. Gundry

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16 Fathers and Daughters in 1 Corinthians 7:36–38: The Social Implications of Marriage in Early Christian Families John W. Martens

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Part Five Early Christian Apocrypha 17 Absence and Presence of Children in the Apocryphal Acts Anna Rebecca Solevåg

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Contents

18 Traveling with Children: Flight Stories and Pilgrimage Routes in the Apocryphal Infancy Gospels Tony Burke Bibliography Scripture Index Ancient Source Index Subject Index

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379 399 445 459 465

Tables and Illustrations Table 4.1 Chronological and Social Ages Figure 4.1 Engraved Illustration of Children at Play in Ancient Greece. From the Iconographic Encyclopedia of Science, Literature and Art, published in 1851. Getty Images, Bauhaus 1000 Figure 4.2 Egyptian Carving from the Roman Period Birth House at the Temple at Dendera. Getty Images, Audrey Podolinksy/EyeEm Figure 4.3 Egyptian Beni Hasan Tomb Painting Depicting a Group of Semitic Travelers, c. 1900 BCE. Courtesy of Zev Radovan Figure 4.4 Assyrian Bas-Relief of Children Exiled in Lachish Conquest. Courtesy of Zev Radovan Table 8.1 Named Children in Genesis Table 14.1 Passages that Indicate Actual Children in Q Table 14.2 Passages that Imply Non-Adult Children in Q Table 14.3 Passages that Imply Children among Q Insiders

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Contributors Reidar Aasgaard is a Professor of History of Ideas/Intellectual History at IFIKK, Faculty of Humanities, University of Oslo, Norway. He is editor of Childhood in History: Perceptions of Children in the Ancient and Medieval Worlds (co-eds. Cornelia Horn and Oana Maria Cojocaru; Routledge, 2018) and author of The Childhood of Jesus: Decoding the Apocryphal Infancy Gospel of Thomas (Cascade/Wipf and Stock, 2009) and “My Beloved Brothers and Sisters!” Christian Siblingship in Paul (T&T Clark, 2004). Amy Lindeman Allen is Assistant Professor of New Testament at Christian Theological Seminary, Indianapolis, IN. She is the author of several articles, as well as a chapter in Luke-Acts: Texts@Contexts (T&T Clark, 2018). Sharon Betsworth is a Professor of Religion at Oklahoma City University, Oklahoma City. She is the author of Children in Early Christian Narratives (Bloomsbury/T&T Clark, 2015) and The Reign of God is Such as These: A SocioLiterary Analysis of Daughters in the Gospel of Mark (T&T Clark, 2010). Tony Burke is Associate Professor of Religious Studies at York University in Toronto, Canada. He is the author of The Syriac Tradition of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas (Gorgias, 2018) and Secret Scriptures Revealed: A New Introduction to the Christian Apocrypha (SPCK/Eerdmans, 2013) and is co-editor of New Testament Apocrypha: More Noncanonical Scriptures (Eerdmans, 2016). Heath D. Dewrell is Assistant Professor of Old Testament at Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ. He is the author of Child Sacrifice in Ancient Israel (Eisenbrauns, 2017). Ericka S. Dunbar is a Ph.D. candidate in Biblical Studies and Early Christianity (Hebrew Bible) in The Graduate Division of Religion, Drew University, Madison, NJ. xi

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Contributors

Kathleen Gallagher Elkins is Assistant Professor of Theology & Religious Studies at St. Norbert College, De Pere, WI. She is the author of Mary, Mother of Martyrs: How Motherhood Became Self-Sacrifice in Early Christianity (Feminist Studies in Religion, 2018). Kristine Henriksen Garroway is the Visiting Assistant Professor of Hebrew Bible at Hebrew Union College in Los Angeles. She is the author of Children in the Ancient Near Eastern Household (Eisenbrauns, 2014) and Growing Up in Ancient Israel: Children in Material Culture and Biblical Texts (SBL Press, 2018). Judith M. Gundry is Research Scholar and Associate Professor (Adjunct) at Yale Divinity School, New Haven, CT. Her scholarly articles include “The Least and the Greatest: Children in the New Testament,” in The Child in Christian Thought and Practice, ed. Marcia J. Bunge (Eerdmans, 2000); “Child, Children,” in New Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible, vol. 1, ed. Katherine Doob Sakenfeld (Abingdon, 2006); “Children in the Gospel of Mark, with Special Attention to Jesus’ Blessing of the Children (Mark 10:13–16) and the Purpose of Mark,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Marcia J. Bunge (Eerdmans, 2008). Dong Sung Kim is a Ph.D. candidate (ABD) in The Graduate Division of Religion, Drew University, Madison, NJ. His recent publications include “Queer Hermeneutics: Queering Asian American Identities and Biblical Interpretation,” in the T&T Clark Handbook of Asian American Biblical Hermeneutics, ed. Uriah Kim and Seung Ai Yang (Bloomsbury/T&T Clark, 2019) and “Reading Ruth, Reading Desire” in The Oxford Handbook of Biblical Narrative, ed. Danna Nolan Fewell (Oxford University Press, 2016), coauthored with Stephanie Powell and Amy Jones. John W. Martens is a Professor of Theology at University of St. Thomas, St. Paul, MN. He is the author, with Cornelia Horn, of “Let the Little Children Come to Me”: Children and Childhood in Early Christianity (Catholic University Press, 2009) and One God, One Law: Philo of Alexandria on the Mosaic and Greco-Roman Law (Brill, 2003).

Contributors

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A. James Murphy is an Associate Professor of Religion at South Dakota State University, Brookings, SD. He is the author of “Children and the Sayings Source Q—What the Double Tradition reveals about Q’s attitude toward Children: Q 11:19–20; 12:53; 14:26; and 17:1–2,” Biblical Interpretation (2019), Kids and Kingdom: The Precarious Presence of Children in the Synoptic Gospels (Pickwick, 2013), and “Children in Deuteronomy: The Partisan Nature of Divine Justice,” Biblical Interpretation (2012). Kenneth N. Ngwa is Associate Professor of Hebrew Bible at The Theological School at Drew University, Madison, NJ. He is the author of The Hermeneutics of the “Happy” Ending in Job 42:7–17 (de Gruyter, 2005) and the forthcoming Let My People Live: An Africana Reading of Exodus (Westminster/John Knox). Julie Faith Parker is Associate Professor of Biblical Studies at The General Theological Seminary in New York City. She is the editor of My So-Called Biblical Life: Imagined Stories from the World’s Best-Selling Book (Wipf & Stock, 2017) and the author of Valuable and Vulnerable: Children in the Hebrew Bible, Especially the Elisha Cycle (Brown University, 2013). Anna Rebecca Solevåg is Professor of New Testament Studies at VID Specialized University in Stavanger, Norway. She is the author of Negotiating the Disabled Body: Representations of Disability in Early Christian Texts (SBL Press, 2018) and Birthing Salvation: Gender and Class in Early Christian Childbearing Discourse (Brill, 2013). Laurel W. Koepf Taylor is Associate Dean of Academic Affairs and Associate Professor of Old Testament at Eden Theological Seminary in St. Louis, MO. She is the author of Give Me Children or I Shall Die: Children and Communal Survival in Biblical Literature (Fortress, 2013). Stephen M. Wilson is an Assistant Professor of Theology at Georgetown University in Washington, DC. He is the author of Making Men: The Male Coming-of-Age Theme in the Hebrew Bible (Oxford University Press, 2015).

Acknowledgments This book, like many others, has been a labor of love. We are glad and grateful to research on children in the Bible and the biblical world because this burgeoning subject is fascinating and our colleagues in this field are kind. We first would like to thank all of the contributors who generously share their intelligence, diligence, and expertise in the book before you. A few specific individuals have worked hard to help us bring this volume to completion. Jeffery Ogonowski, a Master of Divinity candidate at Trinity Lutheran Seminary at Capital University (Columbus, OH), devoted many hours to compiling and organizing the indexes and bibliography. We are grateful for his careful attention to this task. Jillian Nelson, Ph.D. candidate at Bright Divinity School (Fort Wotih, TX), and Justin Doty, a Master of Divinity candidate at The General Theological Seminary (New York City), also assisted in the final stages of forming the indexes. Their contributions add immeasurably to the value of this handbook as a reference tool, and we are most appreciative of their time and skill. Others deserve our thanks. At T&T Clark, Dominic Mattos, publisher, first approached us about creating this volume, and Sarah Blake, editorial assistant, provided gracious aid whenever needed. We are grateful to our respective home institutions, Oklahoma City University and The General Theological Seminary (New York City), for their support of our work. Finally, we would like to thank our families: Tom and Bodhi (SB), and Bill, Graham, and Mari (JFP) for their sustaining love. ~ Sharon Betsworth and Julie Faith Parker November 2018

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Abbreviations Secondary Sources AB ABD ANTC AOS AOTC ARC ASV AThR BBS BCOTWP BDAG BDB BDF Berit BHS BibInt BJRL BJS Bsac BTB BZ BZAW BZNW

Anchor Bible Anchor Bible Dictionary Abingdon New Testament Commentaries American Oriental Series Abingdon Old Testament Commentary Archeological Review from Cambridge American Standard Version Anglican Theological Review Behavioral Brain Science Baker Commentary on the Old Testament Wisdom and Psalms Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature A Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament A Greek Grammar of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature Berit Olam Biblia Hebraica Stuggartensia Biblical Interpretation Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester Brown Judaic Studies Bibliotheca Sacra Biblical Theology Bulletin Biblische Zeitschrift Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft xv

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CAD CANE CBQ CBW CC CCR CCSA CE CEB CEJL CHANE CIL CMG CP CRBS CSEL CSSH CTM CurA CurBR DSD DSM EANEC EBR EKKNT EncJud ErIsr ESCJ ESV ExpTim FRLANT GNV

Abbreviations

The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago Civilizations of the Ancient Near East Catholic Biblical Quarterly Conversations with the Biblical World Continental Commentaries Cross Cultural Research Corpus Christianorum Series Apocryphorum The Critical Edition of Q Common English Bible Commentaries on Early Jewish Literature Culture and History of the Ancient Near East Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum Corpus Medicorum Graecorum Classical Philology Currents in Research: Biblical Studies Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum Comparative Studies in Society and History Concordia Theological Monthly Current Anthropology Currents in Biblical Research (formerly Currents in Research: Biblical Studies) Dead Sea Discoveries Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders Explorations in Ancient Near Eastern Civilizations Encylopedia of the Bible and Its Reception Evangelisch-katholischer Kommentar zum Neuen Testament Encylopedia Judaica Eretz-Israel Studies in Christianity and Judaism English Standard Version Expository Times Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments Geneva Bible

Abbreviations

HALOT HNT HTR HUCA HUT IBC IBS ICC IG Int JAC JAF JANES JBL JBTh JCR JECH JECS JFSR JHS JLA JMF JNES JOPE JP JPed JPS JQR JRS JSJ JSNTSup JSOT JSOTSup

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The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament Handbuch zum Neuen Testament Harvard Theological Review Hebrew Union College Annual Hermeneutische Untersuchungen zur Theologie Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching Irish Biblical Studies International Critical Commentary Inscriptiones Graecae Interpretation Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum Journal of American Folklore Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society Journal of Biblical Literature Jahrbüch für Biblische Theologie Journal of Childhood and Religion Journal of Early Christian History Journal of Early Christian Studies Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion Journal of Hellenic Studies Journal of Late Antiquity Journal of Marriage and the Family Journal of Near Eastern Studies Journal of Philosophy and Education Journal for Preachers Jornal de Pediatria Jewish Publication Society Jewish Quarterly Review Journal of Roman Studies Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic, and Roman Periods Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement Series Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series

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JTS KJV KTU LCL LHBOTS LNTS LSJ NAB NAR NAS Nbk. NEA NEB Neot NIB NICNT NIGTC NIV NJB NJPS NovT NRSV NTOA NTS OEAE OECS PBS PEQ PG PGL PNTC RB RSV

Abbreviations

Journal of Theological Studies King James Version Die keilalphabetischen Texte aus Ugarit Loeb Classical Library The Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies The Library of New Testament Studies A Greek-English Lexicon New American Bible Norwegian Archeological Review New American Standard Inschriften von Nabuchodonosor, König von Babylon (604-561 v. Chr.) Near Eastern Archeology New English Bible Neotestamentica The New Interpreter’s Bible New International Commentary on the New Testament New International Greek Testament Commentary New International Version New Jerusalem Bible New Jewish Publication Society Novum Testamentum New Revised Standard Version Novum Testamentum et Orbis Antiquus New Testament Studies The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt Oxford Early Christian Studies University of Pennsylvania, Publications of the Babylonian Section Palestine Exploration Quarterly Patrologia Graeca Patristic Greek Lexicon Pelican New Testament Commentaries Revue biblique Revised Standard Version

Abbreviations

SBL SBLDS SBLSP SEL SemeiaSt SIAP SMSR SP SR ST StBibLit STJ StPatr TAPJA TCL TDNT TDOT ThTo TIM TJ TynBul UBS 4 VC VT VTSup WBC WBC WGRW WGRWSup WUNT WW YNER ZAW ZNW

Society of Biblical Literature Society of Biblical Dissertation Series Society of Biblical Literature Seminar Papers Studi epigrafici e linguistici sul Vicino Oriente antico Semeia Studies Servei d’Investigacions Arqueològiques i Prehistòriques Studi e materiali di storia delle religioni Sacra Pagina Studies in Religion/Sciences Religieuses Studia theologica Studies in Biblical Literature (Lang) Stolus Theological Journal Studia Patristica The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology Textes cunéiformes. Musée du Louvre Theological Dictionary of the New Testament Theological Dictionary of the Old Testament Theology Today Texts in the Iraq Museum Trinity Journal Tyndale Bulletin The Greek New Testament, United Bible Societies, 4th ed. Vigiliae Christianae Vetus Testamentum Supplements to Vetus Testamentum Word Biblical Commentary The Women’s Bible Commentary Writings from the Greco-Roman World Writings from the Greco-Roman World Supplement Series Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Word and World Yale Near Eastern Researches Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Zeitschrift für die neuetestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der älteren Kirche

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Abbreviations

Ancient Sources Act. Verc. Acts Andr. Acts John Acts Paul Acts Pet. Acts Thom. Ant. (Arab.) Gos. Inf. BG 4 Bon. conj. Cels. Coll. Med. Constant. Contempla Dem. ev. Dial. Digest Ep. Gen. An. Hebd. Hist. an. Hist. Aug.: Sev. Hist. eccl. Hypoth. Inf. Gos. Thom Interp. Epist. I Ad Cor. Cap. VII JW Lam. Rab. Leg. Life Bapt. Serap. LXX M. Qidd

Actus Vercellences Acts of Andrew Acts of John Acts of Paul and Thecla Acts of Peter Acts of Thomas Jewish Antiquities, Josephus Arabic Gospel of the Infancy Act of Peter (Codex Berolinensis 8502) De bono conjungali Contra Celsum Collectiones medicae Constantia De Vita Contemplativa Demonstratio evangelica Dialogus cum Tryphone Digest of Justinian Epistulae De generatione animalium De Hebdomadibus Historia animalium Historia Augusta: Severvus Historia Ecclesiastica Hypothetica Infancy Gospel of Thomas Interpretatio Epistula 1 ad Corinthios Capitulus VII Jewish War Lamentations Rabbah Leges Life of John the Baptist by Serapion Septuagint Midrash Qiddushin

Abbreviations

Med. MT Nat. Od. Oec. Oed. Tyr. Opif. Or. P. Egerton Phil. Plac. Itin. Pol. Praec. Salub Problem. Prot. Jas. Proto-Diri Ps.-Mt. Rhet. Ruf. Ap. Orib. Sanh. Shab. Sin. Syr. Vid. Virginit. Vis. Theo. Vit. Apoll.

Meditations Masoretic Text Naturalis Historia Odyssey Oeconomica Oedipus Tyrannus De opificio mundi Oratio Papyrus Egerton Orations: Philippics Antonini Placentini Itinerarium Politica Praecepta Salubria Problemata Protevangelium of James Lexical series diri DIR siāku = (w)atru Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew Rhetoric Rufus apud Oribasius Sanhedrin Shabbat Sinaiticus Syriac (Peshitta) De bono viduitatis De sancta virginitate Vision of Theophilus Vita Apollonii

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Introduction Sharon Betsworth and Julie Faith Parker

Only a few years ago, this book could not have been conceived. The academic study of children and childhood in the Bible and the biblical world was still in its infancy. Resources were sparse and academic discourses around these topics were isolated. Yet now, conversations are connected and publications are proliferating. We are delighted that the study of children in the biblical world has advanced so significantly in a relatively short time. And so we offer the T&T Clark Handbook of Children in the Bible and the Biblical World to recognize this progress and to guide continued work in the field ahead. While academic studies related to children in the biblical world extend back to the late twentieth century, the year of 2008 was noteworthy in our discipline for two primary reasons. First is the publication of The Child in the Bible, edited by Marcia J. Bunge, Terence E. Fretheim, and Beverly Roberts Gaventa. This book brought together essays by well-established academics who addressed topics around children in the Bible from a range of perspectives. The focus on children was new for nearly all of these scholars, as this book was for the discipline of biblical studies. It provided a valuable resource that has sparked further reflection and research, as the essays in this new volume attest. The T&T Clark Handbook of Children in the Bible and the Biblical World is the first compendium on children in the Bible to emerge since The Child in the Bible. The second landmark event in 2008 was the launch of the Children in the Biblical World section of the Society of Biblical Literature, chaired by Danna Nolan Fewell and Julie Faith Parker. Prior to this year, the American Academy of Religion had a section devoted to research on children, but the SBL did not. In every year since its inception, the Children in the Biblical World section has hosted between two and four sessions at the Annual Meeting, and spawned the 1

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“Families and Children in the Ancient World” section in the Society of Biblical Literature’s International Meeting. These sections have provided a home for scholars to network, share ideas, and develop papers into publications. Some of the fruitful work growing out of these conference sessions also appears in this volume. Now that serious scholarship on children in the Bible and biblical world is surging strongly ahead, this topic seems like an obvious area of study for many reasons. While explained more fully in the opening article by Reidar Aasgaard, it is important to highlight a few points as to why research on children is critical for biblical studies. First, demographers estimate that children comprise one third to one half of populations with short life expectancies, as in the ancient world. Scholars who study ancient Israel or the Greco-Roman civilization and ignore young people miss a great percentage, perhaps even the majority, of the culture that they seek to understand. Second, studying children adds new perspective and depth to our re-viewing of different institutions, such as the family and cult, as well as sociological and interpersonal issues, such as adoption, sacrifice, rivalry, inheritance, warfare, childbirth, etc. Third, many characters, both well-known and obscure, appear as children in the Bible; studying children adds depth to our understanding of famous characters and introduces us to minor characters whom we would otherwise miss. Fourth, children leave traces in the archaeological record that add to our knowledge of life in antiquity. Fifth, care for the survival of children was a significant part of family efforts and economics. Sixth, children have a critical theological role in both the Hebrew Bible (e.g., Deut. 4:9–10; 6:1–7; 11:19–21) and the New Testament (e.g., Mt. 18:2–5; Mk 9:36–37; Lk. 9:47–48). Seventh, the reception history of biblical texts has significant ramifications for many people, including those who hold the Bible as Scripture. While these reasons are certainly not exhaustive, they show some benefits of studying children in the biblical world. Children are integral to the Bible and the cultures that gave rise to its stories; therefore, children should be integral to the interpretation of biblical and related literature, as well as the study of the Bible’s literary and historical contexts. Language for this burgeoning field is evolving, but increasingly scholars refer to childist biblical interpretation, as do most of the contributors to this volume. While the term “childist” is still new to many in biblical studies, it has

Introduction

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been circulating in the academy for over fifty years and, indeed, has been used in both positive and pejorative ways.1 From a narratological perspective, childist biblical interpretation “focuses on the agency and action of children and youth in the biblical text, instead of seeing them primarily as passive, victimized, or marginalized.”2 More broadly, the word “childist” calls attention to the children and youth in the text, the archaeological record, and the interpretation of relevant material. Childist rightfully resembles its maternal disciplines of feminist and womanist biblical interpretation. Like these fields, childist interpretation looks to reassess the roles and impact of characters in the text and bygone persons from antiquity whose contributions and records have long been unnoticed or underappreciated. Along with other postmodern approaches, these fields further deconstruct portrayals of those relegated to the category of “other” and silenced or marginalized by writers and interpreters. Scholars encourage readers to question whose interests are served in the texts and traditions that have been passed down over time. We also recognize that the interpretations of ancient materials can have significant impact on living, breathing children and adults and how they are understood as people of worth in communities today. Cognizant of the implications of our work, we hope this book will further establish the study of children in the Bible and the biblical world in the guild and offer a constructive resource for this rapidly-expanding area of scholarship.3 This volume is divided into five sections that loosely follow a canonical and chronological order. The opening section, Orientation to the Field, reviews research to date and explains the relationship of child-centered scholarship with the wider area of childhood studies. The subsequent essays appear under 1

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On the word “childist” and its use in the field of psychology, see Elisabeth Young-Bruehl, Childism: Confronting Prejudice against Children (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2012), 299–300. For discussion of this term in the field of children’s literature, see Peter Hunt, “Childist Criticism – The Subculture of the Child, the Book, and the Critic,” Signal: Approaches to Children’s Books 43 (1984): 42–59. Most relevant for the biblical field is the use of the term “childist” by John Wall, who uses childist in a positive sense, analogous to feminist, womanist, or humanist. John Wall, Ethics in Light of Childhood (Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, 2010), 3. Kathleen Gallagher Elkins and Julie Faith Parker, “Children and Childist Interpretation,” in The Oxford Handbook of Biblical Narrative, ed. Danna Nolan Fewell (New York: Oxford University Press, 2016), 422–33. Two other volumes also testify to the need for resources for scholars exploring topics around children in the Bible. See Kristine Henriksen Garroway and John Martens, eds., Listening to and Learning from Children in the Biblical World (Leiden: Brill, forthcoming) and Shawn Flynn, ed., Children in the Bible and the Ancient Near East: Comparative and Historical Methods in Reading Ancient Children (London: Routledge, forthcoming).

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the categories of Hebrew Bible, Intertextual Issues and Intertestamental Texts, New Testament, and Early Christian Apocrypha. Scholars draw from a wide range of methodologies, including archaeological, comparative, historicalcritical, feminist, narratological, philological, post-colonial, social-historical, and text-critical approaches in their contributions. The sections on the Hebrew Bible and New Testament form the bulk of the book; each begins with a methodological essay that asks the foundational question of who is considered a child in the ancient Near East and Greco-Roman world, respectively. Since most of the childist research to date comes from New Testament studies, this section is larger than the others. The essays that discuss apocryphal texts and early Christian writings extend the academic conversation beyond the Jewish and Christian canons. This volume also expands the discourse globally. Scholars from Africa, Asia, Canada, Europe, and the United States share different perspectives that enrich the field. Many of the contributors also pay attention to issues of gender, raising questions about identity and using language that eschews gender binaries (e.g., using the pronoun “they” to replace a singular subject, instead of “he” or “she”). In these ways, this book breaks new ground for the field. The introductory essay by Reidar Aasgaard, “History of Research on Children in the Bible and the Biblical World: Past Developments, Present State—and Future Potential,” provides an historical overview of research into children in the Bible and the biblical world. He highlights from the outset a few key sources for the study of children and childhood in the ancient world broadly, and notes the challenges of finding sources related to children and childhood in antiquity. The bulk of the chapter reviews the literature regarding children in the Bible generally, and then specifically focuses on sources related to the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament. Aasgaard also examines the reception history of the Bible vis-à-vis children, including children’s Bibles, and methodologies used across this range of scholarship. Throughout the chapter he provides helpful reflections on each section, and concludes with future prospects for the field. Laurel Koepf Taylor’s article, “Accessing Childhoods: Interdisciplinary Tools at the Intersection of Biblical Studies and Childhood Studies,” brings the wider field of childhood studies into conversation with biblical studies. The chapter begins with key distinctions between studying children vs. childhood, noting

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the role of cultural constructions. Attention to the field of psychology raises awareness about ideals of child development presumed in the West, followed by a section on the history of childhood studies that examines how concepts of children have changed over time. Koepf Taylor reviews literary theory to reveal how portrayals of children in literature shape and subvert understandings of childhood. She further draws on archaeology and enthnography to show how material remains and anthropological comparisons inform childhood studies. Her chapter ends with a discussion of various research methodologies used to explore the lives of children, both in ancient and modern times. In this essay, Koepf Taylor provides a wealth of resources to help biblical scholars build on knowledge and insights from other child-related disciplines. The section on the Hebrew Bible begins with Kristine Henriksen Garroway’s essay, “Methodology: Who Is a Child and Where Do We Find Children in the Ancient Near East?” that helps to define who should be categorized as a child in antiquity. Garroway begins by noting physical and developmental distinctions between children and adults, then discusses Hebrew and ancient Mesopotamian terms that designate young people in successive stages of life. Her attention subsequently turns to iconography, examining (the limited) portrayals of children in the ancient Near East. Garroway’s archaeological research gathers information from human remains, realia from household dwellings, and grave goods to adduce further insights about children from millennia ago. This incisive combination of various methodologies offers multiple tools to uncover and explore the lives of children in the ancient Near East. Heath Dewrell’s essay, “The Logic of Sacrificing the Firstborn,” raises haunting questions about the practice of child sacrifice in ancient Israel. Combining close attention to Exodus 22:28–29 with demographic and crosscultural evidence, Dewrell questions scholarly arguments that deny that YHWH required the death of firstborn children. After examining assumptions about parental attachment to offspring, Dewrell charts the evolution of societies. He notes the cost of sharing resources and raising many offspring to reproductive adulthood in both the human and animal worlds. This contribution enters into a volatile debate within the academy to add insight from a childist perspective. Dong Sung Kim raises questions of childhood, cultural perception, and selfidentification in “Children of Diaspora: The Cultural Politics of Identity and

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Diasporic Childhood in the Book of Esther.” Beginning with self-awareness of his own agency as a childist scholar, Kim carefully notes the implications of societal ambivalence to children. Kim then uses post-colonial, diasporic, and gender lenses to explore how the character of Esther functions as a cultural tool in forming political identity. A contrast with Mordecai highlights the difference in the portrayal of a diasporic adult male with a diasporic young female, and the cost to Esther’s self-identity. Questions of coercion and assimilation, prevalent in the book of Esther, take on disquieting dimensions with heightened awareness of the age and gender of the book’s title character. The roles of a hypothetical yet complex child shape Proverbs, as Ericka Dunbar and Kenneth Ngwa explain in “Children in Proverbs, Proverbial Children.” Much of this biblical book has an abstract youth at its center; Dunbar and Ngwa discuss the extraordinary power that this child has even in relative passivity. Analysis of the words that designate the child in Proverbs lays the foundation for further explication of how the proverbial child functions on literary, ethical, epistemological, pedagogical, societal, economic, and political levels. Dunbar and Ngwa show all that is at stake in the transmission of wisdom traditions through the child. Indeed, without this child to receive and then pass on Proverbs’ teachings, this collection of sayings would be largely robbed of its intended value. The final article in this section, “God as a Child in the Hebrew Bible? Playing with the Possibilities,” by Julie Faith Parker brings together various texts to discern childlike images of the deity. She briefly examines the “still, small, voice” of 1 Kings 19:12, then focuses on three additional texts that associate a child’s form or image with divinity. Drawing out the implications of Genesis 1:26–27 and Genesis 5:3, she lists all the named children in Genesis to show their strong presence in the text as the image of God made manifest. She then moves from the wide narratival corpus of Genesis to a focused poetic image in Psalm 10 that hints of God as an orphan. Finally, this article touches on a word in Proverbs 8:30 that portrays Wisdom in divine form as a young child, and even as a source of joy and delight. Her article shows the rewards—and challenges—of searching for divine images of a child in the Hebrew Bible. The next section of the book, Intertextual Issues and Intertestamental Texts, begins with Kathleen Gallagher Elkins’s exploration of dramatic suffering in “Children and the Memory of Traumatic Violence.” Delving into the field of

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trauma studies, she examines the loss, pain, and trauma embedded in many of the biblical texts and questions the effect of these experiences on the children also implicitly or explicitly present in the text. The focus of her inquiry is the destruction of the Jerusalem Temples; she notes that the narration of the first Temple occupies only a few verses in the Hebrew Bible, while the destruction of the second Temple is not even described in the New Testament. But the reality of each event lurks beneath the surface in both Testaments, along with the effects of the traumatic events upon children. Stephen Wilson’s essay, “A Road-Trip to Manhood: Tobias’s Coming of Age in Tobit 6–12,” explores liminality, as the text of Tobit straddles both Testaments and the character of Tobias moves from boyhood to manhood. Wilson shows what it takes to “be a man” in biblical literature then applies these standards to the book of Tobit. Tobias’s trip in the text becomes the vehicle for his own journey into adulthood as the character takes the necessary steps for reaching maturation. By comparing Tobias’s transformation with those of other biblical and Deuterocanonical heroes, Wilson explores the connection between violence and manhood, raising questions of childhood, adulthood, and personhood in the process. The New Testament section of the volume opens with an essay by John Martens, “Methodology: Who is a Child and Where Do We Find Children in the Greco-Roman World?” analogous to the first chapter in the Hebrew Bible section. Martens begins with a review of Philo’s stages of the life of a child, conducts a similar review of the stages of life found in the Mishnah, and then broadens the scope of inquiry to the Greco-Roman world more generally. Next, Martens considers key texts in the New Testament which include children, highlighting the specific words used for children in each text. He then moves on to discuss children in other Jewish and Greco-Roman sources, inscriptional and archaeological evidence, and papyri. The chapter functions well to introduce the world of the New Testament and Early Christianity as we seek to understand who were considered children in the Greco-Roman world. The next three chapters examine specific texts from the Synoptic Gospels, expanding upon an already robust discussion of children and the Gospels in biblical scholarship. Sharon Betsworth’s article, “Children Playing in the Marketplaces,” focuses on the marketplace parable found in both Matthew 11:16–19 and Luke 7:31–35. The essay highlights the way the parable is situated

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within the Greco-Roman rhetoric about children, which was often disparaging, but also reflective of children’s lives and specifically children’s play in the ancient world. Drawing upon modern play studies, Betsworth examines what kind of play the parable describes and demonstrates that such games were played by children in the first century CE. Finally, the chapter draws connections between the parable and its child-related metaphor and the other child-centered narratives in Matthew and Luke. Amy Allen’s contribution, “ ‘Theirs is the Kingdom’: Children as Proprietors of the Kingdom of God in Luke 18:15–17,” studies Jesus’ declaration that the kingdom of God belongs to children. Taking Aristotle, Oeconomica and his discussion of household management as a point of departure, Allen argues that Luke reimagines the traditional household with the paterfamilias at the head when it comes to describing the nature of the kingdom of God. Instead of the eldest male having priority, young children and the disenfranchised become the proprietors of the kingdom of God. In “The ‘Lost Boys’ (and Girls) of Q’s ‘Neverland,’ ” A. James Murphy examines texts from the source shared by Matthew and Luke referred to as Q (from the German word “Quelle,” meaning “source”). Murphy’s investigation centers around two lines of inquiry: 1) Does the Q material contain references to nonadult children, and 2) Is there evidence of children among the Q community in-group? Drawing upon the concept of gendered couplets in Q and feminist interpretations of Q, Murphy plumbs the depths of Q for evidence of young children. In the process, he demonstrates how the field of childist interpretation is both a natural extension of methods of interpretation such as feminist hermeneutics and also draws upon traditional historical-critical modes of biblical scholarship. The next two essays focus upon portions of 1 Corinthians 7, with each one bringing important insights into the ongoing scholarly discussions of problematic texts in the Corinthian epistle. Judith Gundry’s chapter, “Children, Parents, and God/Gods in Interreligious Roman Households and the Interpretation of 1 Corinthians 7:14,” takes up one of the very few comments Paul makes about real children in his letters. The comment is in the midst of his discussion about marriage and divorce, and its meaning has eluded many biblical scholars. Gundry thoroughly reviews and critiques the literature and several potential interpretations of this verse before offering her own novel

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perspective of Paul’s statement about children. As with Martens’ article which follows, Gundry demonstrates that in-depth analysis of Paul’s terminology, when contextualized within both the Pauline corpus and the broader GrecoRoman context, yields fresh insights into previously perplexing problems. Once again, we see how one of the traditional methods of biblical scholarship may be brought to bear upon questions related to children in the Bible. John Martens also engages the Corinthian correspondence in “Fathers and Daughters in 1 Corinthians 7:36–38: The Social Implications of Marriage in Early Christian Families.” Martens argues that while modern versions of the Bible translate this text in terms of a man’s relationship to his fiancée, these translations do not reflect Greco-Roman understandings of marriage in which the father was a key player in the marital arrangements. Rather, Martens demonstrates, through a careful analysis of the terminology which Paul uses in this passage and a discussion of the practices of marriage in Paul’s context, that the text addresses fathers regarding their virgin daughters, rather than engaged men. The last section of the book moves outside of the Bible into the arena of the early Christian writings. Anna Rebecca Solevåg’s “Absence and Presence of Children in the Apocryphal Acts,” demonstrates that although there are relatively few references to children in these texts, some do occur. She focuses her discussion especially upon the Acts of Paul and Thecla, highlighting the fact that as a virgin of marriageable age, Thecla was likely not any older than what most modern people would consider a child. In the Acts of Peter, Solevåg lifts up Peter’s disabled daughter. In the Acts of Andrew and the Acts of Thomas, young children/slaves appear, evoking a discussion about the variation in childhood experiences according to gender and class that these narratives reflect. In all the Acts, children are mentioned as part of the Christian communities of the narratives, and they are often addressed together with different groups in direct speeches. The final essay of the collection is by Tony Burke, who also addresses noncanonical texts in “Traveling with Children: Flight Stories and Pilgrimage Routes in the Apocryphal Infancy Gospels.” Burke focuses upon a selection of apocryphal Christian texts that expand upon the narratives in Matthew 2:13–15 and 2:19–21 in which Jesus and his family flee Bethlehem for Egypt. Early Christian writers created tales of various locations in Egypt which Jesus’ family

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visited during their exile, places which would become pilgrimage sites for later Christians. Many of these stories were about miracles and wonders which the child Jesus performed while in Egypt, proving his divinity and superiority over native deities. Taken as a whole, this volume is the tool that we wish we had had when we began our own childist scholarship. For students who want to learn about this developing area of biblical studies, this book offers a collection of cutting-edge research. For those in doctoral programs developing a thesis related to childcentered topics, the extensive bibliography provides a valuable trove of resources. For academics bringing a focus on children into their own scholarship, this book is an invitation into the ongoing conversation. For biblical scholars investigating specific texts, the indices point to childist scholarship that can deepen dimensions of their work. For researchers in child-centered topics outside of the Bible, this book sheds light on concurrent discussion in another discipline. And for all readers interested in the Bible, we hope that the T&T Clark Handbook of Children in the Bible and the Biblical World reveals what we have discovered: to learn about children in the Bible and the biblical world is to engage the Bible’s mysterious ancient worlds and confounding compelling texts in fresh and exciting ways.

Part One

Orientation to the Field

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History of Research on Children in the Bible and the Biblical World: Past Developments, Present State—and Future Potential Reidar Aasgaard

Why study children? Because children are a major group within the human species. Because all human beings have been children. Because children are not able to do academic research on themselves. Because we adults carry our childhood with us all our lives. And because we can learn a lot about our values and valuations by exploring adult attitudes toward children. Why study the history of children? Because it has been little studied. Because children are the largest group of humans that has ever existed—a great number even died before they reached adulthood. Because adults can learn things about history that we would otherwise not learn. Because the portrait of history will become more accurate—or at least more adequate. And simply because it is unjust if children do not get their share in the writing of history. Why study children in the Bible and the biblical world? Because this world, with its ancient Near Eastern and Greco-Roman cultures, which included the origins of Judaism and the emerging Christian movement, became the basis for a variety of historical cultures, whether “western,” “oriental,” “arabic,” or other. Because the Bible came to shape the thinking and lives of all kinds of people throughout history. Because it continues to have an impact today, and even globally. Because the Bible is still read, interpreted, and used, for good and for bad, and by children and adults alike. The study of children in the Bible and the biblical world has been a growing field within research since the late 1960s, but it has flourished particularly 13

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from the 1990s on.1 During this period, research has gone through certain stages—stages, however, which do not replace but complement each other. To simplify, an early stage focused on aspects of children’s formation, such as common and religious upbringing; a second stage stressed children’s social relations and networks, for example, with attention to belonging and dependence; and then—more recently—a stage has appeared in which children are seen as active subjects, as agents in their own lives and in the lives of others. These are developments which the biblical field shares with other research on children and childhood in the ancient world, particularly in the Roman field, but which can also be seen in research on later historical periods.2 Together with Roman studies, research on the New Testament and early Christianity has both in substance and in methodology moved toward the forefront in the study of children and childhood in history.3 During the last two to three decades, this research has paid attention to a variety of matters, such as gender, life stages, social class, ethnic diversity, and disability and illnesses. Research is now characterized by interdisciplinarity, particularly with the social sciences, for example social history, cultural anthropology, sociology, and with various areas within the humanities, such as art, classics, history, archaeology, and literature. More recently, law and medicine have also been taken into consideration, for example civil and religious legislation about children, and children’s diseases. Due to the interdisciplinary nature of this research but also to developments within the field itself, the

1

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3

During the 1970s and 1980s, research on children in the Bible and the biblical world mainly consisted of surveys of the Bible as a whole. While important in its time, this research represents precursory work in the field. Early contributions are Herbert Lockyer, All the Children of the Bible (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1970); René Voeltzel, L’enfant et son éducation dans la Bible (Paris: Beauchesne, 1973); and Roy B. Zuck, Precious in His Sight: Childhood and Children in the Bible (Cedar Rapids, IA: Baker, 1996). Important studies in the ancient and medieval worlds which summarize the state of research include Mark Golden, Children and Childhood in Classical Athens, 2nd ed. (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2015); Judith Evans Grubbs, Tim Parkin, and Roslynne Bell, eds., The Oxford Handbook of Childhood and Education in the Classical World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013); Mary Harlow and Ray Laurence, eds., A Cultural History of Childhood and Family. Vol.  1: Antiquity (Oxford: Berg, 2010); Louise J. Wilkinson, ed., A Cultural History of Childhood and Family. Vol. 2: The Middle Ages (Oxford: Berg, 2010); Christian Laes, Children in the Roman Empire: Outsiders Within (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011); and generally, Paula S. Fass, ed., The Routledge History of Childhood in the Western World (London: Routledge, 2013). See Christian Laes, Katariina Mustakallio, and Ville Vuolanto, eds., Children and Family in Late Antiquity: Life, Death and Interaction (Leuven: Peeters, 2015); Christian Laes and Ville Vuolanto, eds., Children and Everyday Life in the Roman and Late Antique World (London: Routledge, 2017) for updated surveys of research and recent advances, trends, and methodologies.

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diversity in methodological approaches has grown, with intersectionality and childist interpretations being examples of this broad range of approaches. These developments are matters that I shall come back to later in this chapter. Presently, research on children in the Bible and its two Testaments is uneven. Comparatively far more research has been done on the New Testament than on the Hebrew Bible; however, within both fields some areas are more thinly covered than others. Scholars have also paid more attention to early Christianity than to early Judaism.4 It is important to note that reception history is a central concern for research on children in the Bible and the biblical world. Historically speaking, few if any other writings have had as large an impact on people as the Bible. Thus, inquiry into the ways it has influenced children’s lives in the past and still does today is crucial within this area of research. So far, much less research has been done on reception history than on the Bible and its world. Before going into more detail, two brief comments are required. First, in research on children and childhood, it is necessary to distinguish between the study of children and the study of childhood.5 Whereas the former refers to matters such as the living conditions, social functions or activities of children, the latter refers to conceptions of children as human beings and ideas about childhood as a life stage. And whereas the former mainly focuses on the children themselves, the latter usually reflects the viewpoints of adults. Both perspectives are important in themselves, since each mediates specific insights, although in different ways. The two categories of study are of course not mutually exclusive, but rather inform one another. This makes the relationship between them, for example between “reality” and “ideas” or “ideals,” a point of interest in itself. A similar, but more overarching, distinction to have in mind is between taking the perspective of children and taking children’s perspective. While the latter is concerned with taking children’s interests into consideration (that is, to speak on behalf of children), the former aims at seeing matters from the perspective of children themselves, to listen for the voices of children.

4

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However, see Hagith Sivan, Jewish Childhood in the Roman World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018). For a more in-depth discussion, see Laurel W. Koepf Taylor, “Accessing Childhoods: Interdisciplinary Tools at the Intersection of Biblical Studies and Childhood Studies,” in this volume.

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Second, the challenge of finding relevant sources must be noted. Research on children in the ancient world has often been met with objections about whether there is sufficient material for such a kind of study, and how one may be able to get access to the lives of children, considering the limited traces they are supposed to have left in the historical records. As has become clear, the material is much richer than has traditionally been assumed. This is an insight that interdisciplinary research has contributed to by joining together pieces from a variety of fields, such as textual studies and archaeology. In addition, crucial new insights have been made by scholars simply putting on “new glasses” and studying the sources—whether well-known or not—through the lens of childhood, focusing on what they may tell about children and childhood. In a way parallel to feminist studies, research on children in history has succeded in making a marginalized group such as children visible in the ancient sources. Research on children in the Bible and the biblical world is today undertaken by people from different parts of the world, particularly the US, Canada, the UK, the Nordic countries, and some other European countries, but also by a number of scholars from Asia, Africa, and the Middle East, with works being published in a number of languages. Scholars from around the world take part in the network within the “Children in the Biblical World” and “Families and Children in the Ancient World” sections of the Society of Biblical Literature.6 The sections organize conference sessions at the Annual SBL Meeting (in the US) and the International SBL Meeting (outside the US), respectively. In addition to these annual meetings, scholars gather for additional conferences and workshops, also in collaboration with academics from other disciplines. In the following, I shall give an overview of the scholarly work done in the field, with attention both to areas that have been dealt with and to areas that so far have been relatively neglected. In addition, I will point to some of the trends and changes in trends in research over the years. My aim is both to sketch a profile of research up to the present and to indicate some of the potential for further studies in the field. My emphasis will be on the present state of this research field substantially and methodologically, and to ask: what is its cutting edge? The chapter is organized in six sections: general surveys and bibliographies; the Hebrew Bible; the New Testament; the reception of the Bible; methodologies; 6

See https://www.sbl-site.org/default.aspx.

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and final reflections and future prospects. In each section, I give examples of characteristic or particularly important works within the field. Mostly, these works are in English, but also some contributions in other languages will be mentioned.

General Surveys and Bibliographies For an introduction to the field, there are two main tools, which supplement each other: works that give general overviews of the biblical material and of contemporary research, and bibliographies that present individual scholarly contributions. Since most of the overviews and the bibliographies are fairly recent, they can offer an impression of the present state of the field. Central works giving brief topical overviews are edited by Julie Faith Parker (et al.) and by Julia M. O’Brien (et al.), in which experts in subentries survey main biblical periods and reception history, with short bibliographies.7 Two important anthologies edited by Marcia J. Bunge present studies of central biblical writings and topics, and of perceptions of children and childhood in the Christian history of reception.8 A volume by Mikael Larsson and Hanna Stenstrøm (in Swedish) covers the Bible as a whole, with a thematically organized overview, whereas a book by Cornelia B. Horn and John W. Martens deals in similar ways with the New Testament and early Christianity; both works make use of a variety of approaches, such as sociohistorical and gender perpectives.9 James M. M. Francis presents a summary overview of childhood metaphors in the Bible and its historical context; Peter Müller surveys briefly

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Julie Faith Parker et al., “Child, Children,” in EBR, Vol. 5, Charisma–Czaczkes, ed. Dale C. Allison, Jr. et  al. (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012), col. 83–118; Julia M. O’Brien, ed., “Children,” in The Oxford Encyclopedia of the Bible and Gender Studies, Vol. 1, ASI–MUJ , (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 25–60. See also Edwin M. Yamauchi and Marvin R. Wilson, eds., Dictionary of Daily Life in Biblical and Post-Biblical Antiquity, 4 vols. (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2014–16). Marcia J. Bunge, ed., The Child in Christian Thought (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001); Marcia J. Bunge, Terence E. Fretheim, and Beverly Roberts Gaventa, eds., The Child in the Bible (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008). For a brief survey of the state of the art by 2008, see Marcia J. Bunge, “Introduction,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., xiv–xxvi. Mikael Larsson and Hanna Stenström, Ett myller av liv: Om barn i Bibelns texter (Uppsala, Sweden: Svenska kyrkan, 2013); Cornelia B. Horn and John W. Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me”: Childhood and Children in Early Christianity (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2009). A useful, but brief and less methodological contribution is Margaret King, “Children in Judaism and Christianity,” in The Routledge History of Childhood, ed. Fass, 39–60.

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the biblical “children of God” metaphor; Marianne Meye Thompson traces the use of the God as “father” metaphor in the Bible and its world, with a focus on gender; and Candida R. Moss and Joel S. Baden deal with issues related to childlessness.10 Three online bibliographies introduce central scholarly contributions on children in the Bible and the biblical world and, to an extent, the post-biblical world. In two of them, Julie Faith Parker and Reidar Aasgaard provide annotated bibliographies.11 Both are organized partly in groups of biblical writings, partly around themes, and comment on a considerable number of individual works. The bibliography by Ville Vuolanto (et al.) is an extensive, alphabetically organized and searchable bibliography.12 It includes a broad range of scholarly works from a variety of disciplines, including biblical studies, and covers the period from the eighth century BCE to the eighth century CE, thus providing access to much material of relevance for biblical research.

The Hebrew Bible As a written work, the Hebrew Bible is more than three times as long as the New Testament, and whereas the writings of the latter were produced within a century at the most, the texts of the former span a period of at least six to eight centuries. Seen in this light, research of the Hebrew Bible has been limited and scattered compared to the New Testament. Contributions have mainly

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James M. M. Francis, Adults as Children: Images of Childhood in the Ancient World and the New Testament (New York: Peter Lang, 2006); Peter Müller, “Gottes Kinder: Zur Metaphorik der Gotteskindschaft im Neuen Testament,” in Gottes Kinder, ed. Martin Ebner et  al., JBTh 17 (Neukirchen-Vluyn, Germany: Neukirchener, 2002), 141–62; Marianne Meye Thompson, The Promise of the Father: Jesus and God in the New Testament. (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2000); Candida R. Moss and Joel S. Baden, Reconceiving Infertility: Biblical Perspectives on Procreation and Childlessness (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2015). Julie Faith Parker,“Children in the Hebrew Bible,” in Oxford Bibliographies, ed. Christopher R. Matthews (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), http://dx.doi.org/10.1093/obo/9780195393361-0209; Reidar Aasgaard, “The Bible and Children,” in Oxford Bibliographies, 2nd ed., ed. Heather Montgomery (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), http://dx.doi.org/10.1093/obo/9780199791231-0163; Reidar Aasgaard, “Children in Antiquity and Early Christianity: Research History and Central Issues,” Familia 33 (2006): 23–46 can also serve as a survey, but is now relatively dated. Ville Vuolanto, Reidar Aasgaard, and Oana Maria Cojocaru, eds., “Children in the Ancient World and the Early Middle Ages: A Bibliography for Scholars and Students (Eighth Century BC–Eighth Century AD),” 9th ed. (Oslo: Department of Philosophy, Classics, History of Art and Ideas, University of Oslo, 2018; see http://www.hf.uio.no/ifikk/english/research/projects/childhood/index.html).

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been in article rather than monograph format, with the exception of some topics and texts.13 The most comprehensive surveys are given by Julie Faith Parker, Kristine Henriksen Garroway, Naomi Steinberg, Johanna Stiebert, and Laurel Koepf Taylor.14 In the first part of her monograph, Parker presents theories of childhood and provides a general framework for viewing children in the Hebrew Bible. She also includes philological analysis of terms in the Hebrew Bible specifically related to children and youth.15 Garroway and Steinberg focus on conceptions of children and childhood, the former on children’s roles within the household, the latter on parent–child relations; Garroway also pays special attention to gender and Steinberg to cross-cultural comparisons. The same is the case with Stiebert, who centers on father–daughter relations. Koepf Taylor deals with children’s functions within the ancient agrarian society, and particularly labor and agency, with focus on children’s importance for the family’s subsistence and economy. In his volume, Milton Eng systematizes material related to life stages, including childhood, through detailed analyses of the semantic field of “child” in the Hebrew Bible as a whole.16 Scholars have also paid attention to some specific topics in the Hebrew Bible related to dramatic, and primarily exceptional, occurrences in children’s lives. Andreas Michel focuses on violence against children, with analyses of types of violence and of the role of God, however with little attention to historical or social aspects.17 David A. Bosworth treats Hebrew Bible material 13

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An important contribution is Andreas Kunz-Lübcke and Rüdiger Lux, eds., “Schaffe mir Kinder . . .”: Beiträge zur Kindheit im alten Israel und in seinen Nachbarkulturen (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2006). The volume focuses more on problematic aspects of children’s lives than on everyday life. For a general discussion of specific topics, see Irmtraud Fischer, “Über Lust und Last, Kinder zu haben: Soziale, genealogische und theologische Aspekte in der Literatur Alt-Israels,” in Gottes Kinder, ed. Ebner et al., 55–82; Frank Crüsemann, “Gott als Anwalt der Kinder? Zur Frage von Kinderrechten in der Bibel,” in Gottes Kinder, ed. Ebner et al., 183–98. Julie Faith Parker, Valuable and Vulnerable: Children in the Hebrew Bible, especially the Elisha Cycle (Providence, RI: Brown Judaic Studies, 2013); Kristine Henriksen Garroway, Children in the Ancient Near Eastern Household, EANEC 3 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2014); Naomi Steinberg, The World of the Child in the Hebrew Bible (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2013); Johanna Stiebert, Fathers and Daughters in the Hebrew Bible (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013); Laurel W. Koepf Taylor, Give Me Children or I Shall Die: Children and Communal Survival in Biblical Literature (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2013). Parker, Valuable and Vulnerable, 41–76. Milton Eng, The Days of Our Years: A Lexical Semantic Study of the Life Cycle in Biblical Hebrew (London: T&T Clark, 2011). Andreas Michel, Gott und Gewalt gegen Kinder im Alten Testament (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003). See also Andreas Michel,“Gewalt gegen Kinder im alten Israel: Eine sozialgeschichtliche Perspektive,” in Schaffe mir Kinder, ed. Kunz-Lübcke and Lux, 137–63.

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(Gen. 21; Exod. 2) on infant weeping and compares this with sources from neighboring cultures, making use of the natural sciences to develop a theory for analysis of this phenomenon in literature.18 Heath D. Dewrell discusses a recurring and previously much debated topic, viz., child sacrifice, with the main emphasis on written (biblical and non-biblical) and archaeological evidence.19 The issue of gender and young people has only sparsely been addressed by scholars such as Hennie J. Marsman, Jennie Ebeling, and Stephen M. Wilson.20 The Torah has been studied more frequently than other parts of the Hebrew Bible. Still, the treatments have primarily been surveys or short studies of texts and topics rather than detailed analyses. The interest has mainly centered on Deuteronomy and on its ideas about identity formation and about violence against children.21 Genesis and Exodus have also been briefly examined, with a focus on violence.22 Leviticus and Numbers have received very limited attention. It is worth noting that the topic of childhood has not been systematically addressed on the basis of source criticism or with a view to the implications of the legal material for children.23 The historical writings have been studied little with a focus upon children, with a couple of important exceptions. In her book, Parker has a thorough analysis of the stories of Elisha in 2 Kings 2–8; here, she demonstrates convincingly the critical and active role of the child characters in these stories.24 In a book chapter, Esther M. Menn focuses particularly on gender, with an 18

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David A. Bosworth, Infant Weeping in Akkadian, Hebrew, and Greek Literature (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2016). Heath D. Dewrell, Child Sacrifice in Ancient Israel, EANEC 5 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2017). Hennie J. Marsman, Women in Ugarit and Israel: Their Social and Religious Position in the Context of the Ancient Near East (Leiden: Brill, 2003); Jennie R. Ebeling, Women’s Lives in Biblical Times (London: T&T Clark, 2010); Stephen M. Wilson, Making Men: The Male Coming-of-Age Theme in the Hebrew Bible (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015). See Irmtraud Finsterbusch, “Die kollektive Identität und die Kinder: Bemerkungen zu einem Programm im Buch Deuteronomium,” in Gottes Kinder, ed. Ebner et al., 99–120; Patrick D. Miller, “That the Children May Know: Children in Deuteronomy,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., 45–62; and A. James Murphy, “Children in Deuteronomy: The Partisan Nature of Divine Justice,” BibInt 20 (2012): 1–15 (all are only chapter length). Terence E. Fretheim, “ ‘God Was with the Boy’ (Genesis 21:20): Children in the Book of Genesis,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., 3–23; Claire R. Mathews McGinnis, “Exodus as a ‘Text of Terror’ for Children,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., 24–44. Except for Joseph Fleishman, Father–Daughter Relations in Biblical Law (Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2011), which deals with a couple of legal matters in Leviticus. Parker, Valuable and Vulnerable, 90–197. See also Julie Faith Parker, “You Are a Bible Child: Exploring the Lives of Children and Mothers through the Elisha Cycle,” in Women in the Biblical World, ed. Elizabeth A. McCabe (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 2009), 59–70.

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example of a girl figure in the same cycle, in 2 Kings 5, together with the young David in 1 Samuel 16–17.25 Beyond these few studies, the extensive and varied material in this part of the Hebrew Bible seems not to have been studied with a view to children and childhood. Surprisingly, particularly considering its reception historical impact, the story of Samuel’s childhood in the temple (1 Sam. 1–3) seems to have received limited attention, as have other children in the Deuteronomistic History, e.g. in the Elijah material (1 Kgs 17). As for the prophets and the wisdom literature, the situation is similar. To my knowledge, these manifold writings have only been dealt with in article and chapter format. Rüdiger Lux surveys texts in the prophets reflecting violence against children; this is also the focus of Chris Heard in a short analysis of Habakkuk.26 More research has been done in the wisdom literature. This is to be expected, since pedagogy and character formation are central rationales behind these works. Still, the research is quite sparse: Holger Delkurt and William P. Brown briefly analyze Proverbs; both note that this work reflects a varied and nuanced view of children and their formation.27 Otto Kaiser focuses on perceptions of children in Sirach, with special attention to social context.28 Beyond these studies, little research appears to have been done on other prophets, wisdom works, or on poetic writings, such as the Psalms, Job, and Lamentations. The same pertains to the large body of deuterocanonical and pseudepigraphical material and to the Septuagint. As concerns the Dead Sea Scrolls and related material, Cecilia Wassen’s article is the most detailed; she argues that both girls and boys in the Qumran community were trained in reading and writing.29 A final aspect to be mentioned here is the use of metaphors from the semantic domain of childhood. Even though the metaphors are applied on 25

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Esther M. Menn, “Child Characters in Biblical Narratives: The Young David (1 Samuel 16–17) and the Little Israelite Servant Girl (2 Kings 5:1–19),” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., 324–52. Rüdiger Lux, “Die Kinder auf der Gasse: Ein Kindheitsmotiv in der prophetischen Gerichts- und Heilsverkündigung,” in Schaffe mir Kinder, ed. Kunz-Lübcke and Lux, 197–221; Chris Heard, “Hearing the Children’s Cries: Commentary, Deconstruction, Ethics and the Book of Habakkuk,” in Bible and Ethics of Reading, ed. Danna Nolan Fewell and Gary A. Phillips (Atlanta: SBL Press, 1997), 75–90. Holger Delkurt, “Erziehung nach dem alten Testament,” in Gottes Kinder, ed. Ebner et al., 227–53; William P. Brown, “To Discipline without Destruction: The Multifaceted Profile of the Child in Proverbs,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., 63–81. See also “Children in Proverbs, Proverbial Children” by Ericka Dunbar and Kenneth Ngwa, in this volume. Otto Kaiser, “Erziehung und Bildung in der Weisheit des Jesus Sirach,” in Schaffe mir Kinder, ed. Kunz-Lübcke and Lux, 223–51. Cecilia Wassen, “On the Education of Children in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” SR 41 (2012): 350–63. See also Moshe J. Bernstein, “Women and Children in Legal and Liturgical Texts from Qumran,” DSD 11 (2004): 191–211.

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other matters, such as the relationship between God and the people of Israel, they still reflect thinking—and probably often realities—about the treatment and formation of children. Here, too, research is limited, with Francis’s book providing a survey of much material, as a resource for other studies.30 Jacqueline E. Lapsley briefly presents an analysis of such metaphors in Isaiah that can serve as a model for similar investigations, for example in other prophets.31 Much more has been done on childhood metaphors in the New Testament; I return to this below.

Some Reflections There are of course a variety of reasons for the fairly meagre research on children in the Hebrew Bible. One is clearly the nature of the texts themselves— their focus is on other matters, to the effect that children are marginalized. More important, however, has been a lack of attention to childhood within Hebrew Bible research—scarcely any studies were published before the turn of the century. This is markedly different from the situation in the study of the New Testament. In fact, research on children in the Hebrew Bible only gained momentum from around 2008, but then with a number of important studies following and with new developments in methodology.32 So far, some areas have received special attention.33 A number of works have dealt with children in the social and cultural context of the family, especially parent–child relations, occasionally sibling relations, and often from a gender perspective. The Hebrew Bible vocabulary on children has received quite some scholarly interest, as have also—but to a lesser extent—issues related to the life cycle (infancy, childhood, youth). Studies of the daily life and social roles of children, a result of archaeological research, has quite recently come into focus. 30

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Francis, Adults as Children (chapter two). See also Brent A. Strawn, “ ‘Israel, My Child’: The Ethics of a Biblical Metaphor,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., 103–40; Stiebert, Fathers and Daughters. Jacqueline E. Lapsley, “ ‘Look! The Children and I Are as Signs and Portents in Israel’: Children in Isaiah,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., 82–102. This was the year when the Children in the Biblical World section of the Society of Biblical Literature was formed. The 2008 volume by Bunge was also especially important as an ice breaker for childhood studies in the Hebrew Bible. An early exception (2002) is Gottes Kinder, ed. Ebner et al. Here, I very much concur with the way Parker, Valuable and Vulnerable, has organized the research on childhood in the Hebrew Bible.

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Recurring topics until the present have been children as victims of violence and the discussion of whether child sacrifice was a historical reality in ancient Israel. Orphans and their fate and ancient practices of adoption have also been fields of interest.34 There has been an enduring engagement with religious and theological, including systematic-theological, approaches to the Hebrew Bible, for example on the implications of children, like other humans, being created in the image of God.35 Finally, some scholarly attention has been paid to the use of metaphorical language taken from the domain of childhood. As indicated, however, research on children in the Hebrew Bible and its world(s) is still piecemeal and fragmentary, with many fields open for exploration by means of both traditional and new approaches.

The New Testament The early Christian movement, and with it the New Testament, originated in the context of early Judaism and the Greco-Roman world; these served as its joint cultural framework. Research on Greco-Roman sources started in the early 1980s and developed quickly, particularly within the Roman field, first with an interest in family life in general and then with a growing attention to children.36 The study of childhood in the New Testament has stood in close exchange with this research. Inquiry into children in the New Testament started out a good deal earlier than in the Hebrew Bible and has, as indicated above, received markedly more attention.

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See David L. Bartlett, “Adoption in the Bible,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et  al., 375–98; Markus Sigismund, “ ‘Without Father, without Mother, without Genealogy’ (Heb 7:3): Fatherlessness in (Old and) New Testament,” in Growing up Fatherless in Antiquity ed. Sabine R. Hübner and David M. Ratzan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 83–102; and in particular Erkki Koskinniemi, The Exposure of Infants among Jews and Christians in Antiquity (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2009), who also covers early Christianity (until the fifth century CE). For an example, see W. Sibley Towner, “Children and the Image of God,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., 307–21; see also Julie Faith Parker, “God as a Child in the Hebrew Bible? Playing with the Possibilities,” in this volume. Prime examples are Thomas Wiedemann, Adults and Children in the Roman Empire (London: Routledge, 1989); Golden, Children and Childhood in Classical Athens (1st ed. 1995); Beryl Rawson, Children and Childhood in Roman Italy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), and her earlier publications (from the 1980s on).

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An important, early wave of scholarly interest within the field were the volumes by Simon Légasse, Gerhard Krause, and Hans-Ruedi Weber.37 All focus on “Jesus and the children” passages in the Gospels, but each also differs somewhat in perspective; their respective interests lie in sociohistorical, reception historical, and hermeneutical matters. A discussion in the 1960s between Joachim Jeremias and Kurt Aland about the historical roots of infant baptism was also important, but only to a limited degree focused on the children themselves.38 After a period of relatively little interest in children in the Bible and the biblical world in the late 1970s and in the 1980s, a second research wave arose in the early 1990s. This is a wave that has taken on force all its way up to the present. Two important, seminal works on the New Testament in the earliest stage were the monographs by Peter Müller and William Strange.39 The former is a detailed scholarly analysis of the semantic field of “child” in the New Testament and its context, whereas the latter is a popular survey of ideas about childhood in the Greco-Roman world, the Gospels, and early Christianity. Both share interests in social history and in hermeneutical issues. These are also concerns that run as common threads through much of the later research, as discussed below. A special area of research, though somewhat limited and isolated, has been on the historical Jesus, both his attitudes toward children and his own childhood. After some seminal work from the late 1960s on, the interest in Jesus’ attitudes toward children resurfaces in articles by Stephen C. Barton, Judith M. Gundry-Volf, and Bettina Eltrop.40 However, the main contribution 37

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Simon Légasse, Jésus et l’enfant: ‘enfants’, ‘petits’ et ‘simples’ dans la tradition synoptique (Paris: J. Gabalda, 1969); Gerhard Krause, ed., Die Kinder im Evangelium (Stuttgart: Ehrenfried Klotz, 1973); Hans-Ruedi Weber, Jesus and the Children: Biblical Resources for Study and Preaching (Geneva, Switzerland: World Council of Churches, 1979). Kurt Aland, Die Stellung der Kinder in den frühen christlichen Gemeinden—und ihre Taufe (Munich: Kaiser, 1967). The argument is summarized and discussed in Odd Magne Bakke, When Children Became People: The Birth of Childhood in Early Christianity (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2005), ch. 6, esp. 223–30. Amy Lindeman Allen briefly summarizes this discussion as well in her contribution in this volume, “‘Theirs is the Kingdom’: Children as Proprietors of the Kingdom of God in Luke 18:15–17.” Another important topic, abortion, was treated by Andreas Lindemann,“‘Do Not Let a Woman Destroy the Unborn Babe in Her Belly’: Abortion in Ancient Judaism and Christianity,” ST 49 (1995): 253–71. Peter Müller, In der Mitte der Gemeinde: Kinder im Neuen Testament (Neukirchen-Vluyn, Germany: Neukirchener, 1992); William Strange, Children in the Early Church: Children in the Ancient World, the New Testament, and the Early Church (Carlisle, UK: Paternoster, 1996). Stephen C. Barton, “Jesus: Friend of Little Children?” in The Contours of Christian Education, ed. Jeff Astley and David Day (Great Wakering, UK: McCrimmons, 1992), 30–40; Judith M. Gundry-Volf, “ ‘To Such as These Belongs the Reign of God’: Jesus and Children,” ThTo 56 (2000): 469–80; Judith M. Gundry-Volf, “The Least and the Greatest: Children in the New Testament,” in The Child in Christian Thought, ed. Bunge, 29–60; Bettina Eltrop, “Kinder im Neuen Testament: Eine sozialgeschichtliche Nachfrage,” in Gottes Kinder, ed. Ebner et al., 83–96.

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is the volume by A. James Murphy, which employs a deconstructive literary approach to the Gospels.41 Murphy is critical about ideas of Jesus being particularly friendly toward children, and also holds that the eschatological Jesus movement caused tensions within families, to the disadvantage of children. A similar view is also voiced in a book chapter by Martin Ebner.42 A notable contribution on the childhood of the historical Jesus is from Andries van Aarde, who maintains that Jesus grew up fatherless and that this experience is reflected in his emphasis on God as his father and in his own compassion for the socially marginalized.43 During the twenty-first century, research has become increasingly specialized and either focuses on particular groups of texts (such as the Gospels and Paul’s letters), individual writings (e.g., one Gospel), single pericopes (e.g., Mk 10:13–16), or on specific topics across the writings. A topic that has received considerable attention is parent–child relations. An early and central work is a monograph by Peter Balla.44 This is a thorough study of parent–child relations in the New Testament and in the context of Greco-Roman and Jewish culture, with a special focus on children’s rights and obligations toward parents. Even earlier, but still of interest, is a volume edited by Shaye J. D. Cohen which focuses on Jewish sources, and an article by O. Larry Yarbrough which treats the letters of Paul.45

Gospels and the Acts of the Apostles As for the Gospels, article length analyses of each of them appear in the 2008 volume edited by Bunge, Terence E. Fretheim, and Beverly Roberts Gaventa,

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A. James Murphy, Kids and Kingdom: The Precarious Presence of Children in the Synoptic Gospels (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2013). Martin Ebner, “ ‘Kinderevangelium oder markinische Sozialkritik?,’ Mk 10,13–16 im Kontext,” in Gottes Kinder, ed. Ebner et al., 315–36. Andries Van Aarde, Fatherless in Galilee: Jesus as a Child of God (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity International, 2001). Peter Balla, The Child–Parent Relationship in the New Testament and Its Environment (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003). Shaye J. D. Cohen, ed., The Jewish Family in Antiquity (Atlanta: Scholars, 1993); O. Larry Yarbrough, “Parents and Children in the Letters of Paul,” in The Social World of the First Christians: Essays in Honor of Wayne A. Meeks, ed. L. Michael White and O. Larry Yarbrough (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), 126–41. For later contributions with a focus on parent–child relations, see below on Burke (2003); Aasgaard (2004); Gerber (2005); Gaventa (2007); MacDonald (2008; 2012); McNeel (2014).

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and some essays in various monographs give brief general surveys of the Gospels.46 The most extensive and systematic scholarly presentation is by Sharon Betsworth, with chapters on each of the canonical Gospels.47 She engages in a close reading of the material from a variety of perspectives: sociohistorical, redaction critical, literary, gender, and childist interpretations. The volume also has analyses of the second-century Infancy Gospel of Thomas and Protevangelium of James, and places these apocryphal infancy Gospels along trajectories of development from the canonical Gospels. To my knowledge, there have been only two monographs published on individual Gospels. The earliest is by Bettina Eltrop on Matthew, which presents all passages that deal with children and then in detail analyzes 18:1–5 (children and the kingdom of God) and 19:13–15 (Jesus and the children).48 Her approach to the Gospel is sociohistorical and feminist, and with hermeneutical reflections. The feminist perspective on Matthew is also followed up by Betsworth in a book chapter.49 The other monograph is on Mark, again by Betsworth.50 She focuses on the role of daughters in the Gospel, compares this treatment to attitudes toward girls in Greco-Roman sources and the Septuagint, and shows that Mark both conforms to and differs from these attitudes, and in ways that serve to highlight his ideas about the kingdom of God. Two articles, by Melanie A. Howard and Anna Rebecca Solevåg, deal with children in miracle stories in Mark, a boy (9:14–29) and a girl (7:24–30); both analyze the texts from a disability studies perspective.51 46

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In Bunge et al., eds, The Child in the Bible, this is dealt with by Keith J. White (Mt.), Judith M. Gundry (Mk), John T. Carroll (Lk.), and Marianne Meye Thompson (Jn). See also Judith M. Gundry-Volf, “The Least and the Greatest,” in The Child in Christian Thought, ed. Bunge, 29–60; James M. M. Francis, “Children and Childhood in the New Testament,” in The Family in Theological Perspective, ed. Stephen C. Barton (London: T&T Clark, 1996), 65–85. Sharon Betsworth, Children in Early Christian Narratives (London: Bloomsbury/ T&T Clark, 2015). Bettina Eltrop, Denn Solchen gehört das Himmelreich: Kinder im Matthäus-evangelium: Eine feministisch-sozialgeschichtliche Untersuchung (Stuttgart: Grauer, 1996). Sharon Betsworth, “What Child Is This? A Contextual Feminist Literary Analysis of the Child in Matthew 2,” in Matthew, ed. Nicole Wilkinson Duran and James P. Grimshaw (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2013), 49–64. A brief narrative analysis is provided by Keith J. White, “ ‘He Placed a Little Child in the Midst’: Jesus, the Kingdom, and Children,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., 353–74. Sharon Betsworth, The Reign of God Is Such as These: A Socio-literary Analysis of Daughters in the Gospel of Mark (London: T&T Clark, 2010). See also Judith M. Gundry, “Children in the Gospel of Mark, with Special Attention to Jesus’ Blessing of the Children (Mark 10:13–16) and the Purpose of Mark,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., 143–76. Melanie A. Howard, “Jesus Loves the Little Children: A Theological Reading of Mark 9:14–29 for Children with Serious Illnesses or Disabilities and Their Caregivers,” WW 33 (2013): 275–83; Anna Rebecca Solevåg, “Listening for the Voices of Two Disabled Girls in Early Christian Literature,” in Children and Everyday Life, ed. Laes and Vuolanto, 290–302.

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Even though children have a prominent place in Luke, no monograph has so far been published on this topic. However, in a book-length thesis Amy Lindeman Allen has made thorough readings of the material from a childcentered and childist perspective, pointing to the manifold and active roles children have in the Gospel.52 In addition, John T. Carroll briefly surveys the material, and Nils Krückemeier and Bradly S. Billings in articles focus on the story of the boy Jesus in the temple (2:41–52), with attention to the literary and sociohistorical contexts.53 Apart from these contributions, limited research has been done on children and childhood in Luke. Considering the nearly invisible position children have in the Gospel of John, it is not so surprising that little is written on this text. Exceptions are essays by Marianne Meye Thompson and Joachim Kügler; both, however, deal with John’s metaphorical use of “children.”54 Studies are also few on the Acts of the Apostles, even though children have a more visible place there than in John, but less so than in Luke. However, Joel B. Green surveys relevant passages and discusses the implications of the material for a theology of childhood.55 Occasionally Diane G. Chen also touches on children, whether in a concrete or metaphorical sense, in her analysis of God as father in Luke-Acts.56

Letters and Revelation The letters of Paul and the letters in the Pauline tradition have received relatively extensive treatment, especially from a theological and sociohistorical perspective. Beverly Roberts Gaventa and Aasgaard present brief overviews and discussions of the seven uncontested letters of Paul, the former with a view

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Amy Lindeman Allen, “For Theirs is the Kingdom: (Re)membering Young Children in the Gospel of Luke” (PhD diss., Vanderbilt University, Nashville, 2016). John T. Carroll, “ ‘What Then Will This Child Become’: Perspectives on Children in the Gospel of Luke,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., 177–94; Nils Krückemeier, “Der zwölfjahrige Jesus im Tempel (Lk 2.40–52) und die biografische Literatur der hellenistischen Antike,” NTS 50 (2004): 307–19; Bradly S. Billings, “ ‘At the Age of 12’: The Boy Jesus in the Temple (Luke 2:41–52), the Emperor Augustus, and the Social Setting of the Third Gospel,” JTS 60 (2009): 70–89. Joachim Kügler,“ ‘Denen aber, die ihn aufnamen . . .’ (Joh 1,12): Die Würde der Gotteskinder in der johanneischen Theologie,” in Gottes Kinder, ed. Ebner et  al., 83–96; Marianne Meye Thompson, “Children in the Gospel of John,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., 195–214. Joel B. Green, “ ‘Tell Me a Story’: Perspectives on Children from the Acts of the Apostles,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., 215–32. Diane G. Chen, God as Father in Luke–Acts (New York: Peter Lang, 2006).

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to modern relevance, the latter to rhetorical function.57 Both also focus on Paul’s use of metaphors related to childhood. In fact, the attention to fictive kinship and childhood language is characteristic of much of Pauline research within this area. In book format, Christine Gerber and Trevor J. Burke deal with parent–child metaphors, Gerber in close readings of passages from various letters, and Burke through an examination of 1 Thessalonians.58 Also in book format, Gaventa and Jennifer Houston McNeel focus on mother– child metaphors, the former in Paul generally, the latter in 1 Thessalonians.59 Finally, Aasgaard in a volume explores Paul’s use of sibling, and also family, language.60 All of these scholars make use of metaphor theory and sociohistorical approaches, paying close attention to the rhetorical and theological function of this material. Many of them also focus on the hierarchical nature of the parent– child relation. Compared to the extensive research on family and childhood metaphors in Paul, research on the position of actual children in Paul and his communities is meager. The paucity of such studies is likely due to the marginal role the apostle allots to children in the letters, with 1 Corinthians 7:14 being the single explicit mention, and then only in passing.61 Quite differently from the seven authentic letters, the deutero-Pauline letters (Eph., Col., and 2 Thess.) and the Pastoral Epistles (1–2 Tim. and Tit.) put children up front, primarily in the household codes (e.g., Col. 3:18–4:1; Eph. 5:21–6:9) and similar material, but also in scattered exhortations to treat children responsibly (e.g., 1 Tim. 5; Tit. 2:4). Margaret Y. MacDonald has made the most

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Beverly Roberts Gaventa, “Finding a Place for Children in the Letters of Paul,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., 233–48; Reidar Aasgaard, “Like a Child: Paul’s Rhetorical Uses of Childhood,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., 249–77. Christine Gerber, Paulus und seine “Kinder”: Studien zur Beziehungsmetaphorik der paulinischen Briefe (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2005); Trevor J. Burke, Family Matters: A Socio-historical Study of Fictive Kinship Metaphors in 1 Thessalonians (London: T&T Clark, 2003). Beverly Roberts Gaventa, Our Mother Saint Paul (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2007); Jennifer Houston McNeel, Paul as Infant and Nursing Mother: Metaphor, Rhetoric, and Identity in 1 Thessalonians 2:5–8 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2014). Reidar Aasgaard, My Beloved Brothers and Sisters!: Christian Siblingship in Paul (London: T&T Clark, 2004). For a discussion of metaphorical usage of “adoption,” see James M. Scott, Adoption as Sons of God: An Exegetical Investigation into the Background of Huiothesia in the Pauline Corpus (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992). See Judith M. Gundry, “Children, Parents, and God/Gods in Interreligious Roman Households and the Interpretation of 1 Corinthians 7:14,” in this volume.

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extensive and systematic analyzes of this material.62 Her focus is both on perceptions of children and childhood and on the social and religious functions of children in the family and the house churches. She pays special attention to identity construction and formation and unveils the complex familial and societal patterns in which children were embedded. Carolyn A. Osiek, Janet H. Tulloch, and MacDonald in their volume on women in early Christianity also deal with this material and pay attention to children, particularly girls.63 In the Catholic Letters (Heb.; Jas; 1–2 Pet.; 1–3 Jn; Jude), children primarily appear in metaphorical language, with Christians being addressed as children or characterized as children of God, or by means of images from the domain of childhood (e.g., Heb. 5:13; 1 Pet. 1:14; 1 Jn 2; 2 Jn 1). This topic has been briefly dealt with by Francis and by Horn and Martens, among others.64 As for the Revelation of John, in which children and childhood seem to play a very small role, little scholarly work has been done to date.

Some Reflections During the last two decades, research on children and childhood in the New Testament has become quite extensive. The distribution of research is, however, very uneven, with the Synoptic Gospels and the letters of Paul and of the Pauline tradition having received the main attention, whereas limited work has been done on the Gospel of John, Acts, and the Catholic Letters, and next to nothing on the Revelation of John. Focus has often been on children within the family, generation hierarchies and fictive family language, and increasingly with a perspective “from below.” A variety of methodologies have also been applied to the material: sociohistorical, feminist/gender, metaphor theoretical and—to an extent—literary readings have been common. Other kinds of readings are also gaining importance, as discussed below.

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Margaret Y. MacDonald, “A Place of Belonging: Perspectives on Children from Colossians and Ephesians,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., 278–304; Margaret Y. MacDonald, “Reading the New Testament Household Codes in Light of New Research on Children and Childhood in the Roman World,” SR 41 (2012): 376–87; Margaret Y. MacDonald, The Power of Children: The Construction of Christian Families in the Greco-Roman World (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2014). Carolyn A. Osiek, Margaret Y. MacDonald, and Janet H. Tulloch, A Woman’s Place: House Churches in Earliest Christianity (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006). James M. M. Francis, “Children and Childhood in the New Testament,” in The Family in Theological Perspective, ed. Barton, 65–85; Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me.”

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A few less studied areas deserve mention. For example, more work should be done on the historical Jesus’ attitudes toward children and childhood. Considering the traditional and very widespread notions about Jesus as being particularly child-friendly, the topic has been little researched, problematized, and debated, with the exception of the book by Murphy (noted above). The matter is important historically, theologically, and hermeneutically: On the one hand, it can have an impact on the often high valuations of children within Christian thought and on the other hand also on well-established perceptions of Jesus—a not so childfriendly Jesus may appear quite unsettling from a christological point of view. Another area which has received little attention is pre-Gospels material, for example the special material in Matthew and Luke (the M Source and the L Source): Do the Gospels differ in how the topics of children and childhood turn up there? A final area to be mentioned here is the New Testament writings in which children seem to play little or no role: Does this necessarily mean that matters related to children are irrelevant to the material? Or should it, conversely, serve as a challenge to inquire into how child perspective readings can be relevant to these sources—in ways similar to what has been done within feminist interpretations?

Reception History The impact of the Bible through the ages on perceptions of childhood and on the lives of the children themselves has been enormous. It has—to name just a few points—heavily influenced adults’ conceptions of childhood as a life stage, their thinking about children’s formation and social roles, and their ideas about children as human beings and how they should be valued. Thus, the Bible has contributed to shaping ideas about children and childhood in such diverse areas as medicine, pedagogy, law, social relations, philosophy, and religion. Examples of this broad and long history of reception can be found in the 2001 volume edited by Bunge and in a recent volume edited by Aasgaard, Horn, and Oana Maria Cojocaru.65 But the Bible has also strongly and more 65

Bunge, The Child in Christian Thought; Reidar Aasgaard, Cornelia Horn, and Oana Maria Cojocaru, eds., Childhood in History: Perceptions of Children in the Ancient and Medieval Worlds (London: Routledge, 2018).

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directly influenced the children themselves, both through their own hearing or reading texts from the Bible and through adults preaching its message as they thought best. The Bible is, and very often and in various ways has been, adapted with children in view, particularly through children’s Bibles and books, Sunday School curricula, and other media, such as pictures, film, and music. In fact, for many or most children such adaptations are their main way of accessing the Bible and its message. Although the Bible’s impact on perceptions of children and childhood is impressive, the study of its history of reception within this area has been sparse and fragmentary. During the last years, however, scholarly interest has started growing, with a number of publications on various relevant topics. Nevertheless, a great deal of research remains to be done, with many areas open for further study. Here, I limit myself to examples of central works which deal with late antiquity and with the modern period, and which mainly focus on adult perceptions of childhood and on adaptations of the biblical stories to children, respectively. Jewish childhood in early post-biblical times has received little attention, with a monograph by John Cooper being an exception.66 Cooper in broad strokes surveys the history of children from ancient Israel until the modern era, also with a presentation of talmudic times. Far more important as concerns early Jewish reception is Hagith Sivan’s recent book.67 In it, she deals with a number of ancient ideas about children and childhood, and discusses in detail the reception historical use of biblical material. Odd Magne Bakke deals thoroughly with childhood in the early church from the second century on and discusses the impact of the Bible on perceptions of children, children’s formation, and their roles in the family and in Christian worship.68 A volume edited by Horn and Robert R. Phenix focuses on ideas of childhood in early Christian sources from a variety of cultural areas and of different genres, also apocryphal material.69 Also Horn and Martens’s book

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John Cooper, The Child in Jewish History (Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson, 1996). Sivan, Jewish Childhood in the Roman World. See also Sivan, “Ancient Jewish Traditions: Moses’ Infancy and the Remaking of Biblical Miriam in Antiquity,” in Childhood in History, ed. Aasgaard, Horn, and Cojocaru, 94–110. Bakke, When Children Became People. Cornelia B. Horn and Robert R. Phenix, eds., Children in Late Ancient Christianity (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009).

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(see above) presents a broad range of early Christian material, with considerable emphasis on the reception history of the Bible.70 Stories about the childhood of central figures such as Jesus and Mary constitute a special area of early biblical reception; here, the second-century apocryphal infancy Gospels are the main sources. For example, Reidar Aasgaard—taking his point of departure in narrative, socio-scientific, and other readings—argues in his volume on the Infancy Gospel of Thomas that this story had children as one of its main audiences.71 In a more recent monograph, Christopher A. Frilingos has analyzed both the Infancy Gospel of Thomas and the Protevangelium of James.72 The Bible, and particularly its characters and stories, has through the ages frequently been adapted to appeal to children, with highly variable sensitivity, skills, and success. An early and groundbreaking study of children’s Bibles is a book by Ruth Bottigheimer.73 She surveys a selection of this literature from the fifteenth century until the present and discusses aspects such as depictions of God, parent–child relations, class, and gender. The many contributions in an anthology edited by Caroline Vander Stichele and Hugh S. Pyper engage in a close reading of a variety of material, including some children’s books and visual media.74 The volume addresses a broad range of periods, topics, and regions, and with a focus on how outsiders, “the others,” are perceived and treated, but also with reflections on paratextual and hermeneutical matters. From a variety of perspectives (literary, pedagogical, ethical, and others), Russell W. Dalton offers a thorough analysis of how the story of the Ark in Genesis 6–9 is retold and adapted in different historical and social contexts.75 In his work, Dalton makes use of about four hundred English-American

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Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me.” Reidar Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus: Decoding the Apocryphal Infancy Gospel of Thomas (Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2009). Christopher A. Frilingos, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph: Family Trouble in the Infancy Gospels (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2017). Also Betsworth, Children in Early Christian Narratives, and Osiek, MacDonald, and Tulloch, A Woman’s Place, deal with the Infancy Gospels; the latter volume also makes use of the Acts of Paul and Thecla. Ruth Bottigheimer, The Bible for Children: From the Age of Gutenberg to the Present (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996). Ruth Bottigheimer, “Children’s Bibles,” in EBR , ed. Allison et al., cols. 123–26, briefly summarizes the main findings of her 1996 book. Caroline Vander Stichele and Hugh S. Pyper, eds., Text, Image, and Otherness in Children’s Bibles: What Is in the Picture? (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2012). Russell W. Dalton, Children’s Bibles in America: A Reception History of the Story of Noah’s Ark in US Children’s Bibles (London: Bloomsbury/T&T Clark, 2016).

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children’s Bibles. Similar studies, but usually less extensive, have also been done on children’s Bibles in other regions and languages, though much more scholarly work is necessary. Melody R. Briggs provides a study of modern children’s interpretations of texts from the Gospel of Luke.76 She has interviewed children between eleven and fourteen with the aim of enquiring into their ways of reading biblical texts. A final example is an article by Athalya Brenner; she analyzes how the creation stories in Genesis 1–3 are interpreted in films for children, with a view to plot, gender, and other issues.77 Within this and related fields, such as computer games, there is also room for a great number of academic studies on the reception history of the Bible in relation to children.

Methodologies The range of approaches to the study of children in the Bible and the biblical world has broadened markedly over the last two decades. Research has developed to become interdisciplinary, as is visible in many of the studies I have mentioned above; examples of such interdisciplinarity are collaborations of biblical scholars with scholars from archaeology, art history, and cultural anthropology.78 From early on, this research has also made use of a variety of methodologies, both traditional and more recent. Among the traditional are literary, socio-scientific, and gender/feminist approaches. Many of the more recent approaches, particularly interdisciplinary approaches, are presented and discussed by Garroway, Koepf Taylor, and Martens in their chapters in this volume.79 Several of the works mentioned above can serve to illustrate how these approaches, whether psychological, archaeological, anthropological, or

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Melody R. Briggs, How Children Read Biblical Narrative: An Investigation of Children’s Readings of the Gospel of Luke (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2017). See the discussion of Briggs’s book in Koepf Taylor, “Accessing Childhoods” in this volume. Athalya Brenner, “Recreating the Biblical Creation for Western Children: Provisional Reflection on Some Case Studies,” in Creation and Creativity: From Genesis to Genetics and Back, ed. Caroline Vander Stichele and Alastair G. Hunter (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2006), 11–34. See, for example, several of the chapters in Laes and Vuolanto, eds., Children and Everyday Life. See Kristine Henriksen Garroway, “Methodology: Who Is a Child and Where Do We Find Children in the Ancient Near East?,” Koepf Taylor, “Accessing Childhoods,” and John W. Martens, “Methodology, Who Is a Child and Where Do We Find Children in the Greco-Roman World?”.

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other, can be applied to childhood studies, and also—more specifically—to the study of children and childhood in history. Some other approaches which in the last few years have been utilized in research on children in the biblical world are also worth mention, since they— due to their character—appear particularly apt for this area. Such an approach is microhistory, which makes it possible to construct representations of everyday situations in children’s lives. By piecing together fragments of material from a wide variety of sources, it is possible to construct scenarios that are—to an extent—fictional, but nevertheless emerge as historically clearly plausible.80 Examples of this are presented by Sivan in her volume on Jewish childhood.81 Intersectionality is also an approach of special interest; it takes into consideration the diversity among children in how age, class, gender, status, and other factors intersect in their lives. This approach is applied to the biblical material by MacDonald and Marianne Bjelland Kartzow.82 Insights from disability studies have also been brought to bear on canonical as well as noncanonical sources, particularly by Howard and Solevåg.83 Jon L. Berquist approaches biblical material on childhood from a psychological perspective, as does Steven A. Rogers regarding parent–child imagery, and Larsson on children as agents.84 Memory history and oral theory are also methologies of obvious relevance for historical childhood studies, but have so far received limited attention.85 Over the years, research on children in the Bible and the biblical world has itself contributed to new developments in methodology. These can be sorted in 80

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83 84

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Such a (scholarly) genre can be termed “faction”; this approach has occasionally been applied also to other historical periods than the biblical period. For other examples, see Oana Maria Cojocaru, “Between Ideal and Ordinary: Representations of Children and Childhood in Byzantine Hagiography (Ninth to Eleventh Centuries)” (PhD diss, University of Oslo, 2016), chapter 8; Reidar Aasgaard, “Growing up in Constantinople: Fifth-Century Life in a Christian City from a Child’s Perspective,” in Children and Family, ed. Laes, Mustakallio, and Vuolanto, 135–67; and Bernadette Brooten, “Early Christian Enslaved Families,” in Children and Family, ed. Laes, Mustakallio, and Vuolanto, 111–34. MacDonald, The Power of Children; Marianne Bjelland Kartzow, “Slave Children in the First-Century Jesus Movement,” in Childhood in History, ed. Aasgaard, Horn, and Cojocaru, 111–26. Howard, “Jesus Loves the Little Children”; Solevåg, “Listening for the Voices of Two Disabled Girls.” Jon L. Berquist, “Childhood and Age in the Bible,” Pastoral Psychology 58 (2009): 521–30; Steven A. Rogers, “The Parent–Child Relationship as an Archetype for the Relationship between God and Humanity in Genesis,” Pastoral Psychology 50 (2002): 377–85; Mikael Larsson, “In Search of Children’s Agency: Reading Exodus from Sweden,” in Exodus and Deuteronomy, ed. Athalya Brenner (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2012), 79–94. An exception is Stephen J. Davis, Christ Child: Cultural Memories of a Young Jesus (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2014).

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two major types, one systematical and synthetical type, and one historical and analytical. The former is the more closely related to hermeneutics, the latter to exegesis. As is obvious, however, they are interrelated: They stand in close and continuous conversation with one another. The former type, which is the more traditional, has consisted in critical reflection on the place of children in the biblical world, on the historical impact of the Bible on children’s life, and on the meaning and value of the Bible for children. In dialogue with systematic theology, scholars have over the years developed concepts of a “theology of childhood” or “theologies of childhood.” An early book by Hans Urs von Balthasar is primarily of historical interest, being a work that spurred the interest in reflection on children in the Bible.86 A more recent essay by Walter Brueggemann has a similar aim, serving as an inspiration to base the concern for children on a biblical understanding of God.87 In a monograph, David Hadley Jensen develops a theology of childhood on the basis of the child as created “in the image of God,” as does W. Sibley Towner in article format.88 These contributions to a large degree approach the biblical material from the perspective of adults. Somewhat differently, Francis Landy, Danna Nolan Fewell, and Kristin Herzog address the sources critically from the perspective of modern children and their needs and interests.89 Joyce Mercer combines a theology of childhood with biblical exegesis and applies this within a modern social and religious context.90 Whereas concepts of a “theology of childhood” have been developed from at least the early 1990s on, the latter type, “childist interpretation” or “childist interpretations” of biblical and other ancient material, and also non-canonical sources, have gained ground during the last decade.91 This is a result of impulses 86 87

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Hans Urs von Balthasar, Unless You Become Like This Child (San Francisco: Ignatius, 1991). Walter Brueggemann, “Vulnerable Children, Divine Passion, and Human Obligation,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., 399–422. Marcia J. Bunge, “Christian Understandings of Children: Central Biblical Themes and Resources,” in Children, Adults, and Shared Responsibilities: Jewish, Christian, and Muslim Perspectives, ed. Marcia J. Bunge (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 59–78, gives a popular introduction to central issues and approaches within research. David Hadley Jensen, Graced Vulnerability: A Theology of Childhood (Cleveland, OH: Pilgrim), 2005; Towner, “Children and the Image of God,” see also Parker, “God as a Child in the Hebrew Bible?” in this volume. Francis Landy, “Do We Want Our Children to Read This Book?,” in Bible and Ethics of Reading, ed. Fewell and Phillips, 157–76; Danna Nolan Fewell, The Children of Israel: Reading the Bible for the Sake of Our Children (Nashville: Abingdon, 2003); Kristin Herzog, Children and Our Global Future: Theological and Social Challenges (Cleveland, OH: Pilgrim, 2005). Joyce Mercer, Welcoming Children: A Practical Theology of Childhood (St. Louis: Chalice, 2005). Some scholars, such as Koepf Taylor, prefer to use “child-centered” rather than “childist.”

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particularly from general childhood studies and feminist studies, but has also been fueled by approaches within biblical studies themselves, such as redaction criticism. More so than theology/ies of childhood, childist interpretation/s focus on close readings of the sources and are more attentive to viewing the world from the perspective of the children themselves. Joseph Colle Grassi’s monograph is an early contribution, with traits of a childist interpretation.92 More recently, Parker, and also Betsworth, have developed methodologies for childist interpretations of biblical passages.93 In her volume, Parker develops and applies a specific six-step exegetical procedure for such an interpretation, and Parker and Kathleen Gallagher Elkins in a brief introductory article present further examples of this approach.94 In addition, Fewell in her book analyzes the biblical material from the perspective of children’s agency, and Aasgaard in a chapter develops on specific criteria for a quest for ancient children’s life and culture.95 Several chapters in a volume edited by Christian Laes and Vuolanto also have approaches that contribute to the development of childist interpretations.96 Obviously, theology/ies of childhood and childist interpretation/s do not refer to specific, clearly defined concepts; rather, they serve as umbrella terms for approaches that in various ways have children and their living conditions, roles, functions, and agency as their main focus of study.

Final Reflections and Future Prospects During the last two decades, research on children in the Bible and the biblical world has been steadily growing and has now established itself as a serious and essential area of academic inquiry, and in ways similar to other fields in biblical study and to other scholarly disciplines. It has become both more wide-ranging 92

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Joseph Colle Grassi, Children’s Liberation: A Biblical Perspective (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical, 1991). Parker, Valuable and Vulnerable, esp. 77–88; Betsworth, Children in Early Christian Narratives. Julie Faith Parker and Kathleen Gallagher Elkins, “Children in Biblical Narrative and Childist Biblical Interpretation,” in The Oxford Handbook of Biblical Narrative, ed. Danna Nolan Fewell (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 422–33. Fewell, The Children of Israel; Reidar Aasgaard, “How Close Can We Get to the Roman Child? Reflections on Methodological Achievements and New Advances,” in Children and Everyday Life, ed. Laes and Vuolanto, 321–34; see also Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, esp. chapters 7 and 12. Laes and Vuolanto, eds., Children and Everyday Life. See also Koepf Taylor, Give Me Children, and Allen, “For Theirs in the Kingdom,” for conscious childist (or child-centered) interpretations.

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and more thorough in its use of the ancient sources, and it has matured methodologically and—through various childist approaches—developed a distinctive profile and concerns of its own. New research is presently being undertaken, which in the years to come will result in articles, anthologies, and monographs.97 As already indicated, more research into the sources is necessary and a number of questions will need further discussion. Some of these I have discussed above, and here follow just a few final suggestions. For example, parts of the Bible and its textual environment have received limited attention, such as the deuterocanonical writings and the Pseudepigrapha of the Hebrew Bible, and the New Testament Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha.98 Even Hebrew Bible and New Testament writings that do not explicitly deal with children are of considerable interest, and for childist interpretations in particular—in the same manner as feminist interpretations have been applied to these sources. Presently, interest in youth in the ancient world also seems to be growing, whether one considers it a special stage of childhood or separate from it. More research on this can be a direction to be taken, with adolescents—like (younger) children—belonging among humans characterized as non-adults. Traditionally, there has been a tendency in research to pair children with other marginalized groups, such as women, slaves, and the elderly, and to see some kind of commonality, or even harmony, of interest among these groups. And clearly, there are common concerns, but as can be learned from the field of intersectionality, there may also be conflicts of interest here. Just as children’s interests and perspectives would often differ much from those of male adults, so also they should be seen to differ from those of adult females. A hermeneutics of suspicion is needed also in this relationship: children’s interests—whether girls’ and/or boys’ interests—should be seen as distinct from those of women. For example in studies of mother–child relations, adult concerns often receive far more attention than those of the children. One

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For example, Kristine Henriksen Garroway and John W. Martens, eds, Listening to and Learning from Children in the Biblical World (Leiden: Brill, forthcoming); A. James Murphy, “Children and the Sayings Source Q – What the Double Tradition Reveals about Q’s Attitude toward Children: Q 11:19–20; 12:53; 14:26; and 17:1–2,” BibInt 27, no. 1 (2019). But see Tony Burke,“Traveling with Children: Flight Stories and Pilgrimage Routes in the Apocryphal Infancy Gospels,” and Anna Rebecca Solevåg, “Absence and Presence of Children in the Apocryphal Acts” in this volume.

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should also be attentive to differences in interest among categories of children, with recent research on children and disabilities being an eye-opener in this respect.99 Finally, a topic that needs more discussion is the question about continuities and changes over time, both in perceptions of childhood and in the living conditions of the children themselves. For example, what developments took place in the nearly millennium-long period when the Hebrew Bible came into existence? And what more can be said about the historical Jesus: what was characteristic of his relationship to children, if anything? Did there occur changes in the attitudes to and treatment of children from Jesus to the early Christians? And compared to its Jewish and Greco-Roman contexts, what difference did early Christianity make in its ideas about childhood and for the role and status of children? Such questions are of course not new and obviously cannot be definitely answered. But with much new research having been produced, new insights gathered, and more methodological approaches added, such and similar questions both can and should be given serious consideration. For the sake of historical research. For the sake of the world we live in today. And for the sake of the tiny voices of the past and the present—the children themselves.

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With the recent rapid methodological changes in text-critical research on the Bible, made possible by the development of large searchable databases, even such a specialized but popular study area may yield interesting results; see Tommy Wasserman and Peter J. Gurry, A New Approach to Textual Criticism: An Introduction to the Coherence-Based Genealogical Method (Atlanta: SBL/Stuttgart: DBG, 2017). For example, in the Gospels, instances of the word “children” are omitted or added in different manuscripts.

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Accessing Childhoods: Interdisciplinary Tools at the Intersection of Biblical Studies and Childhood Studies Laurel W. Koepf Taylor

One of the challenges of child-centered1 biblical interpretation is the difficulty of determining the constructions of childhood that would have been active in a particular ancient context. Explicit communication regarding cultural perceptions of young people can be both difficult to come by and deceptive to interpret. Few texts make overt mention of children. Those words which commonly refer to young people in the modern world cannot always be reliably translated across cultural differences. Where clear reference to children or childhood can be found, modern interpretation of the text must be careful to avoid anachronistic constructions of childhood in its meaning-making. It is then useful to gather the child-centered tools offered by way of the variety of academic fields researching children and childhood through the lens of childhood studies when seeking potential constructions of childhood. This chapter therefore surveys multiple fields that fall under childhood studies’ umbrella when doing child-centered research and in which interdisciplinary engagement can assist biblical scholars toward well-informed child-centered work.

1

I choose the term “child-centered” for my work on children and childhood in biblical interpretation and the biblical world as a way of expressing transparency about my priorities as a scholar and in connection with the theories and research methods of both childhood studies and education.

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Using Childhood Studies to Differentiate Children from Childhoods Childhood studies broadly engages constructions of childhood and is therefore particularly useful to biblical scholars working on child-centered interpretation. It is an interdisciplinary field intentionally focused on children and childhoods. Other academic fields such as psychology, sociology, and education have historically centered attention on children and additional fields have the capacity to do so within their own area. Childhood studies is differentiated from these in that it comes from a cultural studies perspective that brings attention to children’s subjectivities, particularly the social construction of childhood and adulthood. Childhood studies functions within the awareness that childhood and adulthood are social categories that have come to be understood in a variety of ways in different contexts. Research in childhood studies is therefore attentive to cultural diversities; rejects the essentialization and/or naturalization of particular attributes associated with children and childhood; and points to children’s rights and agency.2 Childhood studies scholar Valerie Walkerdine notes in particular that “childhood is always produced as an object in relation to power.”3 This framing of childhood as culturally produced is an invaluable tool for biblical scholars looking to discuss age- and life stage-based categories in the Bible and the biblical world. By naming the ways in which these categories are culturally specific rather than universal, children and youth who appear in the Bible are understood as young people within their context. Further, this framework offers age- and life stage-based categories in the ancient world as a point of cultural analysis that extends beyond the study of childhood alone. A key argument in shaping childhood studies has been the differentiation between children, childhood, and “the child.” Within childhood studies, “the child” is understood to be an essentialized abstraction that researchers generally seek to avoid.4 The term “children” refers to individuals or groups

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MartinWoodhead, “Childhood Studies: Past, Present and Future,” in An Introduction to Childhood Studies, ed. Mary Jane Kehily (Maidenhead, UK: Open University Press, 2009), 17. Valerie Walkerdine, “Developmental Psychology and the Study of Childhood,” in An Introduction to Childhood Studies, ed. Kehily, 117. However, when scholars discuss an abstraction of a child, mention of “the child” can be useful. For example, see “Children in Proverbs, Proverbial Children” by Ericka Dunbar and Kenneth Ngwa in this volume.

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with their own subjectivities, and “childhood” denotes a set of self-perpetuating cultural expectations and assumptions made about children. Therefore, the research tools necessary to study children and childhoods differ. Within biblical studies, approaches for undertaking childhood studies vary widely. As Melody Briggs has done, a scholar might research how children today engage in interpreting scripture.5 However, learning about children in antiquity, whether in the Bible or the biblical world, poses greater challenges. The subjects of study are not easily accessible to modern scholarship since source material is limited. When children do appear as subjects in texts, they have been presented through the lens of adult writers and therefore cannot exert agency or communicate subjectivity. Archaeological work, such as that done by Kristine Henriksen Garroway and discussed in greater detail below, accesses children’s experience through material culture.6 The differentiation between children and childhood within childhood studies makes clear that most biblical scholars focusing on children in the Bible or the biblical world study childhood when seeking to access children. Scholars using textual evidence to discuss child characters by necessity examine a child’s experience not through the lens of a child’s subjectivity but rather as a child or children are portrayed by adult authors. Similarly, metaphors of childhood can only be accessed by way of an adult author’s subjectivity; metaphors carry the author’s perspective on what it means to be a child or, more likely, on children’s cultural significance to adults.7 Further, because no child or adult is immune to the social assumptions around childhood, the study of children is also the study of childhood. The ongoing development of child-centered empirical research methods has drawn attention to the ways in which methods of research can perpetuate particular cultural perceptions about children. When undertaking research with children today, adult researchers determine the goals and tasks set for children, the settings in which they study them, and then interpret children’s performances of these goals and tasks. Allison James and Alan Prout state: 5

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Melody R. Briggs, How Children Read Biblical Narrative: An Investigation of Children’s Readings of the Gospel of Luke (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2017). Kristine Henriksen Garroway, Children in the Ancient Near Eastern Household, EANEC 3 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2014). Laurel Koepf Taylor, Give Me Children or I Shall Die: Children and Communal Survival in Biblical Literature (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2013), 97–98.

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This [enacting of preconceptions] is not simply a matter of habit, convenience, false consciousness or vested interests but what Foucault refers to as “regimes of truth” (1977). He suggests that these operate rather like self-fulfilling prophecies: ways of thinking about childhood fuse with institutionalized practices to produce self-conscious subjects (teachers, parents and children) who think (and feel) about themselves through the terms of those ways of thinking. “The truth” about themselves and their situation is thus selfvalidating.8

In this way, it has become clear that scholars cannot objectively study children; we can only study children through the lens of childhoods and the varying social constructions within which children function. In working with children, adults relate not only to their subjects but also to their own childhood memories. It should be noted that the cultural specificity of constructions of childhood differ not only interculturally but intraculturally when applied to children intersectionally. Scholars in childhood studies have recently highlighted that the oft universalized constructions of childhood innocence that dominate the Western rhetoric of childhood are not constructions of all childhoods but rather of white childhood. The implicit universalization of these constructions that takes place when their racialized nature goes unnamed effectively excludes non-white children from the contemporary rhetoric of childhood and the privileged place of assumed innocence that comes with it. In effect, the implicit universalization of white childhood innocence culturally precludes any nonwhite minor from being a “child.” In Racial Innocence, Robin Bernstein traces the depiction of black and white children in American literature, theatre, and material culture.9 Her research follows the development of the cultural exclusion of children of color from white childhood innocence. Connecting the white child’s innocence with his or her whiteness rather than his or her childhood became part of the romanticization of the institution of slavery and directly related to the insidious

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Allison James and Alan Prout, “A New Paradigm for the Sociology of Childhood? Provenance, Promise, and Problems,” in Constructing and Reconstructing Childhood: Contemporary Issues in the Sociological Study of Childhood, ed. Allison James and Alan Prout (London: Falmer, 1990), 23. Robin Bernstein, Racial Innocence: Performing American Childhood from Slavery to Civil Rights (New York: New York University Press, 2011).

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myth that African Americans do not feel pain.10 This interrogation of American constructions of childhood directly applies to biblical scholars’ examination of the history of interpretation that complicitly engages in racialized constructions of childhood. Critical assessment of these concepts also helps to recognize the intersections of the constructions of age and ethnicity in the biblical world and biblical interpretation. The assertion that no construction of childhood is universal is one of the primary contributions that has come out of the conversation childhood studies fosters as an interdisciplinary field; this contribution is equally valuable in biblical studies. Childhood and adulthood, like race and gender, are socially constructed. This is not to say that there are no manifest differences between children and adults. As with sex assigned at birth, physical distinctions exist.11 However, the categories that cultures use to organize and interpret trends they observe in these differences are social constructions. This is clear in the differences in taxonomy across time and place.12 It is further evident in the inescapable deviations from socially constructed categories to which bodies refuse to conform. In the case of maturity, not all bodies characterized as adult are larger than those categorized as children, nor do all people within any agebased category exhibit similar mental capacities. In biblical studies, the distinction between children and childhood is helpful in calling to our attention the importance of closely examining the constructions of childhood active in the biblical text and biblical world. This distinction can also serve to promote appropriate humility regarding scholarly subjectivity, particularly where constructions of childhood are concerned in our own cultural contexts. The noted difference between children and childhood is in itself invaluable to biblical interpretation, but each of the many fields doing child-centered research under childhood studies’ umbrella also has contributed to current scholarship. These too have potential to contribute to future childcentered biblical interpretation as we seek to discern the constructions of childhood at work in the Bible and the biblical world. 10

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For an in-depth analysis of this myth, see Debra Walker King, African Americans and the Culture of Pain (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2008). For more detailed discussion, see the section on biology in “Methodology: Who is a Child and Where Do We Find Children in the Ancient Near East?” by Kristine Henriksen Garroway in this volume. Chris Jenks, Childhood (London: Routledge, 1996), 3.

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Is Child Psychology Useful for Biblical Scholarship? The applicability of developmental psychology is highly debated within childhood studies. Some wish to discard it or substitute neuroscience as a more objective discipline, while others look to focus on more recent scholarship in developmental psychology that takes cultural and historical relativism into account. Biblical scholars engaging children and childhood in the Bible and the biblical world need not enter into this debate but may find it helpful to avoid the temptation to universalize the developmental categories that organize Western adults’ introductory study of and experiences of children. Much of the classic research on children within the social sciences, by ignoring or discounting the influence of cultural expectations, naturalizes Western constructions of childhood, implicitly suggesting that its claims are universal. Joseph Henrich has documented that psychological and behavioral studies are often performed with the most accessible research subjects, limiting them to primarily Western contexts, but that the same studies yield different results when performed in vastly different societies.13 Jean Piaget’s research on early developmental theory is so well known that those who have not done advanced research in child psychology are often familiar with it. Martin Woodhead, a childhood studies scholar working in sociology, defends Piagetian developmental psychology in that it is child-centered in its approach.14 Recognizing that the field has changed, Woodhead asserts: While cruder versions of developmentalism may properly be consigned to the dustbin of history, it would be a mistake to discard a field so diverse as developmental psychology. . . . Piagetian approaches to development no longer dominate theory and research. Alternative approaches are much more closely aligned to the principle of social construction of childhood, notably social construcivist, or socio-cultural approaches.15

Yet other sociologists within childhood studies, such as James and Prout, as well as Chris Jenks, have been especially critical of the Piagetian model of developmental psychology. They note that Piaget sets forth Western adult ways

13 14 15

Joseph Henrich, “The Wierdest People In the World?” BBS 2–3 (2010): 61–83. Woodhead, “Childhood Studies,” 27. Ibid., 28.

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of thinking as the ultimate goal of human development; children who deviate from this pattern must by necessity exhibit varying degrees of deficiency.16 Further, when the social construction of multiple childhoods across cultures is taken into account, the universality of particular childhoods such as those described in Piagetian categories becomes highly unlikely. This is certainly the case when reflecting upon children in the biblical world. Rationality, for example, is one of the primary goals of developmental psychology. Yet it cannot be assumed to be a universal learning goal as it is within post-Enlightenment Western liberalism, and certainly is not automatically applicable to a context so distant as the biblical world.17 The projection of an unrealistic universality when applied to developmental goals is exemplified by the ways in which these goals and assumptions have been exported to children and adults alike by way of colonialism. In awareness of this hegemonic thinking, James and Prout explain: During the nineteenth century, western sociological theorists, the selfelected representatives of rationality, saw in other cultures primitive forms of the human condition. These they regarded as childish in their simplicity and irrational in their belief. Following on from Comte’s theory of social evolution the “savage” was seen as the precursor of civilized man, paralleling the way that the child prefigured adult life. Taylor, for example, argued that he could apply “the often-repeated comparison of savages to children as fairly to their moral as to their intellectual condition”.18

In that parallel, colonial tendencies can be traced through biblical scholarship of the same era in assessing the cultures of the biblical world. This insight proves especially applicable to biblical studies as a whole whether focused on children and childhood or not. Rationality is not a child’s inherent goal into which she or he naturally grows. It is a modern Western cultural goal. Any number of other social values might be substituted in differing contexts. A child’s development, as understood by adults, is development into a certain set of social constructs the achievement of which is understood to be adulthood or maturity within that culture. Jenks states:

16 17 18

James and Prout, “A New Paradigm for the Sociology of Childhood?” 9; Jenks, Childhood, 9. James and Prout, “A New Paradigm for the Sociology of Childhood?” 10. Ibid., 10–11.

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What I am suggesting is that the concept of development does not signify a “natural” process—it does, however, make reference to a socially constructed sense of change pertaining to the young individual which is encoded with a series of benchmarks relevant to the topical or predominant form or discourse.19

Childhood studies’ critique of developmental psychology at the very least suggests that biblical scholars should exercise caution when assigning successive life stages to biblical characters, but it also offers an intriguing way forward. Walkerdine has suggested an apprenticeship model for development, locating learning and its goals within the culture rather than within the child and thereby acknowledging that the rubric by which a culture judges growth and development is external to the child.20 The study of children and childhood in the Bible and the biblical world is well poised to discern what that rubric might be within the varying cultural contexts that shape the Bible, contributing to a greater depth of understanding of age-and life stage-based categories shaping childhood in the Bible and biblical studies.

Using the History of Childhood to Place Modern Childhood in its Broader Context The study of the history of childhood is another of the hallmarks of childhood studies that has potential implications for child-centered biblical scholarship’s ability to access ancient constructions of childhood. Both the discoveries and the errors made over the course of the development of the study of the history of childhood can aid biblical scholars in studying children in the biblical world as an historical enterprise and a contribution to the history of childhood. Until biblical scholars began to focus on children in the biblical world, the published resources on the history of childhood in the world that produced the Bible and surrounding cultures were negligible, often consisting of a reference to children in passing in a larger work. The advent of childhood studies encouraged scholars including Richard Lymann, Vigen Guroian, Martha Ellen

19 20

Jenks, Childhood, 39. Walkerdine, “Developmental Psychology and the Study of Childhood.”

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Stortz, and Christina Traina,21 who studied children in late antiquity. More recently, David Bosworth has examined children in the literature of the ancient world,22 while the Tiny Voices from the Past project has expanded the available scholarship on the history of childhood in Europe, and John Martens and Cornelia Horn have given attention to children and families in the GrecoRoman world.23 Current expansion of scholarship on children in the Bible and the biblical world continues to grow in the field, much of which contributes to the history of childhood in the biblical world.24 Much can also be gleaned from the broader history of childhood to comprehend the contrast between ancient and modern constructions of childhood. Philippe Ariès was one of the first modern scholars to explore changing attitudes toward children and childhood across history. His 1960 monograph, L’Enfant et la vie familiale sous l’ancien régime, has become widely known and discussed under its English title, Centuries of Childhood: A Social History of Family Life.25 Ariès argues for the Western “discovery” of childhood as a distinct phase of life beginning in the thirteenth century but becoming more prominent from the fifteenth to the seventeenth century.26 He argues: In medieval society the idea of childhood did not exist; this is not to suggest that children were neglected, forsaken, or despised. The idea corresponds 21

22

23

24

25

26

Christina Traina, “A Person in the Making: Thomas Aquinas on Children and Childhood,” in The Child in Christian Thought, ed. Marcia J. Bunge (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001), 103–33. David A. Bosworth, Infant Weeping in Akkadian, Hebrew, and Greek Literature (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2016). Reidar Aasgaard, Childhood in History: Perceptions of Children in the Ancient and Medieval Worlds (London: Routledge, 2017); Christian Laes and Ville Vuolanto, eds., Children and Everyday Life in the Roman and Late Antique World (London: Routledge, 2016); John W. Martens and Cornelia B. Horn, “Let the Little Children Come to Me”: Childhood and Children in Early Christianity (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2009). Reidar Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus: Decoding the Apocryphal Infancy Gospel of Thomas (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2009); Jon L. Berquist, “Childhood and Age in the Bible,” Pastoral Psychology 58 (2009): 521–30; Sharon Betsworth, The Reign of God is Such as These: A Socio-Literary Analysis of Daughters in the Gospel of Mark (London: T&T Clark, 2010); Sharon Betsworth, Children in Early Christian Narratives (London: T&T Clark, 2016); Kathleen Gallagher Elkins, “Biblical Studies and Childhood Studies: A Fertile, Interdisciplinary Space for Feminists,” JFSR 29 (2013): 146–53; Kristine Henriksen Garroway, Children in the Ancient Near Eastern Household, EANEC 3 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2014); Laurel Koepf Taylor, Give Me Children or I Shall Die (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2013); Margaret Y. MacDonald, The Power of Children: The Construction of Christian Families in the Greco-Roman World (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2014); A. James Murphy, Kids and Kingdom: The Precarious Presence of Children in the Synoptic Gospels (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2013); Julie Faith Parker, Valuable and Vulnerable: Children in the Hebrew Bible, Especially the Elisha Cycle BJS 355 (Providence, RI: Brown University, 2013); Naomi Steinberg, The World of the Child in the Hebrew Bible (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2013). Philippe Ariès, Centuries of Childhood: A Social History of Family Life, trans. Robert Baldick (New York: Vintage Books, 1962). Ibid., 47.

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to an awareness of the particular nature of childhood, that particular nature which distinguishes the child from the adult, even the young adult.27

Although Ariès makes several significant observations throughout his research, this particular aspect of his argument lacks nuance, resulting in anachronism. His work brings to light the emerging association of childhood and family with primarily emotional value and function in that period as represented in portraiture, fashion, and domestic architecture. He misses that sentimentalization is not the only potential construction of childhood. It is possible to perceive childhood as distinguished from adulthood in other ways. Ariès’s observations uncover not the discovery of childhood per se, but rather the earlier stages of the emergence of modern constructions of childhood prior to the cultural shift other scholars have described in later histories of childhood. Children and childhood existed in earlier historical periods, but their nature was understood differently. Lloyd DeMause proposed a “psychogenic theory of history” to the Association for Applied Psychoanalysis in 1968, suggesting that historians should study changes in child-rearing practices from antiquity to the present as “the central force for change in history.”28 DeMause criticized the practice of projecting an idealization of childhood back into the past in spite of the evidence supporting parental practices that the authors of those same histories would have deemed abusive, complaining that “no practice in the past seems anything but benign to the social historian.”29 Although the history of childhood is far from ideal, and the social historians whom DeMause critiques indeed projected modern idealizations onto past experiences, his reactionary analysis of these practices makes the same mistake with opposite results. Rather than assuming modern-style emotional attachment to children, he evaluates historical practices by a modern rubric, coming to the conclusion that adults in the past were incapable of affection, even empathy for their children.30 The ease with which DeMause is convinced of ancient child mistreatment by modern standards is most clearly evidenced for biblical scholars in his

27 28

29 30

Ibid., 128. Lloyd DeMause, “The Evolution of Childhood,” in The History of Childhood, ed. Lloyd DeMause (New York: The Psychohistory Press, 1974), 3. Ibid., 4. Ibid., 16.

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unsupported assertion that Matthew 19:13 references “the customary Near Eastern practice of exorcising by laying on of hands, which many holy men did to remove the evil inherent in children.”31 It is unclear from what evidence he derives this conclusion, which is counter to the text’s own assertion in the next verse that the kingdom of heaven belongs to children. This is (fortunately or not) the only statement regarding the biblical world in his chapter or the remainder of his edited volume on the history of childhood. Scholars focusing on children in the biblical world can learn from both Ariès and DeMause to evaluate the ancient world on its own terms, particularly where constructions of childhood are concerned. The goal is to find constructions of childhood that were active rather than assume that no understanding of childhood was present if it does not match our own. One of the more significant focus areas in the study of the history of childhood, and an important one for scholars of the ancient world, has centered on the shift made from the medieval period to the modern one in the practical and emotional value of children, and most particularly the advent of cultural constructions of childhood innocence. According to Anne Higonnet: Historians date the modern, Western concept of an ideally innocent childhood to somewhere around the seventeenth century. Until then, children had been understood as faulty small adults, in need of correction and discipline, especially Christian children who were thought to be born in sin.32

Robert Davis argues against the scholarly consensus of a seventeenth-century dating of this modern concept of childhood, pointing to several primary texts by medieval Christian authors, including Dante and Hildegard of Bingen, alluding to the innocence of children.33 In recognition of Davis’s findings, I would nuance the assertion that the seventeenth century saw the origination of childhood innocence in Western culture. Taking into account that the concept was not entirely new, I would suggest that it was, rather, established as culturally dominant over an extended period of time from the medieval 31 32

33

Ibid., 17. Anne Higonnet, Pictures of Innocence: The History and Crisis of Ideal Childhood (London: Thames and Hudson, 1998), 8. Robert A. Davis, “Brilliance of a Fire: Innocence, Experience, and the Theory of Childhood,” JOPE 45, no. 2 (2001): 379–97, 383.

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to the modern period. This stands as a reminder for biblical scholarship that constructions of childhood innocence in particular would not have been dominant in the biblical world and therefore are unlikely to have been primary in shaping mentions of children in the texts of the Bible. Among the most influential perspectives leading to the modern Western construction of childhood innocence is the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century Romantic conception of the child, which idealized children as possessing inherently positive qualities. Colin Heywood explains: The Romantics . . . depicted children as creatures of deeper wisdom, finer aesthetic sensitivity, and a more profound awareness of enduring moral truths. . . . The Enlightenment view of childhood as a time for education, and particularly education for boys, yielded to the notion of childhood as a lost realm that was not the less fundamental to the creation of the adult self. The upshot was a redefinition of the relationship between adults and children: it was now the child who could educate the educator.34

Ongoing shifts in adult perceptions of childhood are evidenced in the predominant rhetoric regarding children in each era; assumed idealization of children and childhood is not active within biblical literature. Viviana Zelizer’s seminal work, Pricing the Priceless Child, analyzes a variety of factors in the post-industrial shift in Western economies and the concomitant shift in the social understanding of childhood in the United States.35 She assesses this change in the cultural construction of childhood to be one from the economically valuable, useful child to the priceless, useless child whose value can only be “sentimental.” Although she examines the moral conflict that is often prominent in discussions of child labor, her research points to the complexity of the issue. Less than altruistic aims made way for child labor and compulsory education laws, enabling the moral rhetoric of an innocent childhood, separated from economic concerns, to become culturally dominant. This shift in the construction of childhood certainly postdates the agrarian biblical world and significantly shapes the divergent understandings of children between the biblical world and that of the modern Western biblical scholar. 34 35

Colin Heywood, A History of Childhood (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2001), 24–25. Viviana Zelizer, Pricing the Priceless Child (New York: Basic Books, 1985).

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In an agrarian economy, as in the early stages of industrialization, the labor of “little work people,” was a welcome alternative that freed men for agriculture. But by the turn of the century, the cheap labor of children threatened to depress adult wages. Demand for child laborers was further undermined by new technology. For example, In late nineteenth-century department stores, such as Macy’s and Marshall Field’s, one-third of the labor force was composed of cash girls or cash boys, young children busily involved in transporting money and goods between sales clerks, the wrapping desk, and the cashier. By 1905, the newly invented pneumatic tube and the adoption of cash registers had usurped most children’s jobs.36

Zelizer’s evidence confirms a turn of the century post-industrial shift to the dominance of cultural constructions of pricelessness in American childhood. While some had endorsed similar ideas or upheld them for privileged children in previous ages, the priceless innocence of the child had become a widespread cultural value. Cultural constructions of the pricelessness of children and childhood that assume that children do not work are certainly not universal, but they are increasingly pervasive. In the modern world, although child labor is far from absent, it is so broadly denied and maligned that the pricelessness of childhood is sometimes assumed even when it is not protected. Awareness of the contrast between the economic shifts that created this powerful aspect of the history of childhood can shape biblical scholars’ comprehension of children’s role and the resultant constructions of childhood active in the agricultural economic structures of the biblical world.

Children’s Literature and Literary Theory Children’s literature as a field of study may be expected as a relevant aspect of childhood studies, but its usefulness for biblical studies may be surprising. Biblical scholars can best perceive ancient childhoods when they are fully cognizant of the particularities of the modern constructions of childhood in which we are steeped. To that end, the study of children’s literature theory can 36

Ibid., 63.

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be a useful tool in comprehending what the childhoods that our cultural contexts construct as normative are and some of the ways in which they are transmitted. The study of children’s literature within a childhood studies framework has been especially adept not just in naming the constructions of childhood that a particular cultural context promotes, but also in naming children’s literature itself as among the ways in which a culture teaches children to conform to the expected ways of performing childhood. Multiple children’s literature scholars have noted the uniqueness of and concomitant difficulty in defining children’s literature in that it is distinguished less by its content and purpose than by having been written for one population (children) by another that does not claim membership in that audience (adults).37 Perry Nodelman has been particularly adept in noting the enculturation of children through the literature penned for them by adult authors. Children’s literature operates as a doggedly conservative force, not only nostalgic for the past but determined to resist change in the present. One of its main purposes is to embed children within their culture, to make them both become like and to perceive themselves as what adults believe they should be.38

The texts with which adults present children enculturate them into particular perceptions of how the world functions and who they are within it. Nodelman’s analysis of patterns in children’s literature reveals its strongest socializing influences to be those that teach children how to be appropriately “childlike” within adult cultural definitions of the word. This is accomplished by setting out plots in which child characters exhibit their lack of particular social skills to the amusement of both adult characters and child readers, often to their own benefit. He observes: In the world of Henry Huggins, it seems, adults like children to know less than they do (or, perhaps more accurately, like to be able to believe that children know less than they do?) and reward them for being so or seeming

37

38

Katherine Jones, “Getting Rid of Children’s Literature,” The Lion and the Unicorn 30 (2006): 287–315; Jaqueline Rose, The Case of Peter Pan; or, The Impossibility of Children’s Fiction (London: Macmillan, 1984); David Rudd, “Theorizing and Theories: How Does Children’s Literature Exist?” in Understanding Children’s Literature, ed. Peter Hunt, 2nd ed. (New York: Routledge, 2005), 15–29. Perry Nodelman, The Hidden Adult (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2008), 238. See Beverly Cleary, Henry Huggins (New York: Dell Yearling), 1950.

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to be so. This certainly happens to Henry. His lack of knowledge not only leads him into the interesting situations for which he had wished, but the apparent danger in those situations conveniently disappears. Far from being arrested, Henry gets a ride home in a police car and finds his parents not angry with him even though he is late. It is clear (to me as an adult reader, at least) that they have counted on his being ignorant (or childish) enough to get into trouble and have worked behind the scenes to save him from it.39

Nodelman also observes that if child readers are able to appreciate the humor of a child character’s lack of worldly knowledge, they must themselves possess that same knowledge. An adult author must assume children will be amused rather than frightened by the predicaments child characters get themselves into by way of their innocence; the author must also know that children are not in fact as innocent as she is portraying them. In this way, the double awareness of what it means to be a child that is created for child readers teaches them what adults expect of children and the benefits of conforming to standards of “childlike” innocence. Nodelman’s reading of Henry Huggins provides a window into the constructions of childhood that children and adults consume. Further, it provides an example for how other scholars, including those focused on childcentered biblical interpretation, might interpret media that targets children so as to better comprehend the ongoing evolution in the implicit education in how to be a child that children and adults steadily receive. This framework helps assess the constructions of childhood implicitly communicated in Bibles for children.40 It can also provide a useful measure of modern scholars’ constructions of childhood to be contrasted with those within the biblical world.

Interpreting Archaeology of the Ancient World The field of archaeology has a longstanding interdisciplinary relationship with biblical studies. Material culture informs historical-critical and socio-historical

39 40

Nodelman, The Hidden Adult, 27. Laurel Koepf, “Inside Out: The Othered Child in the Bible for Children,” in Text, Image, and Otherness in Children’s Bibles: What’s in the Picture, ed. Caroline Vander Stichele and Hugh S. Pyper (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012), 11–30.

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interpretations of the Bible and can certainly do so where discerning constructions of childhood in the biblical world is concerned. Kristine Henriksen Garroway has given full attention to archaeological evidence of children in the biblical world with greater aptitude than this chapter can achieve in Children in the Ancient Near Eastern Household, as well as in her contribution to this volume (“Methodology: Who Is a Child and Where Do We Find Children in the Ancient Near East?”). This present section will name the ways in which archaeological evidence can be an interdisciplinary resource for discerning ancient constructions of childhood. When discerning ancient constructions of childhood, archaeology is particularly useful in determining to whom those constructions would have applied.41 The modern Western custom of defining childhood legally by age is not broadly applicable. Naomi Steinberg has used Norwegian sociologist Ann Solberg’s term “social age” to discuss developmental categories in the biblical world, pointing out that, “in contrast to the definitions of childhood that are constructed around chronological age, some cultures define childhood by what work or activities a child does.”42 Garroway has helpfully applied mortuary evidence to determine ways in which social age or life stage may have defined who was a child. In her essay on methodology in this book, she notes in her section on skeletal remains that: Burials of children provide a lot of information on how a society perceived their little ones. In fact, until recently, most of the research done on children in historical settings was conducted via burials. The difficulty with burials is that adults project their own ideals onto the dead children.43

This challenge in learning about ancient children from evidence that is filtered through adult perception is indeed its strength when seeking to identify ancient constructions of childhood because discerning that adult perspective is itself the goal.

41

42 43

Kristine Sue Henriksen Garroway, “The Construction of ‘Child’ in the Ancient Near East: Towards an Understanding of the Legal and Social Status of Children in Biblical Israel and the Surrounding Cultures” (PhD diss., Hebrew Union College, 2010). Steinberg, The World of the Child in the Hebrew Bible, 17. See Garroway, “Methodology: Who is a Child and Where Do We Find Children in the Ancient Near East?” in this volume.

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Garroway tracks a wide range of mortuary evidence.44 The age delineation in that mortuary evidence is striking, especially where ancient constructions of childhood are concerned. The typology of burial types speaks to a symbolic differentiation between age categories paralleling the social nature of cultural constructions of childhood. However, the distinction does not appear to be drawn on strict age lines, showing that the construction of a person’s life stage is determined by something other than chronological age. However, age ranges around two or three and twelve or thirteen each mark a shift in burial practices and correspond with life changes that are marked as rites of passage in many cultures and therefore shape adult constructions of what it means to be a child. Similar to the mortuary evidence Garroway tracks, the bodily changes that prompt rites of passage in relation to weaning and the onset of puberty cannot be made to correspond exactly with a certain age. This suggests the change in the deceased’s body (and having potentially completed an accompanying rite) as a potential interpretation of the differences in burial types. If so, this points to the adult constructions of childhood that could have been functioning in that community. Making note of the body changes and potential rites of passage that place cultural boundaries around childhood can help scholars perceive with better acuity what the constructions of childhood communicated by mortuary practices might be. At the earlier boundary of childhood, Mayer Gruber has argued that weaning took place at the age of two or three in ancient Israel.45 Weaning at this time is attested in 2 Maccabees 7:27, in which a mother says to her son, “I carried you nine months in my womb, and I nursed you for three years.” The weanings of Isaac and of Samuel are noted in Genesis 21:8 and 1 Samuel 1:24 respectively. Isaac’s weaning is marked by a celebration, “The child grew and was weaned and Abraham made a great feast on the day that Isaac was weaned.” Samuel’s weaning is also significant as it marks the time when his mother fulfilled her vow and “brought him to the house of the LORD at Shiloh, although the child was still young.” In both cases, the biblical text recognizes the importance of the event. The correspondence between the common age of

44 45

Garroway, Children in the Ancient Near Eastern Household, 218–44. Mayer I. Gruber, “Breast-Feeding Practices in Biblical Israel and in Babylonian Mesopotamia,” JANES 19 (1989): 61–83.

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weaning and the shift in age-based burial practices suggests that having been weaned is one aspect of the cultural construction of childhood in the ancient world. Twelve or thirteen is frequently understood to be the approximate onset of sexual maturity and thus of the ability to participate in the perpetuation of the family.46 The physical changes in young people’s bodies that is today identified as the onset of puberty would have been unmistakable. These changes are often accompanied by rites of passage for both girls and boys. Although events of this nature, if practiced, have left no physical evidence for the archaeological record, the shift in burial practices appears to correspond loosely with the years in which it would have occurred. This too points to one of the outer boundaries of the construction of childhood in the ancient world as a time period when family members do not contribute to its reproductive perpetuation. If we examine the cultural significance of the three forms of burial—tomb, cist, and jar—they point to potential constructions of age-based categories in the ancient world including childhood. Family tomb burial of adults communicates that adults join their ancestors at death. Cist burial of children closely resembles burial in a tomb but differs in that the mostly individual remains are not “gathered to their fathers”47 in a family tomb. This distinction suggests that prepubescent children, who cannot procreate and thereby contribute to their ancestral heritage, are therefore excluded from the family tomb. Jar burial of infants points to yet another notable difference. This is not merely because only infants fit in jars. Adult jar burial, accomplished with “two jars placed mouth to mouth or unusually large jars,” is attested elsewhere in the Levant but not in the central highland.48 This pattern suggests a direct correlation between weaning and jar burial at Tel Dan. The celebration of

46

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References to puberty in the Bible are relatively few. For example, Exod. 21:7–11 has traditionally been interpreted to be about selling a daughter as a slave, but Garroway has interpreted the passage as describing a man betrothing his daughter before she is of marriagable age with the expectation of marriage once she reaches sexual maturity. This text could then suggest an awareness of the transition to sexual maturity and marriagability. See Garroway, “The Construction of ‘Child’ in the Ancient Near East,” 164–80; Garroway, Children in the Ancient Near Eastern Household, 127–34. Gen. 25:8, 17; 35:29, 49:33; Num. 20:24, 26; Jdt. 16:22; 1 Macc. 14:30. Elizabeth Bloch-Smith, Judahite Burial Practices and Beliefs About the Dead, JSOTSup (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1992).

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Isaac’s weaning and Samuel’s dedication to work at Shiloh at the time of his weaning, along with ethnographic evidence of children’s beginning household labor at this transitional time, suggests that weaning marked childhood constructed as a time when young people begin to have a degree of independence, agency, and ability to contribute to the household economy.49 Prior to weaning, they are bound to their mothers for sustenance and therefore more closely associated with them. Indeed, certain isolated burials in the Bronze Age Transjordan show infants buried in a woman’s arms, presumably the mother.50 Both Ilan and Garroway therefore argue that jar burial has greater womb symbolism than other forms of burial.51 The maturity range between infancy as defined by breast-feeding, and adulthood as defined by the onset of sexual maturity, suggests a potential age range between two or three and twelve or thirteen as the culturally defined boundaries of childhood. The corresponding constructions of childhood suggest that it is a period of increased independence when a young person contributes to the family economy but does not yet perpetuate the family through human reproduction. The grave goods included in children’s burial practices can also be interpreted to help understand adult constructions of childhood. Beyond the application of mortuary evidence to determine life stage categories, an awareness of the contrast between modern and ancient constructions of childhood can shape what a child-centered approach to the interpretation of material culture might investigate. For example, material culture can assist in determining that the biblical world functioned in a primarily subsistence agricultural economy. Knowing that children would have been valuable rather than priceless by Zelizer’s delineation can lead scholars to look for small tools rather than toys, to look for small fingerprints preserved on potsherds, or to interpret material culture associated with children’s work roles as evidence of childhood. To do so however, requires further interdisciplinary work in ethnography.

49

50 51

Moni Nag et al., “An Anthropological Approach to the Study of the Economic Value of Children in Java and Nepal, ” CurA 19, no. 2 (1978). Garroway, “The Construction of ‘Child’ in the Ancient Near East,” 254, 255, 257. Ilan, “Mortuary Practices at Tel Dan,” 135; Garroway, “The Construction of ‘Child’ in the Ancient Near East,” 283–87.

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Drawing Comparisons with Anthropology and Ethnography The material culture evidence found in the archaeological record regarding children is sometimes sparse and difficult to interpret when scholars function without a solid grasp of the constructions of childhood that would have shaped the use of household objects. Comparative ethnography from a child-centered perspective can be a useful tool in determining which constructions of childhood are active for the modern scholar and which would have been active in the economies of the biblical world. For example, Lynn White and David Brinkerhoff ’s study of children’s work in the late twentieth-century family in the United States suggests that the social mores, whose early twentieth-century development Zelizer analyzed, continue to operate for modern Westerners today and are indeed pervasive. They found that children continue to do the kind of “acceptable” work Zelizer cited, particularly work in the household under the heading of “chores.” Most interesting among White and Brinkerhoff ’s discoveries are the reasons parents give for their children’s work. Across all variants, a consistently high percentage of parents cited their children’s betterment as the primary reason for their doing work in the home. That is, they mentioned educational or characterbuilding qualities, particularly the development of a sense of responsibility, making the actual work accomplished by the children secondary to the benefit to their character.52 The results again indicate that the developmental response is so standard that it is almost invariant across families. This strongly suggests the presence of a cultural norm. To the extent that this response is given as a socially desirable rather than an honest answer, the normative interpretation is strengthened. A nearly constant three quarters of our sample believes or feels it ought to believe that chores are assigned to children for the benefit of the child.53

Largely, the parents White and Brinkerhoff interviewed reflected back the cultural construction of children’s pricelessness. This social more insists that

52

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Lynn K. White and David B. Brinkerhoff, “Children’s Work in the Family: Its Significance and Meaning,” JMF 43, no. 4 (1981): 789–98, 792–93. Ibid., 796.

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because children are priceless, they should be useless. They should not work and therefore any work they do must be to their own benefit rather than true work. The cultural constructions active in the biblical world would certainly have predated the shifts in constructions of childhood that Zelizer traces to those at work in White and Brinkerhoff ’s study. Still, we cannot assume linear progression in constructions of childhood, particularly with significant geographic and cultural distances. The archaeological record’s evidence of a subsistence agricultural economy supports that—however attached parents may have been to their offspring—children in that culture were understood to have had economic in addition to emotional value. A subsistence agricultural context would have required the labor of the entire family, including children, making a notable contrast with the social context Zelizer describes and modern Western readers experience. This is where ethnographic parallels become helpful in interpreting material culture. Just as ethnographic studies have identified traditionally gendered tasks, other studies have also discovered traditionally “aged” tasks. In Indonesia, for example, labor is divided into “a series of subtasks completed by a labour force structured according to age and gender. In local culture, strength and risk-taking are the traits of men’s work, whereas patience and carefulness are the skills that characterize jobs taken by women and children.”54 By applying modern ethnographic research on subsistence agricultural societies, biblical scholars can discern which tasks are most frequently designated “children’s work” and relate to constructions of childhood. Scholars observing the division of labor in subsistence agricultural societies have found that the care of animals and younger children are often “children’s work.” Although child care has often been assumed to be the purview of women, a study on children’s work practices in Java reported, “There are certain types of work in which the children . . . spend a considerable amount of time, although not necessarily more than adults. Child care is one such activity.”55 The same study revealed that animal care is a form of work to which children

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María Florencia Amigó, “Small Bodies, Large Contribution: Children’s Work in the Tobacco Plantations of Lomboc, Indonesia,” TAPJA 11.1 (2010): 34–51, 38. Nag et al., “An Anthropological Approach to the Study of the Economic Value of Children in Java and Nepal,” 295.

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are often designated: “among directly productive activities, animal husbandry is one in which younger children participate as much as older ones.”56 Firewood gathering also ranked among the tasks most frequently performed by young people. In this way, both the ethnographic evidence and the tools used for these tasks can shed light on ancient children’s lives. Key to deciphering ancient constructions of childhood is the knowledge that children’s work in subsistence agricultural families is far from mere household “chores” or “apprenticeship” activities. Rather, it is a vital contribution to the familial economy. All work, regardless of age or gender, was valuable and essential for familial survival. Carol Meyers suggests that children “eased the burden of female labor, which probably consumed more total hours per day than did the male-specific tasks.”57 True as this description may be from a woman-centered perspective, cross-cultural research reflects that many household tasks typically labeled “women’s work” are often “children’s work” in a subsistence agricultural economy. This points not only to potential ways in which archaeologists might discern which tools would have been used by children, but to the ways in which constructions of childhood would have related to their usefulness and even potentially to the particular tasks designated for them.

Empirical Research Method toward Children’s Agency as Interpreters In its advocacy for child-centered scholarship, another emphasis within certain areas of childhood studies is empirical research methods that access children’s subjectivities. Much of the foundational work for child-centered biblical criticism must by necessity be created by adult scholars, but the field would be lacking were it to neglect children’s agency within child centered-research and scholarship. More remains to be done toward cultivating biblical interpretation that reflects children as agents in ancient and modern cultures.58 Certainly, 56 57

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Ibid., 294. Carol Meyers, “The Family in Early Israel, ” in Families in Ancient Israel, ed. Leo G. Perdue et  al. (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1997), 27. Laurel W. Koepf, “Calling for Children: A Childist Biblical Hermeneutic” (paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the SBL, San Diego, CA, November 2007); Laes and Vuolanto, Children and Everyday Life.

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children’s perspectives are not the only ones to be brought to bear in childcentered interpretation. Neither should their interpretations be idealized, resulting in their essentialization. Therefore, these methodologies need not be the only ones to be considered child-centered. Still, child-centered criticism reaches greater depths when adult scholars acknowledge the range of ancient and modern childhoods and adulthoods, and critically engage the social constructions of each. To that end, it is essential to develop respectful childcentered methodologies within biblical studies for engaging children as meaning-makers in their own right and including children’s voices as experts on their own subjectivities and interpretations of text. Although children from antiquity obviously cannot be directly consulted for research purposes, child-centered biblical criticism can respectfully consult with modern children in matters that concern them, including their own perspectives on biblical interpretation. To include children as research partners and not merely research subjects, biblical scholars working directly with children can take cues from contextual biblical interpretation.59 Biblical scholars can also draw from others’ experience in developing empirical methods within childhood studies so as to consult with individual children on their hermeneutical perspectives.60 Melody Briggs’s recent monograph provides an excellent fore into the application of child-centered empirical methods coming out of childhood studies.61 Working with children between the ages of eleven and fourteen who identify both as “churched” and as “readers,” Briggs interviewed young people individually and in focus groups regarding their reading of the Bible.62 Her intention was to “approach each reader as an informant who was providing information to which I would not otherwise have access.”63 She stays accountable to this commitment by creating opportunities for agency, including selecting an interview location in a café that minimized the power differential between children and adults and in which participants felt comfortable, offering a choice between readable Bible translations, and the expert use of open-ended 59

60 61 62 63

Gerald West, “Reading the Bible with the Marginalised: The Value of Contextual Bible Reading,” STJ 1 (2015): 235–61. Woodhead, “Childhood Studies” 23. Briggs, How Children Read Biblical Narrative. Ibid., 91–92. Ibid., 89.

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interview questions in combination with unscripted “general invitations” for follow-up.64 Briggs’s research effectively engages Gerald West and others’ work on contextual biblical interpretation and brings existing child-centered work on children’s reading strategies into conversation with biblical studies. In doing so, she discovers that children use similar reading strategies for biblical narrative to those they employ for reading other narratives.65 Further, she discovers that “child readers have a narrative orientation toward reading with the hero or heroine,” and that “children do not approach biblical narrative primarily asking questions about its factuality, but about the viability of its narrative world.”66 She concludes that both of these reading strategies serve young readers and the text itself better than the imposition of a moral framework.67 Briggs’s work is intentionally child-centered, in contrast with previous empirical research on children’s Bible reading, which “either imposed an interpretive framework on children’s readings of the Bible, or . . . sought to uncover the frameworks at use in a particular institution.”68 She has provided an outstanding foundation for ongoing empirical research into children’s reading of biblical texts. Much remains to be done with a broader variety of demographics and a wider range of texts including those in the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament. It will be particularly fruitful to engage children in the interpretation of texts about which there is the least scholarly consensus, in that children’s dearth of experience with biblical criticism would then put child research partners at the least disadvantage.

Conclusion Childhood studies offers an opportunity to bring together a variety of fields and the tools each field uses so as to learn about children and childhood. Interacting with childhood studies therefore grants access to the plethora of applicable methods for engaging children in the Bible and the biblical world. 64 65 66 67 68

Ibid., 86, 96–98, 101–6. Ibid., 40–51, 55–57, 237. Ibid., 238, 240. Ibid., 241. Ibid., 65.

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The resultant interdisciplinary conversation benefits each of the contributing fields, while building up the field of childhood studies. This sharing of information is grounded in the understanding that all conceptions of childhood are socially constructed and that therefore no perception of what children are, how they behave, or how they develop toward assumedly “natural” goals can be universalized. These insights are highly applicable in biblical studies’ endeavor to interpret Scriptures composed in one culture toward understanding and application in another.

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Methodology: Who Is a Child and Where Do We Find Children in the Ancient Near East? Kristine Henriksen Garroway

The investigation of children in the biblical world requires answers to two deceptively simple questions: who is a child and where do we find children? These questions are essentially ones of definition and classification concerning the person of the child and their location within time and space. One might answer these questions by explaining the relationship of children to the people around them, and the stages that children pass through (often including rites of passage). However, those answers approach the questions from the perspective of a child’s experience in their lived life, and are more closely related to what one might call “childhood.”1 This chapter takes a more methodological approach, querying who qualifies as a child in the biblical world. By understanding first what “child” means in the biblical context, one can then begin to explore the presence of children in different sources. These two questions are not new; the field of childhood archaeology has been addressing them for over twenty-five years. Scholars such as Grete Lillehammer, Kathern Kamp, and Eleanor Scott have led the way with regard to the theory and archaeology of children. Paying close attention to the entirety of the archaeological record opens new doors. Suddenly, forgotten scraps of lithics, poorly made miniature vessels, and overlooked skeletal remains of children become a world where children created tools, played with toys, and

1

The topic of childhood is addressed in the essays by Reidar Aasgard, “History of Research on Children and Childhood in the Biblical World: Past Developments, Present State—and Potential Future,” and Laurel Koepf Taylor, “Accessing Childhoods: Interdisciplinary Tools at the Intersection of Biblical Studies and Childhood Studies,” in this volume.

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died from war, strenuous labor, and malnutrition. Yet, it is only recently that the field of biblical studies has taken a similar interest in children. For biblical studies, answering “Who is a child in the Bible?” and “Where are children are found?” is a bit more difficult than it is for a society in which the evidence comes solely from archaeological realia. The complications are twofold. In the field of biblical studies, one must take into consideration how the child created within the texts may differ from the child found in the archaeological remains. Further complications develop because of the distance in time, geography, and culture between the researcher and the subject of study; views of who children were in the biblical world are very different from our own conceptions of children. Due to these complications, answering these questions for the biblical world requires not just one, but many fields: biology, sociology, history, philology, art theory, and more. Applying an interdisciplinary approach provides answers that take into consideration the nuance created by the gap not only in time and geography, but in the various data sources themselves.

Who Is a Child in the Biblical World? One might think that to answer this question requires us to leave behind our own perceptions of children in the Western world, and to some extent this is correct. However, there is something universal about children in every culture. Biologically speaking, children are classified as children for a reason: they are immature humans. Yet a modern Westerner’s understanding of what makes someone a child is very different from that of a person in the ancient Near East (ANE). It is at the intersection of biology and culture where one can find the best answer to “Who is a child?”

Biology Human growth is classified into four stages post-gestation: infancy, childhood, juvenile, and adolescence. Upon completing adolescence, a human is considered mature and fully grown. In broad terms, a child is anyone who is a physiologically and sexually non-mature human.2 Biologists and physical

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anthropologists measure the process of human growth through different factors which change at a standard rate, such as bone ossification, dentition, and changes in body proportions.3 Consider, for example, the hand and wrist bone of any immature individual. At eight months of age, the wrist bones are formed primarily of cartilage and the ends of the finger bones are still growing. At three years old, most of the growing ends of the finger bones are calcified and the wrist bones begin to show ossification. By eight years of age, the centers of ossification in the finger and wrist bones are calcified. At thirteen years old, the hand and wrist bones are completely formed, with only the final size (due to growth) left to be determined.4 Each stage in a human’s growth has its own characteristics. Infancy is characterized by a rapid pace of growth. Within the first year of life an infant will double to triple their birth weight. Studies of infants in developing countries who were exclusively breastfed, like infants in the ANE, found that when the mother had proper nutrition, infants’ birthweights doubled by four months, the same rate of growth seen in Westernized countries.5 Breastfeeding raises the issue of dependency, for an infant cannot survive without its caregiver (mother or wet-nurse) until it is weaned. During infancy, further development includes the eruption of milk teeth and the expansion of cognitive and motor skills.6 Weaning (usually occurring between twelve and thirty-six months of age) marks the entrance into childhood. At this point, unlike other mammals, humans slow their growth rate to remain in a prolonged stage (childhood)

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Note that different parts of a person can develop at different rates. For example, a nine-year-old girl might develop physically and look like a teenager, but not have reached menarche, or vice versa. Furthermore, a nine-year-old girl may have reached menarche, appear physically mature, but physiologically she is not an adult since her nervous and endocrinological systems have not completed development. Barry Bogin and Holly Smith, “Evolution of the Human Life Cycle,” in Human Biology: An Evolutionary and Biocultural Perspective, ed. Sara Stinson, Barry Bogin, and Dennis O’Rourke (Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons, 2012), 530 Fig 11.5, 531 Fig. 11.6; Marina Faerman and Patricia Smith, “Has Society Changed its Attitude Towards Infants and Children?” Evidence from Archaeological Sites in the Southern Levant,” SIAP (2008): 211–29. Bogin and Smith, “Evolution,” Fig. 11.6; Vicente Gilsanz and Osman Ratib, Hand Bone Age (Berlin: Springer-Verlag, 2005). Rosa Marques, Fábio Lopez, and Josefina Braga, “Growth of Exclusively Breastfed Infants in the First 6 Months of Life” JPed (2004): 99–105; J. J. L. Hoecker, “How Much Should I Expect My Baby to Grow in the First Year?” Mayo Clinic, https://www.mayoclinic.org/healthy-lifestyle/infant-and-toddlerhealth/expert-answers/infant-growth/faq-20058037. Bogin and Smith, “Evolution,” 533–37.

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before moving into the juvenile stage. Characteristics of this growth stage include post-weaning dependency upon adults to provide food and protection, continued brain growth, immature dentition, and small digestive systems. Between the ages of six and eight years, a child will experience a mid-growth spurt, which is linked to an endocrine event (adrenarche) that causes the increase in body fat, and a new stage in cognitive development.7 Juveniles can fend for themselves, protect themselves from harm/disease, and find and prepare their own food. For females, this stage generally lasts from seven to ten years of age, and for boys from seven to twelve years of age. The juvenile period is shorter for females because the next stage, adolescence, begins earlier. Adolescence marks the onset of puberty and is characterized by social and sexual maturation. Puberty is triggered by the final release of gonadotropin-releasing hormone. Girls enter menarche and individuals of both sexes develop secondary sexual traits. Human adolescence is unique for two reasons: the length of time between puberty and first birth, and a rapid acceleration of almost all skeletal materials.8 While much more could be said about human development, the basic outline given here demonstrates some of the universal aspects of an individual’s development, whether the individual is a twenty-first-century Westerner, a first-century CE Roman, or an eighthcentury BCE Israelite.

Cultural Based on the growth categories laid out above, a “child” is technically an individual between 3.1 and 6.9 years old. Yet, when scholars say “child” they refer not only to individuals in this narrow age range, but include infants, children, juveniles, and even at times adolescents. The term “children” generally denotes those who are dependent upon adults. Some scholars prefer to avoid referring to “children” all together, choosing a broader term, such as non-adults or subadults.9 However, framing children in opposition to adults can be considered ageist. Subadult implies the child is “less than,” while non-adult implies a binary system 7 8 9

Childhood lasts from 3.1 to 6.9 years (Bogin and Smith, “Evolution,” 540). Bogin and Smith, “Evolution,” 542. Mary Lewis, The Bioarchaeology of Children: Perspectives from Biological and Forensic Anthropology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 5.

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of categorization within a culture.10 Additionally, both these terms imply a single, uniform age group.11 A study of any culture, ancient or modern, will quickly point out that there are multiple kinds of ages and stages in individuals who have not reached maturity (as well as among those who are mature adults). Another problem with defining a child solely by biological category is that biological categories are much neater than the lived life. While most individuals might double their birth weight by six months of age, and have ossified wrist bones by age thirteen, people learn to walk, talk, and perform and perfect different skills at different ages. Because people move from one category of life to another at varying times, individuals of different ages exist within a single category. For example, babies begin to crawl at different ages, some at five months, some at thirteen months, yet they all belong to the social age “crawler.”12 Ages within categories can also vary depending on the cultural situation. Consider the contemporary example of obtaining a driver’s license and entering the social category of “licensed driver.” The social category “driver” and “nondriver” affects a person individually, and also those around her or him. For a teenager, being able to drive might mean freedom and separation from the natal family. Most people in the state of Wisconsin apply for a driver’s license when they are sixteen years old; however, there are teenagers who, for various reasons, wait until they are older. Teenagers who do not obtain licenses in their teenage years might not be ready to separate from the family or want to take on the responsibility of driving a car or have access to a car. The same fluidity in the demarcation of life stages applies to the ancient world: different people went through different stages at different times. In fact, most cultures in the biblical world did not fixate on chronological age as we do today. Instead, social ages were used, and references to an individual’s age often pertained to their relationship to other members of their society.13 Within the

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12 13

See Jane Baxter, Archaeology of Childhood: Children, Gender and Material Culture (Walnut Creek, CA: Alta Mira, 2005), 97; Sam Lucy, “Children in Early Medieval Cemeteries,” ARC 113, no. 2 (1994): 21–34. Kristine Henriksen Garroway, Children in the Ancient Near Eastern Household, EANEC 3 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2014), 17. Bogin and Smith, “Evolution,” Figure 11.9, 535. “In many societies, especially non-Western preindustrial societies, these life stages are not tied to strict chronological age, but rather are signaled by observable outward signs or behaviors” (Martha Roth, “Age at Marriage and the Household: A Study of Neo-Babylonian and Neo-Assyrian Forms,” CSSH 29, no. 4 [1987]: 716).

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Mesopotamian corpus, groups of people were recorded as either “old, adult, adolescent, or child.” At times, the youngest group, “child,” was further divided into “adolescent,” “child” (or “weaned”), and “suckling.”14 The Hebrew Bible refers to individuals in the same manner, as yônēq “suckling,” zāqēn “old,” or bәtûlâ “young woman of marriageable age.” I have advocated elsewhere for understanding the term “child” as an umbrella category into which various social ages can be placed.15 In general, there seems to be an acknowledgement within the textual sources that individuals who are unmarried belong in this umbrella group. Once an individual marries, he or she moves into the category “adult.”16 As is clear from this discussion, the definition of who qualifies as a “child” is not simple. The category “child” is both a biological given and a social construct . While there may be some similarities between children of unrelated societies, there are also differences. The examples given here have relied on general, relatable categories of young people, yet some categories of the ANE are not present today, such as the category of “initiate,” found in Judges 8:20–21. Gideon’s son, Jether, refuses to draw his sword to kill the enemy because he was afraid. The explanation given is that he was still a youth. Stephen Wilson has explained Jether’s actions, or lack thereof, as indicative of a boy who is not ready to become a man. Thus, “initiate” here can be understood as “young boy who is ready to transition to manhood when he is capable of killing an enemy.”17 Such a category is not directly relatable to us in the Western world and points out the necessity of examining a social age in its historical setting.

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Sources include Sumerian ration lists and Middle Babylonian personnel rosters (Martin Stol, “Private Life in Ancient Mesopotamia,” CANE I: 485; Rivka Harris, Gender and Aging in Mesopotamia [Norman: University of Oklahoma Press: 2000], 6–7). Garroway, Children in the Ancient Near Eastern Household, 18. As with most categorizations, the line between two categories is not always clear. A prime example of this is the betrothed woman. For women in the ANE, the marriage process involved two steps. A woman would become affianced, involving the agreement of marriage between the two families and the exchange of gifts. In a subsequent ceremony, the woman would be married, signaled in patriarchal societies by the transfer of the woman and any property to the husband’s household (Raymond Westbrook, Old Babylonian Marriage Law [Horn, Austria: Verlag Ferdinand Berger & Söhne, 1998]). Stephen M. Wilson, Making Men: The Male Coming of Age Theme in the Hebrew Bible (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015), 130–53.

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The Intersection of Biology and Culture: Definitions Determining who a child is could perhaps be trickier than one would imagine as one needs to consider both biological constants and social constructs. In defining, by necessity, one compares. Looking at the various definitions of “child” in social ages and biological stages, or defining one social category in light of another one, is necessary since comparison is “a requirement for anyone who aims at explanation.”18 Keeping in mind that children can be defined in many different ways, it is not only useful but essential to have clear and explicit language with which to discuss children. To this end, I suggest using the following terms for the ANE and the biblical world. To speak of someone as a “child” in a non-relational way is to indicate a pre-pubescent individual.19 Based on this premise, I would argue that puberty is a better marker of the end of the period as a “child” than marriage because 1) males and females married at different times and 2) marriage often occurred after the onset of puberty.20 Granted, males and females go through puberty at different times, but puberty would occur earlier than marriage.21 Those individuals who have reached puberty but are not married can be considered adolescents. Within the larger category of “child,” we can place smaller categories, such as infant or baby, young child, and older child.

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Stan Stowers, “Theorizing Ancient Household Religion,” in Household and Family Religion in Antiquity, ed. John Bodel and Saul Olyan (Malden: MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2008), 7. While girls may have been betrothed at rather tender ages, they were not officially married until they entered their husband’s house. Roth argues that marriages generally took place once a girl had reached menarche, in which case she should be considered an adult (Roth, “Age at Marriage,” 715–47). However, there seems to be some overlap between the age of marriage and the social age categories. A female might be considered an adult (18+ years old), but not married. If not married, she would be living in the natal house and, while not a child, still a dependent of that house. For females in the ANE, marriage generally occurred earlier than for men. Neo-Assyrian marriage contracts record the age of first marriage for women as occurring between 14 and 24 years old and for men between 26 and 32 years old. The delayed age for male marriage is directly related to the timing of the father’s death, at which point a male would come into his patrimony (Roth, “Age at Marriage,” 737). Others have argued for marriage to form the final boundary line between childhood and adulthood (David Marcus, “Juvenile Delinquency in the Bible and Ancient Near East,” JANESCU 13 [1981]: 12–39; Amram Tropper, “The Economics of Jewish Childhood in Late Antiquity,” HUCA 76 [2005]: 227).

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Table 4.1 Chronological and Social Ages Term

Age

Broad Description

Infant/Baby 0–2 years Young Child 3–6 years Older Child Adolescent

A child who is dependent upon caregiver, not weaned A child who can walk, talk, carry out simple chores, dependent on caregiver 7–13 years A child who can carry out more complex chores, capable of fending for him/herself and others younger than them 14–19 years A non-married individual living in and contributing to the natal household at similar capacity to that of adults in the household.

Where Do We Find Children? Children pervade the biblical world. Yet, despite this rather obvious claim, children can remain hidden. As Sharon Betsworth and Julie Faith Parker mention in their introduction, children habitually fall into that silent “other” category. This section will offer ways in which to find children in various sources, which is the first step to hearing their voices.

Hebrew Bible The most obvious place to find children in the Bible is in narratives that contain children. Stories like David and Goliath (1 Sam. 17), or little Samuel serving before the Lord (1 Sam. 1–3) are evident starting points. In such narratives, children play a main role and even speak. Less noticeable places include passages where children are silent. These other texts might include narratives, poetry, or wisdom literature where children are referenced but are not necessarily the focus. To demonstrate the interplay between social age, literary genre, and the issues in “finding” children in these less apparent places, the discussion below will use the births of Cain and Abel as starting points.

The Birth of Cain Genesis 4:1 states that “Adam knew his wife Eve, and she conceived, and she bore Cain. She said,‘I have gained a man (’îš) with the Lord’s [help].’ ”22 Nowhere 22

Translation my own, here and throughout unless otherwise noted.

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in the verse is there a word describing Cain as a baby or child. The only descriptive word is ’îš, man. Since it is absurd to think Eve bore a full-grown man, one must read ’îš, man, as a substitution for zākār, male. Sarna reads ’îš as a play on words with Adam’s previous statement in Genesis 2:23 upon the creation of woman.23 Here, it must be inferred that Cain was born as a baby boy.24 A hurdle in locating children in the text is that their early months and years are rarely recorded. Their lives as infants are not the main concern of the biblical text.25 While there are terms for infants and young children in biblical Hebrew, the lived lives of these individuals have little to do with the agenda of the adult, elite, androcentric authors.26 The authors’ priorities result in a text which includes children, but rarely directs primary attention to them. Therefore, in reading narratives it becomes important to notice the adults’ attitudes regarding their children. For example, names can provide information about how children were perceived. Names like Nathaniel, “gift of God,” or Joseph “may God add another,” reflect the belief that the divine was in control of a child’s existence. In addition to theophoric names, children may be given names from nature, or names that reflect the parent’s feeling about the birth. Consider Leah, who exclaims “What luck!” upon the birth of a child (born to her handmaid), naming him “Gad” (Gen. 30:11). Hannah also chooses to name her child based on her feelings regarding his birth: Samuel “I asked the Lord for him” (1 Sam. 1:20). Such names reflect a child’s value within his family.27 Since the Hebrew Bible narratives are generally about upper-class families, one must wonder whether the joy surrounding birth/infancy and the inferred value of children was widespread among the social classes. To answer

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“Eve now says in effect: ‘I, woman (‘ish(sh)ah), was produced from man (‘ish); now I, woman, have in turn produced a man’,” (Nahum M. Sarna, The JPS Torah Commentary: Genesis [Philadelphia: JPS, 1989], 32). For further discussion of the ramifications of understanding characters in Genesis as children, see “God as a Child in the Hebrew Bible? Playing with the Possibilities” by Julie Faith Parker, in this volume. Even with texts that are about children, such as 1 Sam. 1–3, there is nothing of his life as a newborn or toddler before he enters the service of the Lord. Carol Meyers, Rediscovering Eve (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 19–25. Notably, only one female birth is recorded in the ancestral narratives, that of Dinah (Gen. 30:21). Dinah is the last child born to Leah, after bearing a half-dozen boys. The record of Dinah’s birth seems almost an after-thought, perhaps demonstrating the pervasive attitude that boys were more desired than girls (Beth Alpert Nakhai, “Female Infanticide in Iron II Israel and Judah,” in Sacred History, Sacred Literature: Essays on Ancient Israel, the Bible, and Religion in Honor of R. E. Friedman, ed. Shawna Dolansky [Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2008], 257–72).

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this question requires looking to other sources that mention infants and children. Both the poetry and wisdom literature can help fill in these gaps. Psalm 127:3–5a says: Sons/children (bānîm) are the inheritance of the Lord; the fruit of the womb (pәrî habbāt.en), His reward. Like arrows in the hand of a warrior are sons/children born to man in his youth. Happy is the man who fills his quiver with them.28

The terms used here show how broadly some words can be interpreted. Paralleling children with fruit of the womb is a poetic device, but also helps us to understand that the fruit of the womb (pәrî habbāt.en) need not refer to a newborn. Children as an abstract concept are understood as a gift of the Lord, and people with multiple children (i.e., descendants) should count themselves blessed.29 The poetic texts of the Latter Prophets also add to our knowledge of children as valuable to the family. While the passages do not describe the lives of children in detail, they do reference the loss of children, an event considered a tragedy for the family and the nation. These references to losing children almost all emerge in discussions surrounding two main themes: outcomes of war and effects of breaking the covenant. Consider that the Latter Prophets include ninety-two references to children, of which approximately seventy-five are references to the dismal fate of children during warfare.30 The terms for children include: na‘ar, na‘ărâ, yeled, yaldâ, bāh.ûr, bәtûlâ, t.ap, ‘ôlēl, ‘ôl, ‘almâ, and yônēq.31 These terms range from specific social ages, such as suckling (yônēq) or toddler (t.ap), to generic terms, such as child m/f (yeled, yaldâ) or youth m/f (na‘ar, nă‘arâ).32 This array of terminology emphasizes the value of

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The translation reflects the biblical Hebrew convention to use the masculine plural to refer to both a group of males and a mixed group of males and females. See also Gen. 33:5. Jason Riley, “The Motif of Children as Victims of War in Prophetic Literature” (paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the Southwest Region of the SBL, Irving, TX, 11 March 2017), 1. For studies on the meanings of bәtûlâ, t.ap, ‘ôlēl, and ‘ôl, see Julie Faith Parker, Valuable and Vulnerable: Children in the Hebrew Bible, Especially the Elisha Cycle, BJS 355 (Providence, RI: Brown University, 2013), 67–73; Andres Michel, Gott und Gewalt gegen Kinder im Alten Testamentum (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 23–24; Peggy Day, Gender and Difference in Ancient Israel (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1989), 58–74, esp. 59–60. For studies on na‘ar and yeled, see Milton Eng, Days of Our Years: A Lexical and Semantic Study of the Life Cycle in Biblical Israel (London: T&T Clark, 2011), 81–88, 137–47; Parker, Valuable and Vulnerable, 60–65.

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children to a society and often points to society’s need to protect these most vulnerable members. Pour it on the infant (‘ôlēl) in the street, And on the company of youths (bәh.ûrîm) gathered together! Yes, men and women alike shall be captured, Elders and those of advanced years. Jer. 6:11 So shall the king of Assyria drive off the captives of Egypt and the exiles of Nubia, young (nә‘arîm) and old, naked and barefoot and with bared buttocks, to the shame of Egypt! Isa. 20:4

These two passages illustrate the horrors of war befalling not just Israelite adults, but the vulnerable young generations of all nations, and again emphasize the importance of social ages when it comes to “finding” children.

The Birth of Abel Genesis 4:2 records Abel’s birth as follows: “Then she bore his brother, Abel.” This second birth brings with it a second issue: the use of relational terms. Sometimes children will be designated as a child by means of his or her connection to others in the family, using terms like son, daughter, sister, or brother. Again, it is context that will help the reader determine whether the individual is a child. For example, the pairing of the terms son (bēn) and daughter (bat) is often linked to a form of violence that results as an outcome of war: cannibalism, untimely death, captivity, slavery.33 These terms are also used in accusations of child sacrifice found in the legal and narrative portions of the Bible.34 Identifying the relational term, then, is only the first step. The next steps might require one to seek out how the term is used in the given context, and additionally, in other contexts. Once this is done, one can look for patterns in how the terms are used. As another example, the terms “brother”

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Michel, Gott und Gewalt, 26. Inter alia, Gen. 22:1–4; Judg. 11:29–40; 2 Kgs 3:26–27; Lev. 18:21, 20:3; Deut. 12:20–31, 18:10; Isa. 30:27–33; Jer. 7:31; 19:5. Parker, Valuable and Vulnerable, 46–47; Heath Dewrell, Child Sacrifice in Ancient Israel, EANEC 5 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2016); Garroway, Children in the Ancient Near Eastern Household, 178–97.

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(’āh.) and “sister” (’āh.ōt), when linked to children or adolescents, are steeped in narratives including themes of protection and sibling rivalry.35 Knowing the patterns for use of this terminology can cue the reader into attitudes regarding sibling relationships as well as parent–child relationships.36 In terms of birth order, the social ages bәkôr (male firstborn) and bәkîrâ (female firstborn) can be useful in identifying children and their relationship to the household vis-à-vis inheritance, instruction, and leadership among the siblings.37 When the term bәkôr is employed, issues of primogeniture are generally at the forefront. The eldest son enjoys extra status, moveable and immovable property, power over the other sons, and, when the father is unable, serves as legal representation for females and younger males in the family. The pervasive motif of the younger son supplanting the elder weaves its way through many biblical narratives (Cain and Abel, Isaac and Ishmael, Jacob and Esau, etc.). For females, the bәkîrâ, the eldest daughter, is also a significant role. Birth order is important for females when it comes to marriage. The eldest is to marry before the youngest (Gen. 29:26). Rachel must wait for Leah to be married (Gen. 29:16–30), and Michal for Merab (1 Sam. 18:17–21). The story of Lot’s daughters suggests another role for the eldest daughter (Gen. 19:31, 33, 34, 37). Like Naomi for Ruth (Ruth 3:1–5), Lot’s eldest daughter comes up with a plan for seducing a man, and then provides instruction to a younger girl for how to carry out the plan.38 In this way, the elder daughter mimics the role of a mother figure who teaches a younger girl. The remaining biblical Hebrew terms for children also have a relational aspect to them as they represent social ages. The strapping youth (bāh.ûr), the girl of marriageable age (bәtûlâ), the teenage girl (‘almâ), the toddling or tripping one (t.ap), and the weaned child (gāmûl) are all stages through which a child must pass on his or her way to adulthood. Looking for these terms and the other social age categories mentioned above can be a start to identifying

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Parker, Valuable and Vulnerable, 49–50. For example, Rachel and Leah are presented as rivals, both before and after their marriage to Jacob. The reversal of this “sister” rivalry can be seen in the story of Ruth, which Pardes calls an idyllic revisionism of the Rachel and Leah story (Ilana Pardes, Countertraditions in the Bible: A Feminist Approach [Boston: Harvard University Press, 1992], 98–117). Parker, Valuable and Vulnerable, 50–52. Pardes, Countertraditions, 98–117.

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children in the biblical text.39 Recognizing that children are almost always talked “around” or “about” instead of “to” is another important point. Children, even more so than women, rarely have a voice in the biblical text. Yet this need not deter one from uncovering them, for as feminist hermeneutics has proven, simply because a voice is silent does not mean that the voice has nothing to say.

ANE Textual Sources A Sumerian proverb states: “Marrying several wives is human; getting many children is divine.”40 Like the Israelites, Mesopotamians also valued children.41 Unlike the Israelite tradition, the Mesopotamian tradition is replete with many kinds of textual sources that reference children. These cover inter alia liturgical works, adoption contracts, sale contracts, lexical lists, ration lists, incantations, epics, legal materials and personal letters. Sifting through the corpus of Mesopotamian literature in hopes of finding children can be a bit daunting, especially because narratives about children do not make up a large part of the corpus. Here again, examining the less obvious sources with an eye to social age categories can prove fruitful. Mesopotamian literature includes both generic and specific terms for children. Often the generic terms are found paired with other generic words. For example, the expression of opposite ends of the age spectrum: young (tur. meš/ s.iḫ ru) and old (gal.meš/ rabû), is found in various liturgical hymns.42 Mesopotamian ration lists also provide generalized categories of people. With their concern on giving those of working age more food, and those at either end of the spectrum less food, these lists can add to our understanding of who children were in ancient Mesopotamia. Adults are called guruš (m) and gemé (f). They represent individuals between thirteen and forty years of age, i.e., people in the prime working years of their life.43 The group of people at the earlier end of the spectrum is called guruš.tur.tur, best described as an

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Similar age categories may be found in the later intertestamental texts as well as the New Testament. E. I. Gordon, Sumerian Proverbs: Glimpses of Everyday Life in Ancient Mesopotamia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1959), 1.160, 126. For reasons of space, the discussion of the ANE will be limited to Mesopotamian texts. Harris, Gender, 6. I. E. Gelb, “Ancient Mesopotamian Ration System,” JNES 24 (1965): 230–43.

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individual between the ages of weaned and adolescence.44 Contracts describing the hire of children do not always record the child’s age, but do record the age with relation to the person acting as the legal representative. The fact that the individual is not hiring out themselves means that they are minors. Once more, relational terms become important: it is the older brother who hires out his younger brother, or the parents who hire out their daughter or son.45 Here too we see ends of the spectrum, as those considered legal adults hire out those at the younger end of the spectrum: the children they oversee. The Mesopotamian corpus also includes many specific words for children, and “a rich vocabulary refers to infants, indeed a more detailed one than for any other age category, reflecting perhaps the enormous changes in development that mark the first years of life.”46 References in the omen series, lexical lists, incantations, and legal materials serve as examples. From the omen series Šumma Izbu come references to babies with expected and unexpected abnormalities.47 Babies born with two faces portend the change of kingship, while the birth of triplets means the owner of the house will die.48 Lexical lists and legal texts also add to the pool of social ages. Daqqu, meaning “small child,” and lakû, meaning “suckling” are both found in the series Proto-Diri.49 The latter term also appears in texts that echo the biblical prophets who speak of violence done to women and children during warfare: “He slit the wombs of the pregnant women, he put out the eyes of the infants (lakû), he beheaded the adults [among] them.”50 The equivalent Sumerian term DUMU.GABA often makes its way into legal texts, especially adoption texts, which need to determine the social age of the baby.51 Many adoption contracts open with the

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John Anthony Brinkman, “Sex, Age, and Physical Condition Designations for Servile Laborers in the Middle Babylonian Period: A Preliminary Survey,” in Zikir Šumim: Assyriological Studies Presented to F. R. Kraus, ed. G. van Driel et al. (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1982), 2. Garroway, Children in the Ancient Near Eastern Household, 157; Muhammad Dandamaev, “Free Hired Labor in Babylonia during the Sixth through Fourth Centuries BC,” in Labor in the Ancient Near East, ed. Marvin Powell, AOS 68 (New Haven, CT: 1987), 272. Harris, Gender, 9. Erle Leichty, The Omen Series Šumma Izbu (Locust Valley, NY: J. J. Augustin, 1970). I:74 and I:113, Leichty, Šumma Izbu, 38, 43. It should be noted that only the most affluent of society could afford to fetch an omen reading from the bārû-priest (Leichty, Šumma Izbu, 7–8). CAD D 107; Proto-Diri 73 d–f; CAD L 45–46; Proto-Diri 73f. CAD L 46 LKA 62 r.3. Adoption texts highlight the social age of the baby because it would need a wet nurse until age two or three (Mayer Gruber, “Breast-Feeding Practices in Biblical Israel and in Old Babylonian Mesopotamia,” JANES 19 [1989]: 61–83).

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formula 1 SIKIL.TUR.RA DUMU.SAL.GABA or 1 DUMU.NÍTA.GAB “one suckling female/male baby.” The social age of the baby/child always trumps all other means of identification (social status/ relationship to parents), for it was necessary to establish whether the baby was still nursing.52 When an infant was weaned, it became a pirsu. In this case, an adoption text would open with the information that “PN, a weaned child, was taken in adoption by PN1 and PN2.”53 Unlike the nursing baby, the pirsu would not need a wet-nurse. Presumably here a pirsu referred to a child who was so young she or he might be mistaken for a nursing child. Older children are referred to in adoption contracts by the generic s.ehru(m), which means to become small in size or quantity, become few, to be young, to be a minor, etc.54 Other legal documents, such as sale documents, combine both chronological and social ages, which help define this ambiguous term. For example, Nbk. 100 concerns the sale of a girl who is s.a-hir-tum mar-tum 3 šanati(meš), “a young daughter, of three years old.” The text gives the legal status (daughter), social age (youngling), and chronological age (three years old). In this case, three years old could be considered a nursing child, a weaned child, or simply a child. It appears that this little girl had completed nursing some time ago because she is not called a pirsu. Paying attention to little details like this can help uncover the children hidden in texts. Embedded in some of the examples above is another method that is critical to finding children in the ANE materials: rethinking the way a text has been previously interpreted. For example, Code of Hammurabi laws 186–189 have been historically read as laws regulating circumstances in which families have the right to reclaim an adopted child. Focusing instead on the children and the social ages involved in these contracts, those of the s.ehrum and tarbītum, reveals information about the status of the adopted child.55 Applying this method to other corpora of literature will help one find children and understand other social institutions in a new light.

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See TIM 5 4 and PBS 8/2 107 discussed in Garroway, Children in the Ancient Near Eastern Household, 54–58, 259, 263. PN = Personal Name. For the text, see TCL 9 57:3. CAD S. 121. A fortunate by-product of this refocusing is increased knowledge about the institution of adoption that gives the child’s perspective. See the discussion in Garroway, Children in the Ancient Near Eastern Household, 58–64.

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Archaeology The material record of past societies offers many different places to find children. Three main areas will be discussed here: iconography, dwelling sites, and skeletal remains. Each of these areas offers a unique presentation of children that adds to our knowledge of children in the biblical world. However, finding the children in each of these areas is again a bit challenging.

Iconography The first hurdle in using the iconographic record is with the availability of sources. For example, the ancient Egyptian and Greco-Roman worlds offer a plethora of images from which to choose. Greek vases provide information regarding activities children engaged in, or specific events they participated in. Once such event was the Panathenaea, the main festival of Athens. From the pictures on different vases it is evident that girls wove garments presented to Athena, and participated in sporting events, such as ball throwing and the jumping game, hunchback (leap frog?).56 Consider too, the tombs of Ancient Egypt, which are filled with paintings. When the paintings depict families, children are shown in relationship to their parents; the shorter stature shows the individual is a child. Infants are easily identified by their lack of clothing, side-lock of youth, and finger in the mouth.57 Such identifying markers make it easy to figure out who is an Egyptian child. The difficulty with both these examples is that they represent only one class of children, those born to the upper class.

Figure 4.1 Engraved Illustration of Children at Play in Ancient Greece. Courtesy of Getty Images.

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Edith Specht, “Girls’ Education in Ancient Greece,” in Children, Identity, and the Past, ed. Liv Dommasnes and Melanie Wrigglesworth (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2008): 125–36, esp. 130. Erika Feucht, “Childhood,” OEAE I: 261–64.

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Figure 4.2 Egyptian Carving from the Roman Period Birth House at the Temple at Dendera. Courtesy of Getty Images.

While many societies were keen on creating paintings or other pictures of themselves, ancient Israel was not. This causes a serious gap in our knowledge of what ancient Israelites looked like. While emic sources are lacking, depictions of Israelites can be found in the surrounding cultures. The famous tomb procession at Beni Hasan, for one, provides a colorful rendition of Asiatics offering gifts.58 While those in the procession may not have been Israelites per se, they are purported to come from the region where the Israelites lived. Of interest are the small individuals preceding the women in the group. Again, following Egyptian artistic conventions, children are shown smaller than the adults. Their clothing is also much simpler than the adults accompanying them. Two of the children appear to be riding on a donkey. None of the children are naked, or wear the side-lock of youth.

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On the history of interpretation for this tomb scene, see Susan Cohen, “Interpretive Uses and Abuses of the Beni Hasan Tomb Painting,” JNES 74, no. 1 (2015): 19–38.

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Figure 4.3 Egyptian Beni Hasan Tomb Painting. Courtesy of Zev Radovan.

While the Beni Hasan example comes from the Middle Kingdom and shows Asiatics within Egypt, later temple reliefs from the New Kingdom depict the reverse situation. Pharaohs such as Thutmose III and Ramses II carved their military feats within Canaan into temple walls.59 Some of these scenes show Canaanite children hanging off the side of the walls. These children appear naked and with the side-lock of youth. Here a difficulty arises. It is possible Canaanite infants/young children looked like their Egyptian counterparts; but, it is also possible that Egyptians simply portrayed Canaanite children with Egyptian conventions. One must always keep in mind that etic depictions of infants and children might reflect the society commenting, not the society being commented upon. This logic also applies to the Lachish reliefs, a source that specifically correlates to ancient Israel. The reliefs, found in Nineveh, depict the destruction of Lachish in 701 BCE by the Assyrian army.60 Multiple children, of varying 59 60

Othmar Keel, “Kanaanäische Sühneriten auf ägyptischen Tempelreliefs,” VT 25, no. 2 (1975): 413–69. Many of the registers in question are now housed in the British Museum. For more on children in reliefs, see Irène Schwyn, “Kinderbetreuung im 9. 7. Jahrhundert. Eine Untersuchung anhand der Darstellungen auf neuassyrischen Reliefs,” Lectio Dificilor 1 (2000): 1–14.

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Figure 4.4 Assyrian Bas-Relief of Children Exiled in Lachish Conquest. Courtesy of Zev Radovan.

ages, appear within the registers showing the deportation of Judeans. Young naked infants and children ride on wagons, older children walk close to their elders, and even older children lead pack animals. The younger children are naked, while the older (male) children wear increasingly more ornate clothing. Given the paucity of pictorial evidence representing various social statuses and ages, iconographic depictions of children may provide the most reliable information of how children in the biblical world looked and how they fitted into the familiar and social order.

Dwelling Sites Since children were a part of the household, it seems reasonable that one might find evidence of them where they lived. Indeed, as history progresses, such evidence is more readily found as it becomes easier to identify archaeological remains of children in conjunction with historical documents. For example, textiles and food production belong to the women’s realm, both in ancient Israel and in ancient Greece.61 The question is to what degree did young girls 61

Meyers, Rediscovering Eve, 127–32.

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participate in these tasks and, furthermore, what objects did they use in these activities? Ancient Greece offers more information than ancient Israel. There, we learn that “in about 540 BC a girl named Melosa won a beautiful cup as the ‘prize for the girls’ carding contest’ in Tarentum.”62 Thus, one might conclude that implements used for carding wool were used by young girls. We do not have such specific texts from ancient Israel, and so more is left to conjecture. Yet there are ways around this aforementioned difficulty; when historical records cannot be used to identify children in the material remains, one can turn to the techniques used by the field of household archaeology. This field meticulously plots the location of every find within an excavation, with the end goal of being able to reconstruct what was happening in a room at a given point of time.63 When it comes to looking for children in the house, archaeologists have searched for miniature items as indications of children. Poorly formed miniature vessels, ones that are misshapen, have inclusions, and are poorly fired have also been linked to children. One such vessel was found at Megiddo, where the excavators surmise that the item was made by a child apprenticed to a potter.64 In some instances, such as Tel Nagila in Israel, fingerprints remain on the small vessels, which let archaeologists perform fingerprint analysis.65 Analyzing which vessels were made by children allowed the excavators to plot where the child-made vessels were found. Crossreferencing this information with the other items found in the child-vessel rooms presented a picture of the places a child inhabited in the house. Even when items do not contain fingerprints, it might be possible to relate objects to children. Again, identifying objects as toys is easier for some cultures than others. Ancient Egypt has provided archaeologists with a handful of toys such as: an animal on wheels (pull toy), balls made of wood, leather, and

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Specht, “Girls’ Education,” 127. For an example, see Yuval Gadot and Assaf Yasur-Landau, “Beyond Finds: Reconstructing Life in the Courtyard Building of Level K-4,” in Megiddo IV: The 1998–2002 Seasons, ed. Israel Finkelstein, David Ussishkin, and Baruch Halpern (Tel Aviv: Emery and Claire Yass Publications in Archaeology, 2006), 526–43. Eran Arie, “The Iron Age I Pottery: Levels K-5 and K-4 and an Intra-Site Spatial Analysis of the Pottery from Stratum VIA,” in Megiddo IV: The 1998–2002 Seasons, ed. Finkelstein, 220; Grete Lillehammer, “A Child is Born: The Child’s World in an Archaeological Perspective,” NAR 22 (1999): 99. Joel Uziel and Rona Avissar Lewis, “The Tel Nagila Middle Bronze Age Homes—Studying Household Activities and Identifying Children in the Archaeological Record,” PEQ 145, no. 4 (2013): 284–92.

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papyrus, dolls, and mud figures shaped like animals and humans.66 Far more common are little gaming pieces, which are found in dwellings throughout Ancient Egypt, Mesopotamia, and ancient Israel.67 Plotting where these game pieces were found at various sites might be a way of identifying where older children played. As these examples demonstrate, employing some of the strategies used in household archaeology can help us “find” children within a site even if there is not tangible evidence of their material remains.

Skeletal Remains The most obvious way to find children in an archaeological setting is through their bones. Skeletal remains have been found both in situ in conflagration layers and in their final resting places. Both locations suffer from the same issue: the friability of children’s bones. Teeth, however, are quite hard and often exist as the only remnants of a young individual’s skeleton. Careful sifting of grave and excavation sites is needed to find teeth, and to preserve the other bones that may exist. Such techniques were not always carried out in the past, and for some sites the ratio of infant/child bones to that of adults suggests that some of the small brittle bones may have disintegrated at soon as a pick or trowel scraped over them.68 In situ Remains of children found within houses provide a picture of where children were allowed in the house, who watched over them, and what items they would have used. The destruction of the Canaanite city of Lachish (ca. 1200–1130 BCE, prior to the notorious Assyrian invasion) provides a good example of this picture. Within the Pillared Building of Area S, as noted in the excavation report, the remains of a forty- to fifty-year-old woman, an eightyear-old child (male), a young child two to three years old, and an infant six to

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W. M. Finders Petrie, Objects of Daily Use (London: British School of Archaeology, 1927), 58–61. Some of these items were found in graves, which tells us something about the lives of children, but does not help with identifying spaces used by children in the house. Noah Weiner, “Ancient Games,” Biblical Archaeology Society https://www.biblicalarchaeology.org/ daily/ancient-cultures/daily-life-and-practice/ancient-games/; William Hallo, “Games in the Biblical World,” ErIsr 24 (1993): 83–88. Garroway, Children in the Ancient Near Eastern Household, 9 and fn. 24.

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eight months old were discovered.69 The two- to three-year-old child was found lying on its stomach with the lower limbs akimbo and the head turned to the side. This position suggests that the infant was crawling around on the floor, or that the woman was holding the infant and threw him/her down. The smallest infant was found inside the Pillared Building, also lying on its stomach. The arm and leg positions were again unusual, suggesting the infant had been thrown to the ground right before its demise. Even though the circumstances are sad, they do confirm some commonly held assumptions. First, the fact that the woman was found near the three children upholds the belief that children stayed close to the mother. Second, the body positions of the two little ones convey that someone was caring for them, perhaps carrying them (for a time) from impending danger. The presence of the eight-year-old boy is noteworthy as it might indicate that older male children spent time in the dwelling, perhaps helping the females. Notably, no men were found in the conflagration of the Pillared Building. The total picture from Lachish emphasizes the vulnerability of infants and children.

Within Graves Burials of children provide a lot of information on how a society perceived their little ones. In fact, until recently, most of the research done on children in historical settings was conducted via burials.70 The difficulty with burials is that adults project their own ideals onto the dead children. Nonetheless, burials offer one of the best ways to “find” children and “to extract some insights about how a group perceived itself through the images left to us through mortuary remains.”71 In a previous study, I examined the remains of over 440 children

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Patricia Smith, “Skeletal Remains from Level VI,” in The Renewed Archaeological Excavations at Lachish (1973–1994), ed. David Ussishkin (Tel Aviv: Emery and Claire Yass Publications in Archaeology, 2004), 2504–07. Another difficulty in deciding “who” a child is concerns the nonuniform terms used to describe these little ones. For example, the physical anthropology report calls the two- to three-year-old a child, not an infant (Smith, “Skeletal Remains,” 2504). The absence or presence of children’s bodies has long been a focus of childhood archaeology. For history of scholarship on this matter, and ways to move beyond examining burials, see Joanna Sofaer, “Bodies and Encounters: Seeing Invisible Children in Archaeology,” in The Archaeology of Childhood: Interdisciplinary Perspectives on an Archaeological Enigma, IEMA Proceedings 4; ed. Güner Coşkunsu (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2015), 73–90. Hallote speaks of mortuary remains as a whole (Rachel Hallote, “Real and Ideal Identities in Middle Bronze Age Tombs,” NEA 65 [2002]: 105).

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from Early Bronze Age I-Iron Age II (ca. 3600-539 BCE).72 The results varied depending on time period and geographical location, but a few overarching trends appeared. First, most children were buried like the adults of their community, be it in cist, cave, pit, simple graves, etc. Second, infants were treated differently from children. In many sites, infants were simply “missing.” Of those 440+ burials, almost half were of infant jar burials. If this seems like a high number, consider that this number covers a span of 3000 years. With a high infant mortality rate, many more infants should be found.73 Infants’ remains were usually buried away from those of the other members of their society, and often under house floors. These infants were found intact because they were placed in jars, which are thought by many to represent the womb.74 Often juglets, the ANE’s answer to a bottle, accompanied the burials. This suggests that, like adults, infants were also fed on their way to the afterlife. Some burials contained personal adornments, such as anklets/ bracelets, or scarabs. The latter are often thought of as amulets to protect the child.75 Anklets, on the other hand, present the idea of wealth, or status distinction. The patterning of anklets found on individuals of all ages at Tell es-Sa’idiyeh (Jordan), for example, suggest that ornaments were used to mark stages in an individual’s life.76

Concluding Remarks Children in ancient societies are both similar to and different from children today. Biologically, children are pre-adolescent individuals who are still dependent upon adults. In this way, one might think of children on a spectrum. As individuals grow, they become less and less dependent upon the adults in

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Garroway, Children in the Ancient Near Eastern Household, 218–44, 281–98. Based on the size of a site or the number of adults in a burial location, excavators can project demographics (Smith and Faerman, “Has Society Changed,” 211–29). Garroway, Children in the Ancient Near Eastern Household, 234–35. The location of the rest of the infants and why some were chosen for jar burials to the exclusion of others remains a mystery. Meyers, Rediscovering Eve, 155. John Green, “Anklets and the Social of Constraction Gender and Age in the Late Bronze and Early Iron Age Southern Levant,” in Archaeology and Women: Ancient and Modern Issues, ed. Sue Hamilton, Ruth Whitehouse, and Katherine Wright (Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press, 2007), 283–311.

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their lives, until they reach the point at which they could begin to produce and care for their own children. Just as contemporary society thinks of children vis-à-vis social ages (i.e., toddlers, school-aged children, and pre-teens) so too did the ANE. Since most ANE sources use social ages to classify members of society, social ages are the best way to both identify and find children. Each available source of information has its own construction of social ages. Iconography uses height, gesture, and clothing. Textual sources employ descriptive terms (suckling, weaned, little child, child of marriageable age, etc.). Even archaeological remains favor grouping children by social ages. Certain toys can only be played with if one can walk, while other toys might be used by an immobile child. Notably, the descriptions of social ages in the iconography, texts, and archaeology show the greatest nuance for the younger age range.77 Part of a methodology that looks for children acknowledges that previous work in the biblical world has predominately been examined with an eye towards adults, or institutions run by adults. Approaching an extant corpus of materials to focus on finding “children” changes the information one can glean from the text; this is part of the way forward in determining who is a child. A second part is to think about meshing the data gleaned in the sources to sense what a baby or a child in a certain society might have looked like. Iconography, archaeological remains, and textual data can be combined to discern how social status and class affect the presentation of children in any given time and place. Through a process of combined approaches, we will be that much closer to “finding” children in the biblical world.

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To some degree, archaeology helps to put a chronological age on social age categories because we have the skeletal remains, which allow for approximate ages to be assigned.

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The Logic of Sacrificing Firstborn Children1 Heath D. Dewrell

The various law collections contained in the Torah all include a command to give every firstling of one’s animals and the firstfruits of one’s harvest either to Yahweh or to his cultic functionaries, the priests and/or the Levites.2 Several of these commands also include firstborn children as subject to Yahweh’s claim.3 While most of these injunctions include a “redemption clause,” stipulating that a substitute offering should be given instead of the actual child (e.g., Exod. 13:13; 34:20; Num. 18:15),4 one version of the command—the Covenant Code’s—flatly declares: “Your fullness and your produce you will not delay to offer. The firstborn of your children/sons5 you will give to me; thus you shall do with your cattle and your flock. Seven days it will be with its mother; on the eighth day, you will give it to me” (Exod. 22:28–29 [Eng. 22:29–30]). While there are several ways that one might interpret a command to “give” (Hebrew root ntn) one’s child to Yahweh, the most straightforward interpretation of this

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This essay represents an expansion upon a previous discussion of the Covenant Code’s law of the firstborn, which appears in the third chapter of my book Child Sacrifice in Ancient Israel, EANEC 5 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2017). Exodus 13:2, 12–13; 22:28–29 (Eng. 22:29–30); 23:19; 34:19–20, 26; Lev. 23:10; 27:26; Num. 3:13; 18:13–18; Deut. 15:19–20; 18:4. Exodus 13:2, 12–13; 22:28–29 (Eng. 22:29–30); 34:19–20; Num. 18:13–18. Note also Num. 3:11–13, 40–51; 8:14–19, in which Yahweh’s claim to firstborn children is asserted, but which indicates that the dedication of the Levites to cultic service has been accepted in lieu of firstborn children. The Hebrew word bānêkā could mean either “your sons” or “your children” (including daughters; see BDB, 121 and HALOT 1:138). Other forms of the law of the firstborn that do explicitly indicate that it is the male firstborn that are at issue (Exod. 13:13, 15; 34:19 [LXX]; Deut. 15:19) are of little help in discerning how the word should be taken here. It could be that the addition of “male” in these later law codes represents an intentional modification of the Covenant Code’s version of the law of the firstborn, but it could just as easily be the case that the later codes merely make explicit what Exod. 22:28–29 assumes. In what follows, I use the phrase “firstborn children,” despite the possibility that only firstborn sons were at issue.

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passage is that the child should be given in the same way that the livestock mentioned in the command are to be offered—as sacrifices. Many scholars have resisted understanding the verse in this way, however, and have argued that the text cannot possibly mean that every firstborn child should be sacrificed to Yahweh. One objection is demographic: killing every firstborn child would present a danger to the continued existence of the population. This objection has been most colorfully expressed by William H. C. Propp, who asserts that “killing every male firstborn, supposedly mandated by 22:28, would be no less than Darwinian suicide.”6 The objection then is that if the Israelites, or any other group, were ever to engage in a universal sacrifice of firstborn children, then natural selection would serve to put a speedy end to the community. Similarly, in an oft-quoted dismissal of the idea that Exodus 22:28–29 could possibly refer to a general sacrifice of firstborn children, Roland de Vaux asserts, “It would indeed be absurd to suppose that there could have been in Israel or among any other people, at any moment of their history, a constant general law, compelling the suppression of the first-born, who are the hope of the race,”7 and further that “history and common sense make it certain that Israel never sacrificed all her first-born.”8 Thus, in de Vaux’s view, whatever the plain sense of Exodus 22:28–29 may seem to say, the idea that it indicates the sacrifice of all firstborn children would be both “absurd” and contrary to “common sense.” Finally, one might object that Exodus 22:28–29 cannot refer to a universal firstborn sacrifice, because there is not a single instance in the Hebrew Bible where a firstborn child is actually sacrificed on its eighth day. As Jon D. Levenson observes, “Were the norm constant and general, the Bible would surely provide ample testimony, in both law code and narrative, to its existence.”9 There are many “firstborn” children mentioned in the Hebrew Bible. In no biblical narrative, however, is a firstborn child sacrificed to Yahweh on the eighth day. Thus, the “giving” of children in Exodus 22:28–29 must mean something other than sacrifice. 6 7 8 9

William H. C. Propp, Exodus 19–40, AB (New York: Doubleday, 2006), 268. Roland de Vaux, Studies in Old Testament Sacrifice (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1964), 71. Ibid., 72. Jon D. Levenson, The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son: The Transformation of Child Sacrifice in Judaism and Christianity (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993), 3.

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There have been several proposals for overcoming the apparent difficulty of reconciling the literal wording of Exodus 22:28–29 with demographic realities, common sense, and the testimony of the rest of the Hebrew Bible—for instance, by suggesting that the law assumes redemption of some sort even though it contains no redemption clause10 or by arguing that it represents a sort of “theological ideal” that may have been fulfilled in any number of ways and need not be understood as demanding actual sacrifice.11 In what follows, however, I will argue that none of the objections to understanding Exodus 22:28–29 as referring to literal child sacrifice stands up to careful scrutiny and that there is no reason to doubt that the verse means precisely what it says.

Interpreting Exodus 22:28–29 Our first task is to establish whether Exodus 22:28–29 does in fact clearly refer to child sacrifice, or whether one might find some ambiguity in its clauses. As observed above, one possibility is that the verse represents a “theological ideal.” As Levenson argues, “Exod 22:28b articulates a theological ideal about the special place of the firstborn son, an ideal whose realization could range from literal to non-literal implementation, that is, from sacrifice to redemption, or even to mere intellectual assent without any cultic act whatsoever.”12 Likewise, Francesca Stavrakopoulou takes the coexistence in the Hebrew Bible of versions of the law of the firstborn that allow for redemption (e.g., Exod. 34:20) with those that do not (Exod. 22:28–29) as suggesting that “the YHWHworshipper could sacrifice the human firstborn, or sacrifice an animal in place of the firstborn.” That is, “the co-existence of the sacrifice of the human or animal firstborn would give families the option of sacrificing either a firstborn child or an animal, presumably depending upon the circumstances of the (extended) family.”13 Neither of these suggestions is convincing, however, in light of the phraseology of Exodus 22:28–29. Exodus 22:28–29’s specific instructions for 10 11 12 13

So Propp, Exodus 19–40, 270–71. So Levenson, Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son, 8–17. Ibid., 9. Francesca Stavrakopoulou, King Manasseh and Child Sacrifice: Biblical Distortions of Historical Realities, BZAW 338 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004), 284–85.

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fulfilling the requirement to hand over all firstborn children to Yahweh leave little room for interpretation, and it is difficult to see how these commands might be understood as representing a “theological ideal” that could be fulfilled in a variety of ways. Likewise, the idea that the various versions of the law of the firstborn contained in the Hebrew Bible might represent a range of options that a family would have had for acknowledging Yahweh’s claim to firstborn children requires an overly harmonistic reading of the biblical legal corpora. It is more likely that the various law collections approximate the beliefs and practices of various Yahwistic communities—Priestly, Deuteronomic, etc.—in written form.14 Thus, the Covenant Code’s version of the law of the firstborn must be read on its own terms, not as one option among several that individual Israelites might have chosen to employ. There are three problems with understanding the Covenant Code’s law of the firstborn as indicating anything other than child sacrifice. First is the Hebrew conjunction kēn, which connects the commands concerning human and animal firstborn: “The firstborn of your children/sons you will give to me; thus [kēn] you shall do with your cattle and your flock.” The kēn here indicates that whatever is done with a firstborn child is also to be done with firstborn domestic animals.15 This is problematic for the suggestion that dedication of children to religious service, similar to Hannah’s dedication of Samuel (1 Sam. 1:11), may be what the text has in view.16 It is unlikely that the animals here are envisioned as dedicated to temple service, since other forms of the law of the firstborn clearly indicate that firstborn animals are to be sacrificed (see Exod. 13:12–13; 34:19–20). The syntax thus suggests that human and animal firstborn are to be treated in the same way, and thus that both should be sacrificed. Second, and even more problematic for any non-sacrificial interpretation of the law, is its concluding clause: “Seven days it will be with its mother; on the

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While there is ample literary evidence preserved in the Hebrew Bible for groups of a “Priestly” or “Deuteronomic(/Deuteronomistic)” bent, other traditions, like that from which the Covenant Code arose, are more difficult to identify. It is quite unlikely, however, that the only Yahwistic streams of tradition that existed in ancient Israel are those that happen to be preserved in the Hebrew Bible, even if it is difficult to say much, if anything, about these other Yahwistic groups. See HALOT 1:482–83; BDB, 485–87. So, e.g., Propp, Exodus 19–20, 270; and Gershon Brin, Studies in Biblical Law: From the Hebrew Bible to the Dead Sea Scrolls, trans. Jonathan Chipman, JSOTSup 176 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994), 221–22.

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eighth day, you will give it to me.” Whatever “giving” the child or animal to Yahweh entails, it stands in contrast to being “with its mother.” Obviously, no eight-day-old child or animal would survive for long without its mother and her milk. If a child were “given” to the temple in the sense of “dedicated to its service,” then surely it would make more sense to wait until the child was weaned, just as Hannah is said to have done with Samuel (1 Sam. 1:22–24), not to hand the child over on its eighth day. Thus, the fact that “giving” a child to Yahweh stands in contrast to its being with its mother precludes understanding the verse as referring to dedication or anything else other than sacrifice. Finally, Ezekiel appears to assume that at least some Israelites believed that Yahweh had commanded them to sacrifice their firstborn children. In the midst of a diatribe recounting the transgressions of the Israelites against Yahweh, including an accusation that the Israelites rejected statutes “by which a person could live” (Ezek. 20:21), Yahweh declares that, as punishment for their infidelity, “I gave them not-good statutes and commands by which they could not live. I defiled them by their gifts, in causing to pass over every firstborn, in order to desolate them, so that they may know that I am Yahweh” (Ezek. 20:25–26). Thus, Ezekiel presents Yahweh as having commanded the Israelites to sacrifice their firstborn children, but only in order to “desolate” them. To which “not-good statute” could this punishment possibly refer? An obvious candidate is a version of the law of the firstborn like Exodus 22:28–29, which lacks any redemption clause.17 Thus, at the very least, whatever the original author(s) behind Exodus 22:28–29 intended, some Israelites interpreted the command as requiring child sacrifice. As Levenson quips, “If it is, in fact, a mistake for us to read the requirement to sacrifice the first-born son in Exod 22:28–29 independently of the provisions for redemption that appear in other textual units, it is a mistake of a sort that numerous Israelites seem to have made.”18 Thus, taken on its own merits, the sum of the internal (i.e., biblical) evidence points to Exodus 22:28–29 as indicating that all firstborn children ought to be sacrificed to Yahweh. Both the wording of the command itself and the 17

18

So, e.g., Walther Zimmerli, Ezekiel 1: A Commentary on the Book of the Prophet Ezekiel, ed. Frank Moore Cross and Klaus Baltzer, trans. Ronald E. Clements, Hermeneia (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1979), 411–12; and Moshe Greenberg, Ezekiel 1–20, AB (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1983), 368–70. Levenson, Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son, 4.

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interpretation of it shared by Ezekiel and his contemporaries suggest that it required that all firstborn children be sacrificed to Yahweh on their eighth day. Of course, however, the internal evidence cannot stand on its own if it is contradicted by external evidence. For instance, if such a practice were indeed “Darwinian suicide” or flatly “absurd,” then one would be justified in interpreting the command differently from what its plain sense would seem to require. The task here then is to determine whether such claims based on external evidence hold up to careful scrutiny. That is, is it really so “absurd” to imagine that a society could regularly sacrifice its firstborn children?

“Darwinian Suicide”? As observed above, one objection to the idea that Exodus 22:28–29 requires that all firstborn children be sacrificed to Yahweh is that it would be demographically infeasible. This assumption may seem natural enough to those of us who live in modern Western societies, where the fertility rate currently hovers at just under 2 children per woman,19 which is somewhat below the replacement fertility rate of just over 2 (the exact number depending on infant mortality rates). This indicates that, absent immigration, these societies will experience a modest population decline. In such a society, if a general practice of sacrificing every firstborn child were to exist, then fewer than one child per woman would survive to adulthood, effectively cutting the population in half with every generation. If such a custom were to continue for any significant length of time, the population would indeed be at risk of extinction, as Propp implies. To make a somewhat obvious point, however, the ancient Israelites did not live in a modern Western society. Traditional societies typically have significantly higher fertility rates, due to a lack of reliable means of contraception, and higher child mortality rates, due to a lack of modern medical technology. More children were born, but more also died. By one estimate, the fertility rate in the ancient world may have approached 7 children per woman, while the 19

According to The World Factbook produced by the Central Intelligence Agency, the current fertility rate in the United States is 1.87, which is a bit higher than the European Union’s rate of 1.67 and Canada’s 1.6 (https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/fields/2127.html).

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infant mortality rate would have hovered around 50–60%.20 Under such circumstances, a firstborn child would have made up only one-seventh of the total children born to the average woman, rather than more than one-half as in modern Western societies. Further, while infants in the modern West have an extraordinarily low chance of dying before their first birthday,21 in premodern societies the odds were roughly one in two. In sum, a firstborn infant born in ancient Israel both would have been less important as a percentage of total children born to a family and would have been less likely to survive to adulthood than a child born today in the modern West. Making this point even clearer, Brien K. Garnand, Lawrence E. Stager, and Joseph A. Greene observe that mothers in ancient societies tended to have their first children at a relatively young age, and first births to young mothers are especially unlikely to survive. Not only that, but should the child not survive, then the mother would obviously not nurse it and experience the typical drop in fertility associated with breastfeeding. The ultimate result of all this would typically be a second pregnancy not long after the birth of the first child who had died. Garnand, Stager, and Greene thus conclude: “If a fifteenyear-old mother survived giving birth, and if she had another child the following year, the net demographic effect of losing her firstborn would be the same as postponing marriage for a year.”22 Thus, the death of a firstborn child would actually have had a negligible impact on the growth of an ancient society’s population. Finally, it is worth observing that suppressing firstborn children in particular would have the least demographic impact on a society of any group of children. Since firstborn children are typically born to young mothers, who are still in their prime child-bearing years, firstborn children have a much higher probability of immediately being replaced by a sibling than a child born to a woman later in her life. Indeed, this biological reality appears to play out even in modern societies; young mothers are more likely to have an abortion or to

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Brien K. Garnand, Lawrence E. Stager, and Joseph A. Greene,“Infants as Offerings: Palaeodemographic Patterns and Tophet Burial,” SEL 29–30 (2012–2013): 209. According to The World Factbook, the current infant mortality rate in the United States, which while historically low is somewhat high relative to peer nations, is 5.80 per 1,000 live births. In the European Union, the number is 4.00 per 1,000 live births, and in Canada it stands at 4.60 (https:// www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/rankorder/2091rank.html). Garnand, Stager, and Greene, “Infants as Offerings,” 209.

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neglect, abuse, or even kill their young children.23 While there are many factors that contribute to this phenomenon, almost certainly involving both conscious and unconscious motivations, most significant for our purposes is that, statistically, firstborn children are the least important children demographically speaking, which is consistent with empirical observations that they are also among the most likely to be suppressed. That is, not only are firstborn children demographically expendable in theory, but there is evidence that this demographic reality may well still influence human reproductive behavior even today. Therefore, despite what may seem to be obvious to modern Western scholars, sacrificing every firstborn child would present no real demographic difficulties for a premodern society. The child, who would have been fairly unlikely to survive anyway, would have been quickly replaced by a sibling, with minimal impact on the total population of the society. Of course, the fact that there was no mathematical impediment to sacrificing every firstborn Israelite child does not necessarily mean that the Israelites actually did so. It does mean, however, that if there are reasons to suspect that at least some Israelite groups participated in a rite involving a general sacrifice of firstborn children, then demographic considerations present no counterargument, contrary to what some have assumed.

Firstborn Sacrifice as “Absurd” Having countered the objection that a general sacrifice of firstborn children would create insurmountable demographic problems, we may now turn our attention to the argument that such a practice is “absurd” or counter to “common sense.” While scholars such as de Vaux who hold this view do not typically elaborate on precisely what they mean by these terms, it seems that assumptions concerning what constitute “normal” parental attitudes and behavior toward their children underlie such objections. That is, while one might imagine that a parent could be pushed to sacrifice a child in the absolute

23

Tomás Cabeza De Baca, Aurelio José Figueredo, and Bruce J. Ellis, “An Evolutionary Analysis of Variation in Parental Effort: Determinants and Assessment,” Parenting 12 (2012): 97.

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direst of circumstances—for example in the face of an impending military defeat (2 Kgs 3)—the idea that parents would regularly sacrifice their children as a matter of course seems to run counter to basic parental sentiment. In this regard, it is worth exploring the history of human reproductive strategies from an evolutionary biological perspective. In a seminal article, Robert L. Trivers observes that, contrary to what one might assume, the reproductive success of a parent and the reproductive success of her or his individual offspring do not always accord with one another.24 Instead, one must take into account “parental investment,” which Trivers defines as “anything done by the parent for the offspring that increases the offspring’s chance of surviving while decreasing the parent’s ability to invest in other offspring.”25 In many cases, the reproductive interests of the parent and those of its offspring overlap. For example, a parent who expends the energy and resources to care for an infant thereby significantly increases the likelihood that the offspring will reach reproductive age and pass on its (and its parents’) genes to its own offspring. Thus, in this case, parental investment in the infant at the expense of delaying producing other offspring maximizes the likelihood of reproductive success for both the offspring and the parent. As the infant matures, however, and becomes more capable of fending for itself, and thus less exclusively dependent upon its parent(s) for survival, the reproductive costs of not producing and investing in other offspring begin to outweigh the reproductive benefits of continued parental investment. This creates a conflict of reproductive interests between parents and offspring, which can play out in literal conflicts between them. For example, Trivers points to the interaction between mothers and offspring over the course of the weaning process in a

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Robert L. Trivers, “Parent Offspring Conflict,” American Zoologist 14 (1974): 249–64. In this context, “reproductive success” means maximizing the number of individuals who share one’s genes. While counterintuitive, a parent’s reproductive success and the reproductive success of her or his individual offspring are not always the same. For example, a parent who has five offspring, each of which in turn has two offspring (for a total of ten descendants in the third generation), would be less “successful” from a reproductive standpoint than a parent who has five offspring, three of which have five offspring and two of which have none (for a total of fifteen descendants in the third generation). In the latter case, from the parent’s point of view, the lack of reproductive success for the two offspring that produce no offspring of their own is more than offset by the reproductive success of their three siblings. For this reason, it may be more strategic from a reproductive standpoint selectively to invest in (and selectively to neglect) one’s individual offspring or even, when possible, to limit the number of one’s immediate offspring in order to maximize the number of total offspring in subsequent generations. Ibid., 249.

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variety of animals, including dogs, cats, rhesus macaques, and sheep. He summarizes this process as follows: During the first [period], the mother approaches the infant to initiate parental investment. No avoidance behavior or aggression toward the infant is shown by the mother. In the second, the offspring and the mother approach each other about equally, and the mother shows some avoidance behavior and some aggression in response to the infant’s demands. The third period can be characterized as the period of weaning. Most contacts are initiated by the offspring. Open avoidance and aggression characterize the mother.26

The idea that a mother would respond in an increasingly aggressive manner to the entreaties of her offspring may initially appear to contradict “natural” maternal affection, but this type of behavior makes sense in light of the increasing costs and decreasing benefits of continued parental investment in a single offspring as it matures. Instead, parental investment in other, younger offspring increasingly pays greater reproductive dividends, which encourages a parent to leave older offspring to fend for themselves. The way in which this dynamic plays out among the great apes, including humans, is outlined by Jane B. Lancaster and Chet S. Lancaster.27 Great apes, relative to other large-bodied mammals, produce “highly invested” offspring, involving longer gestational periods, longer periods of lactation, longer periods between successive births, and thus fewer offspring per female.28 These biological factors necessitate special reproductive and parental investment strategies to maximize the number of offspring who themselves reach reproductive age. Normally, great ape families consist of a mother, a nursing infant of five years or younger, and a self-feeding juvenile between the ages of five and ten (ş + i + j). Human families, however, require even more parental investment, as human juveniles are not nutritionally independent in the same way that other great ape juveniles are. To compensate for this fact, early human forager families consisted of a mother and a father working cooperatively to 26 27

28

Ibid., 254. Jane B. Lancaster and Chet S. Lancaster, “The Watershed: Change in Parental-Investment and Family-Formation Strategies in the Course of Human Evolution,” in Parenting Across the Life Span: Biosocial Dimensions, ed. Jane B. Lancaster et  al. (New York: Aldine de Gruyter, 1987), 187–205. Ibid., 188.

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rear children,29 which allowed for a mother and father simultaneously to rear one nursing infant of five years or younger, as well as a juvenile between the ages of five and ten and another between the ages of ten and fifteen, both of which were fed by their parents (šş + i + j + j). This would allow for approximately five children to be born to each female over the course of her reproductive life.30 With the rise of sedentism, the reproductive calculus changed. Innovations associated with a village-based society, including sibcare and the ability of young children to contribute to the survival of the family via simple agricultural tasks and cooking, made it possible for a woman to produce a child as often as every other year. She could nurse each child until around age two, while the father and older children could share in the responsibilities of caring for the other children (šş + i + j + j + j + j . . .). This would allow a woman to produce ten or more children over the course of her reproductive life. So long as the society was of a sufficiently low density and there remained enough resources for all able-bodied adults, there was no impediment to a woman’s producing as many children as she was biologically capable of bearing. Further, with essentially unlimited resources, wealth and power would naturally be conceived of not in terms of possessions but in terms of “sociopolitical followings and factions.” Thus, the basic biological drive toward reproduction would have been complemented by social factors encouraging maximizing the number of offspring for purposes of power and prestige.31 This calculus changed once again, however, once sedentism developed to the point at which resources were no longer essentially unlimited. In contrast to low-density sedentism, high-density sedentism is characterized by an awareness of and a concern for “the resources available in the environment, the energy and organization needed to extract them, and a cultural calculus regarding resources and experience necessary for adult status.” In a highdensity sedentary society, “It is no longer sufficient to only rear fit, healthy

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Humans are anomalous in that they are among only five percent of mammals among whom males share in the task of parenting. The phenomenon of paternal investment is one of the most discussed aspects of the evolution of human reproductive strategies. For an overview of the topic, along with an extensive bibliography, see David C. Geary, “Evolution of Paternal Investment,” in The Handbook of Evolutionary Psychology, ed. David M. Buss, 2nd ed. (Hoboken, NJ: Wiley, 2016), 534–41. Lancaster and Lancaster, “The Watershed,” 188–91. Ibid., 190–93.

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adults, and parents must begin to calculate how to guarantee that children will have access to reproductive resources in a new reality of limited goods.”32 The competition for resources results in more complex social hierarchies, and reproductive success is in part dependent upon social status. For this reason, in high-density sedentary societies, parents seek not only to raise as many healthy children as possible, but also to secure them access to the resources that maximize social status (e.g., wealth, education, etc.). In addition, and more significantly for present purposes, there is an incentive for parents to practice “differential investment within a sibship through behavioral patterns such as designated heirs, unequal inheritance, female infanticide, or deferred infanticide through neglect.”33 As counterintuitive as it may seem, unequally investing in one’s children, and even the practice of neglect and infanticide make sense as a reproductive strategy in the context of a high-density sedentary society with the limited resources and complex social structures that it entails. This sort of reproductive logic plays out in actuality, and not merely in the theoretical models of sociobiologists, as demonstrated by two examples, one ancient and one modern. First, one may observe the accusations of Polybius that his fellow Greek contemporaries were abandoning their children out of wantonness: For people, having turned aside into pretension, greed, and laziness and not desiring either to marry or, if they should marry, to rear the children who are born—but only one, or at most two, in order to bequeath wealth to these and to raise pleasure-seekers—the evil escaped notice and rapidly increased.34

Here Polybius obliquely refers to infant abandonment as refusing “to rear the children who are born.” While he initially attributes their behavior to “pretension, greed, and laziness,” he acknowledges that their true motivation was to limit the size of their households in order to provide a few children with greater wealth and social status rather than to raise many children with more

32 33 34

Ibid., 192–93. Ibid., 200. Polybius, Histories 36.17.7. For a discussion of this passage, see Mark Golden, Children and Childhood in Classical Athens, 2nd ed. (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2015), 145.

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limited resources. Polybius finds this behavior to be inexplicable, but it actually makes perfect sense in light of the insights of sociobiologists outlined above. In a high-density sedentary society, it often makes more reproductive sense to produce fewer children and invest in them to a greater degree than to produce as many children as possible. Indeed, modern Western families frequently achieve the same ends via artificial contraception. Prior to the advent of reliable birth control, however, our premodern ancestors employed infant abandonment to achieve the same goal. While infant abandonment, and the more extreme (though, practically speaking, identical) practice of infanticide appears horrific to a modern Western audience, both practices are in fact cross-culturally common,35 and finding either employed as part of a society’s array of reproductive strategies is thus unsurprising. Turning our attention from ancient Greece to twentieth-century Brazil, we find another example of material factors influencing reproductive and parenting strategies in a way that was detrimental to the survival of some children. During her field work in a northeast Brazilian shantytown, Nancy Scheper-Hughes observed the tragically high infant mortality rates brought on by rampant poverty. Given the reality that many children would not reach adulthood, parents responded by selectively investing in their children. Healthy children were considered to be “thrivers” or “keepers,” while sickly children were considered “already wanting to die.” The former were taken care of, while the latter were often allowed to perish of neglect. Scheper-Hughes observes that it was frequently difficult to convince mothers to allow children considered not “worth keeping” even to receive basic hospital care such as rehydration; instead they were considered “angels” who were destined to die.36 While such an attitude toward sickly children may appear callous or even cruel to those of us who enjoy sufficient resources to provide medical care for unhealthy children, in a society in which basic necessities are not a given, parents must allocate their resources in such a way as to allow as many children to survive as possible. Allowing a sickly child to die of neglect allows parental energies to

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For a discussion of the cross-cultural evidence for infant abandonment, as well as the remarkably common practice of infanticide, see Dewrell, Child Sacrifice in Ancient Israel, 80–82. Ezekiel 16:4–5 may indicate that the practice of infant abandonment was not unknown in ancient Israel itself. Nancy Scheper-Hughes, Death Without Weeping: The Violence of Everyday Life in Brazil (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992), 342–43.

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be directed toward the child’s healthy siblings and thereby increase their chances of survival.37 Yet again, we see that in some societies limiting the number of one’s children, somewhat counterintuitively, can serve to maximize the number of surviving offspring. While artificial methods of contraception allow members of wealthier contemporary societies to limit the number of children conceived in the first place, in societies that lack access to reliable contraceptives, methods such as abandonment, mortal neglect, and even infanticide are not uncommon. Thus, the assumption that no society could regularly kill its children is refuted by the fact that many societies do precisely that. In high-density sedentary societies, limited resources demand that parents limit the size of their households to maximize their reproductive success. Without an ability reliably to prevent pregnancy altogether,38 some form of child death is the most effective means of limiting the size of one’s household,39 and it is thus no surprise that child neglect and/or infanticide is not uncommon cross-culturally. One may object, however, that a general sacrifice of firstborn children does not fit this pattern. First, as noted above, sacrificing every firstborn child would have had almost no effect on the size of an Israelite household. Second, while selectively suppressing children on the basis of fitness makes some sense as a reproductive strategy, an indifferent practice of sacrificing all firstborn children 37

38

39

In a similar vein, David A. Beaulieu and Daphne Bugental (“Contingent Parental Investment: An Evolutionary Framework for Understanding Early Interaction Between Mothers and Children,” Evolution and Human Behavior 29 [2008]: 249–55) observe that mothers suffering from postpartum depression tend to invest more energy in a full-term infant than a premature one, while the opposite is true for mothers who do not suffer from depression. Their explanation is that mothers without depression have the energy necessary to ensure the survival of a premature infant, while a mother suffering from depression has to divide her energies between caring for herself and caring for the child. In such a situation, the limited energy available for a premature infant may not be enough to preserve the life of the child but may entail detrimental effects for the mother’s health. The increased likelihood that a full-term infant will survive if provided with sufficient care, however, increases the likelihood that sacrificing the mother’s health to invest in the infant will result in the child’s survival. Once again, the issue is not whether or not a parent desires and cares for her children. Rather, it is an issue of maximizing the likelihood that the greatest number of offspring possible will survive and successfully reproduce themselves. The one readily available means of contraception to premodern societies, withdrawal or coitus interruptus (see Gen. 38:9), still has an annual failure rate of around 18% (Kathryn Kost et  al., “Estimates of Contraceptive Failure from the 2002 National Survey of Family Growth,” Contraception 77 [2008]: 14). Theoretically, sexual abstinence would be another means of preventing undesired children, but there is no reason to expect that this method would be any more successful in other societies, ancient or modern, than it has proven among American teenagers (see Jillian B. Carr and Analisa Packham, “The Effects of State-Mandated Abstinence-Based Sex Education on Teen Health Outcomes,” Health Economics 26 [2017]: 403–20).

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does not. Thus, although some cases of infant death make sense as effective reproductive strategies, a general sacrifice of firstborn children is a poor mechanism for promoting the reproductive success of Israelite parents. This objection, however, neglects the fact that the Israelites believed that offering their firstborn children to Yahweh promoted their reproductive success. The logic behind animal firstborn sacrifices and the offerings of firstfruits was that handing them over to Yahweh would result in a divine blessing on the remainder of one’s agricultural yield. This logic is laid out explicitly in the instructions concerning the offerings of tithes and firstfruits in Deuteronomy 14:22–29, which concludes: “so that Yahweh will bless you in every work of your hand which you will do.” Thus, firstborn and firstfruit offerings were of the do ut des (“I give in order that you may give”) variety—offering Yahweh the first portion of a thing results in the remainder prospering all the more. Given such a sincerely held belief, it is not surprising that it was applied to children as well. Indeed, with one exception,40 every law collection of the Torah does apply the law of the firstborn to children, although as observed above only the Covenant Code took this belief to its most literal conclusion and advocated child sacrifice as a result. Nonetheless, despite differences in practice, the assumption that the logic of firstlings and firstfruits applied to human firstborn as well as to livestock and crops was not idiosyncratic to the Covenant Code. Given a belief that Yahweh would repay the sacrifice of a firstborn child with an abundance of subsequent healthy children, such a practice does make sense as a reproductive strategy. If one were to object that such a practice is materially counterproductive, it is no more so than analogous offerings of firstborn cattle and sheep. The material effects of religious rites often run counter to their participants’ intentions, but this is no argument against the reality of such rites. Indeed, it is not uncommon even today for religious practices to run counter to their intended ends from a strictly materialist perspective.41

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The Deuteronomic Code is unique in not applying the law of the firstborn to children at all (Deut. 15:19–23). One may point to the doctrine of “Seed Faith” prominent in some branches of contemporary Christianity, which asserts that giving a financial contribution to God (by way of an evangelist) “sows a seed” that will multiply and result in divinely orchestrated financial prosperity (see Oral Roberts, The Miracle of Seed Faith [Old Tappan, NJ: Revell, 1970]). While from a materialist perspective such offerings actually make the financial situation of the giver somewhat worse (albeit that of the evangelist somewhat better), the mere belief that such offerings are efficacious is sufficient to explain the practice.

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Conclusion While many object to the idea that Exodus 22:28–29 demands that all firstborn children be sacrificed to Yahweh, none of these objections stands up to careful scrutiny. While it has been suggested that sacrificing every firstborn child would have had dire demographic consequences, the effect of firstborn sacrifices would actually be negligible for the growth of a society’s population. Further, while the idea that any parent could ever sacrifice their own child except perhaps in the direst of circumstances appears absurd to a modern Western audience, the psychological relationships between parents and children, especially very young children, play out much differently in circumstances in which around half of children will not survive to adulthood anyway. In such societies, parents often have to employ reproductive strategies such as selectively neglecting one child in favor of a sibling who appears more likely to survive. Likewise, in societies in which reliable means of contraception are not readily available, the most dependable and accessible means of limiting the size of a household is infant abandonment or infanticide (which essentially amount to the same thing), and both are widely attested cross-culturally. Thus, there is no reason to assume that Exodus 22:28–29 means anything other than precisely what it seems to say or what the interpretation of the law in Ezekiel 20:25–26 takes it to mean. To be clear, however, this is not to say that the fact that the text of Exodus 22:28–29 does require the sacrifice of all firstborn children to Yahweh can be taken as evidence than there was a period during which all Israelites actually did so. This version of the law, contained in the Covenant Code, appears alongside other versions that do not apply the law of the firstborn to children at all, such as the Deuteronomic Code (Deut. 15:19–20), or that stipulate some sort of redemption of firstborn children, such as the Ritual Decalogue and the Holiness material (e.g., Exod. 34:19–20; Num. 18:13–18). While one could take these differences as evidence for some sort of unilineal diachronic development of “Israelite religion,” by which the allegedly archaic practice of firstborn sacrifice came to be replaced over time by more humane substitutionary rites, it is more likely that we are dealing with different understandings of a shared tradition concerning firstborn children across a variety of Yahwistic groups in ancient Israel. Some Yahwistic group(s) likely did sacrifice every firstborn

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child, although it is impossible to say much about the extent of the practice or which groups these were. The fact, observed above, that no biblical narrative reflects this custom,42 probably indicates that firstborn sacrifice in fulfillment of Yahweh’s claim to firstborn children was a minority view. Other Yahwistic communities, like the group behind the Deuteronomic Code, simply did not apply the law of the firstborn to children at all. Still others recognized Yahweh’s claim to firstborn children, but found means of satisfying this claim that did not require that the children be sacrificed. This diversity of practice exhibited by the various legal collections of the Torah cannot be leveled or harmonized, and the Covenant Code must be read on its own terms. When read on those terms, there is no reason to doubt that it does in fact indicate that at least some Israelites regularly sacrificed their firstborn children to Yahweh.

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It is worth noting that biblical narrative and legal material does refer to at least two other sorts of child sacrifices—the so-called lammōlek sacrifices (see, e.g., Lev. 18:21; 20:1–5; 2 Kgs 23:10; Jer. 32:35) and the sacrifice of a firstborn child to move the gods to act on one’s behalf during a time of distress (2 Kgs 3:26–27). There is little room to doubt that children were sacrificed in ancient Israel (see Dewrell, Child Sacrifice in Ancient Israel). The question here is how widespread the practice of sacrificing every firstborn child was.

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Children of Diaspora: The Cultural Politics of Identity and Diasporic Childhood in the Book of Esther Dong Sung Kim

Gatecrashing Children On March 10, 2017, political analyst Robert E. Kelly’s interview on BBC News—recorded live at his home in Busan, South Korea—received unusual attention from the global viewers.1 It went “viral” on the media not because of the political issues he addressed, but because of the unexpected appearance of his children, Marion and James, who bopped into the room in the middle of the live broadcast. Several culturally implicit boundaries were breached in that scene. That is, what had been constructed as an adult world—namely, a study, a workspace, a cyber portal of global politics and media, and a cultural domain of intellectual and English-speaking adults—was suspended at the moment, and turned into (and also turned out to be) a playground, children’s home, and an interracial and multicultural space. As viewers watched, the children and their South Korean mother who was chasing after them brought their difference in culture, language, and attire into the visual field of the global media.

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Christine Hauser and Daniel Victor, “When the Kids Crash Your BBC Interview,” New York Times, March 10, 2017, https://www.nytimes.com/2017/03/10/world/europe/bbc-interview-toddlerinterruption.html?mcubz=3. The video of the actual interview is published on the webpage: “BBC interview with Robert Kelly interrupted by children live on air,” BBC News, http://www. bbc.com/news/av/world-39232538/bbc-interview-with-robert-kelly-interrupted-by-children-liveon-air.

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In an amusing and dramatic way, the event demonstrates how children are inclined to rupture spaces without permission. They move freely and ignorantly between boundaries—not only physical boundaries but also sociocultural ones. In doing so, they may interrupt the categories constructed by the society, and disclose its instability and artificiality. In contrast, the adult members of the society make tireless efforts to control children’s embodied locations and movements in the name of protection and discipline, while fitting and keeping them within their sociocultural geography.2 Furthermore, the adult society enculturates its children and imparts various types of cultural identities such as race, gender, sexuality, ethnicity, citizenship, and so on. This socialization process is achieved in part by controlling children’s “gatecrashing” behaviors and by reducing their indeterminacy within those social categories. As a result, the society ensures that each child enters the gate of adulthood as an adult (namely, a culturally acceptable being), not as a “kid.” Such hierarchical and potentially oppositional relationship between adult and child within culture sensitizes my reading of children and childhood in the Hebrew biblical narratives, in general, and the Book of Esther, in particular. Readers and interpreters of the Bible often accept uncritically the text’s implicit assumption of a collective identity (e.g., Israel, Israelites, Jews, etc.), whose representation predominantly reflects the interests of adults (male adults, specifically) in the society. Within such identity categories, diverse voices and desires of women, children, and other minority subjects are subsumed into a single harmonious whole. Especially, children and youths often become assimilated to larger group-categories such as family, kinship, tribe, nation, ethnos, and so on. However, when the particularity of children ruptures our literary, historical, and cultural imaginations, the grand narratives of nation, community, and collective identity may come under new scrutiny. Children’s ambiguous and queer existence in culture frequently opens up an opportunity for a critical examination of the society’s non-innocent and political process of 2

Such a view of children is articulated by Michel Foucault’s theory of power/knowledge and social discipline. For an example of a sociological study of children using Foucault’s theory, see Camilla Canon, “The Contemporary American Child as a Docile Consumptive Body,” Stance 8 (2015): 9–17. For an example that discusses childhood as a spatial concept, see Allison James, Chris Jenks, and Alan Prout, Theorizing Childhood (New York: Columbia University Teachers College Press, 1998), 37–58.

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its identity-formation.3 In that sense, the image of gatecrashing children—as illustrated in Kelly’s interview scene—can be a powerful metaphor that invokes children’s subjectivity in the purview of our research and criticism.

Children and the Biblical Scholar Kathleen Gallagher Elkins and Julie Faith Parker define “childist” biblical reading as “interpretation that focuses on the agency and action of children and youth in the biblical text.”4 If children’s agency is defined not only in terms of their actions within particular events or narratives, but also in terms of their right of choice to become who they want to be—in other words, their choice of identity—several difficult questions may arise. Especially, the particular challenge that I find in the discussion of children’s agency and biblical interpretation regards the representation of children’s identities in the biblical texts, as well as their interpretations by adult readers. The cultural identities of children in the biblical narratives are often assumed by both the narrators and readers to be something homogenously shared with the adults in their society. However, as cultural studies scholar Stuart Hall aptly remarks, “instead of thinking of identity as an already accomplished fact, . . . we should think, instead, of identity as a ‘production,’ which is never complete, always in process, and always constituted within, not outside, representation.”5 Particularly, when the difference between adult and child is considered critically, cultural identity appears less perpetual and determinate. Rather, it is something that needs to be reproduced and reinforced repeatedly. That being the case, it is difficult to consider children’s agency in regard to the making of

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Queerness is an apt term to describe the cultural positionality of children and childhood in my view. In its generic meaning, the term, “queer,” denotes attributes that are outside the norms of the dominant culture. In the particular contexts of gender and sexuality, the term describes the indeterminate and uncategorizable forms and behaviors of childhood sexuality, which is often assumed and narrativized to be “innocent” and “heterosexual.” See, for an example of a study on children and childhood in queer theory: Steven Bruhm and Natasha Hurley, eds., Curiouser: On the Queerness of Children (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2004). Kathleen Gallagher Elkins and Julie Faith Parker, “Children in Biblical Narrative and Childist Interpretation,” in The Oxford Handbook of Biblical Narrative, ed. Danna Nolan Fewell (New York: Oxford University Press, 2016), 425. Stuart Hall, “Cultural Identity and Diaspora,” in Identity: Community, Culture, Difference, ed. Jonathan Rutherford (London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1990), 226.

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their social identities without addressing the cultural-political relationship between adult and child. This issue involves not only the adults and children in the ancient biblical world but also the contemporary adult readers (the biblical scholars, in particular) and the children of their society. The growth of interests in children and childhood within biblical studies over the past decade enabled various hermeneutical and methodological explorations, expanding the scope of research in the field and deepening our critical reflection on the biblical texts.6 However, the focus on the critical object (i.e., the child) in the study of biblical children has seldom brought critical lights on its subject (i.e., the childist biblical interpreter). As whom do I read, and write about, children? This is an important selfcritical and reflective question to me, as well as for the reading of biblical narrative that unfolds in this essay, because I am not an empty, transparent, and unbiased critic.7 In terms of readerly position, I inhabit a socio-culturally specific location of an adult and parent. As such, my reading of children in the biblical world is inescapably a reading as an adult. Even as I am writing this essay, my own children, Rianne and Lynn, keep interrupting me (that is, my work of reading and writing on children and the Bible), reminding me in a profound way that I am not them, and that their ways of being and desires may not be the same as mine. With such representational concerns in mind, I believe childist biblical scholars, including myself, should keep searching for creative ways to invite and acknowledge children—both ancient and contemporary—as the critic and interpreter of their own context, as well as

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Jon Berquist succinctly reviews the recent development of studies on children in the Bible, in which he concludes that “historicist approach” has been the guiding principle for the majority of the scholars in this field until recently. See his “Childhood and Age in the Bible,” Pastoral Psychology 58.5–6 (2009): 522–3. A noteworthy exception to this historical-critical current in the field is Danna Nolan Fewell, The Children of Israel: Reading the Bible for the Sake of Our Children (Nashville: Abingdon, 2003). Drawing on Adam Zachary Newton’s narrative ethics and Emmanuel Levinas’ philosophy, she invites readers to consider the ethics of responsibility in their interpretation of the biblical narratives regarding children. As Stuart Hall remarks, the “I” who writes is always “positioned,” and it is a position that is historically and culturally “specific,” in other words, contextualized. In his words, the “I” is called a position of “enunciation.” See his “Cultural Identity and Diaspora,” 222. For more discussions on the role of the reader’s subjectivity in biblical exegesis, see David J. A. Clines, Interested Parties: The Ideology of Writers and Readers of the Hebrew Bible, JSOTSup 205 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995); The Bible and Culture Collective, The Postmodern Bible (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1995); and Fernando F. Segovia and Mary Ann Tolbert, eds., Reading from This Place Volume 1: Social Location and Biblical Interpretation in the United States (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995).

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their biblical stories.8 This suggestion may sound unrealistic. However, such concerns and theoretical efforts regarding children’s subjectivity may engender a criticism that acknowledges the biblical scholars’ complicity in the construction of the dominant cultural adulthood and the society. In turn, we should allow children to interrupt (or gatecrash) our presumptions, hermeneutics, and knowledge regarding the biblical literature and the worlds surrounding it, first and foremost, by interrogating the cultural difference and distance between children and adults. Furthermore, it is important to note that the positionality of being adult or parent is not separate from the cultural politics of the society. Culture and its socializing disciplines permeate the intimate relationship between adults and children at home—troubling the binary between private domestic space and public sociocultural space. How does a child learn about, hence construct, her or his race and ethnicity? How are children taught to accept normative conceptions of gender, sexuality, ethnicity, and nationality at home, as well as in schools and religious communities? For black children, Asian children, white children, Muslim children, queer children, children with disabilities, adopted children, and for the children in diverse social contexts, the construction of social identity is not always a spontaneous and autonomous process.9 Rather, their so-called “coming of age” may arrive as a series of traumatic encounters with various social boundaries and disciplines.10 The norms of the society provide a cultural “script” for the daily discourses, which circulate around the various subjects in domestic spaces to the effect of perpetuating the culture.11 Thus, our adult or parental subjectivity cannot be considered essentially apolitical. Our critical position as childist interpreters is pressed between its 8

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For an example of a study that engages the issue of children’s status in the studies of children and childhood, see Ann Lewis and Geoff Lindsay, eds., Researching Children’s Perspectives (Buckingham, PA: Open University Press, 2000). See also Laurel Koepf Taylor’s discussion about involving children in research in her essay, “Accessing Childhoods: Interdisciplinary Tools at the Intersection of Biblical Studies and Childhood Studies” in this volume. Thandeka, in her study on the racial constructions in white American families, discusses the intersecting issues between race and domestic culture. See her Learning to Be White: Money, Race, and God in America (New York: Continuum, 1999). For example, “fear of abandonment” is a haunting emotion that many transnational adoptees experience throughout their childhood. Rachel Quy Collier contends that the fear “binds” the child to act according to their caregivers’ cultural and domestic norms in order to “avoid suffering a second rejection” (“Performing Childhood” in Outsiders Within: Writing on Transracial Adoption, ed. Jane Jeong Trenka, Julia Chinyere Oparah, Sun Yung Shin [Boston: South End, 2006], 208). For discussion on the notion of cultural script and the norms of the society, see Sara Ahmed, The Cultural Politics of Emotion, 2nd ed. (London: Routledge, 2015), 144–45.

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ethical demand (i.e., reading for the sake of children) and ethical challenge (i.e., the issue of representation in the practice of interpretation) due to our culturally ambivalent relationship to children.12

Reading with Children of Diaspora In light of the critical observation and reflection above, this essay puts its hermeneutical focus on children’s agency, in conversation with the biblical narrative’s construction of national and ethnic identity. As introduced above, politicizing the relationship between adult and child may offer a judicious insight to consider the vibrant, messy, and sometimes violent process of social control, negotiation, and transmission of cultural and national identity in the biblical history of Israel, as well as in contemporary societies. From this perspective, I attempt to read the Book of Esther in the Hebrew Bible as a diasporic cultural text, in which Esther’s childhood/child-ness is both inscribed and erased simultaneously by its adult narrator and audience, who become aligned together in their desire for the social control of ethno-national identity.13 To that end, I reframe the text, using gender, postcolonial, and diasporic lenses, to interrogate the narrative’s desire to control what it means to be Yehudi (Jewish) in its diasporic sociological context. The ethnic identity-construction in the narrative may be juxtaposed over against the indeterminate and always-inprocess identities of children, whose pre-socialized view of self and community may significantly differ from the dominant cultural construction. Instead of reading the narrative in the homogenized adult view of community, I suggest that readers adopt a hermeneutic lens of “reading with children of diaspora.”14

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Fewell considers the ethical demand for childist reading (“reading for the sake of our children,” in her words) an invitation to “interrupt.” For her, it means “to question the story being told, to imagine the story being told differently,” and “to imagine life being lived differently,” hence recognizing the biblical text as a “living space” where reading and living overlap (Fewell, Children of Israel, 34–35). The notion of “inscription” and “exscription (writing-out)” of the characters is introduced in Timothy K. Beal, The Book of Hiding: Gender, Ethnicity, Annihilation, and Esther (London: Routledge, 1997), 23–39. Rather than reading-for, I suggest a reading with the diasporic children in this essay. The term “reading with children of diaspora” emphasizes the difference between the biblical interpreter, who is culturally identified as adult, and the children in the biblical narratives. In using this phrase, this essay asks readers to consider possible and multiple ways of reading that can promote children’s agency without erasing the cultural (not just temporal) distance between the readers themselves and the children in the biblical texts.

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Such a way of thinking about one’s cultural identity is articulated well in the context of the second- and third-generation Asian Americans. To illustrate, Frank M. Yamada critiques essentialistic interpretations of the Bible by introducing a third-generation Japanese American perspective. He states, “[L]ater-generation Asian American culture and interpretation problematizes essentialized categories such as ‘Asian-American,’ preferring more conflicted and hybridious notions of what it means to be and interpret text as an Asian in America.”15 One cannot group and generalize such diverse communities as Chinese, Japanese, Laotian, Korean, and so on, into one categorical term “Asians.” Likewise, within a single ethnic community, there are vast differences in thinking and experiences between older and younger generations.16 Thus, Yamada suggests that Asian American biblical interpretation should emphasize “particularity, contradiction, and complexity” in order to counter oversimplified personifications of what constitutes later-generation Asian American readers.17 It is important to recognize generational and cultural differences in one’s reading, which, in his words, would “surface different interpretive issues than their first- or second-generation forerunners.”18 Echoing his contextual reflection, I propose to read Esther’s character as a literary trace of the “latergeneration” Jewish Diaspora, who seek to construct and renegotiate their cultural identities “within the constantly shifting landscape of identity politics.”19 Of course, Esther is a literary character that functions according to the narrative plot. This may hold back some readers from envisioning her character as a child or youth who desires to construct her own identity. However, there is no doubt that the story and its characters had personally and communally engaging impact on the audiences of the Jewish diasporic community— 15

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Frank M. Yamada, “Constructing Hybridity and Heterogeneity: Asian American Biblical Interpretation from a Third-Generation Perspective,” in Ways of Being, Ways of Reading: Asian American Biblical Interpretation, ed. Mary F. Foskett and Jeffrey Kah-Jin Kuan (St. Louis: Chalice, 2006), 165. Describing the different cultural aspirations and formations that third- and fourth-generation Japanese Americans exhibit, Yamada contends that categorizing “various people of different generations” into a homogenous group is problematic. The difference in language, lifestyle, and relationship to the ethnic heritage among the generations of Asian Americans “rearticulates” the meaning of “later-generation” diasporic identities as those who “construct and renegotiate their cultural identity within the constantly shifting landscape of racial identity politics.” Ibid., 169–70. Ibid., 166. Ibid., 172. Ibid., 170.

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including both children and adults, who may be drawn to the narrative world to think and feel through the characters about their identities as they negotiate and reconstruct the meaning of their cultural existence in the postexilic diaspora.20 This performativity of the text invites our critical engagement with the potential effect of the characters, as well as the multiple levels of interaction between the story and the readers in the narrative’s sociohistorical contexts. The diaspora is a significant context for interpreting the biblical narrative’s presentation of its characters. Recently, there have been increasing and renewed interests within Esther scholarship regarding the social condition of diaspora. Foremost in this conversation is the topic of identity-formation within the Jewish diasporic communities in the Persian and Hellenistic period.21 To illustrate, displacement is a core experience of diasporic subjects. It engenders a cultural and political vacuum, from which diverse, contingent, and alternative imageries of nation and culture arise. Jeffrey Kah-jin Kuan points out that diasporic discourse regards seriously the “alternate forms of community consciousness” as the communities in diaspora construct their identities “in tension” with surrounding powers and ideologies.22 Timothy K. Beal also notes that the Jewish identity manifested in the Esther narrative is “always already dispersed, dislocated,” resulting in the loss and transformation of its original meaning and connection to the past.23 As a diasporic narrative which holds displacement and multicultural existence as its underlying consciousness, the book of Esther would have functioned as a cultural tool for producing, reshaping, and negotiating the collective identity for the people called Jews (Yehudi) in the Persian/Hellenistic diaspora. The narrative redefines and recreates the meaning of that appellation, 20

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Recent cultural studies on children and the politics of culture in various countries across the globe prove this point effectively. See for example, Sharon Stephens, ed., Children and the Politics of Culture (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995). See, for example, Greg Schmidt Goering, “Intersecting Identities and Persuasive Speech: The Cases of Judah and Esther,” BibInt 23, no. 3 (2015): 340–68; Martien A. Halvorson-Taylor, “Secrets and Lies: Secrecy Notices (Esther 2:10, 30) and Diasporic Identity in the Book of Esther,” JBL 131, no. 3 (2012): 467–85; Anne-Mareike Wetter, “How Jewish is Esther? Or: How is Esther Jewish? Tracing Ethnic and Religious Identity in a Diaspora Narrative,” ZAW 123, no. 4 (2011): 596–603; Elsie R. Stern, “Esther and the Politics of Diaspora,” JQR 100, no. 1 (2010): 25–53; Mary E. Mills, “Household and Table: Diasporic Boundaries in Daniel and Esther,” CBQ 68, no. 3 (2006): 408–20; and Jeffrey Kah-Jin Kuan, “Diasporic Reading of a Diasporic Text: Identity Politics and Race Relations and the Book of Esther” in Interpreting Beyond Borders, ed. Fernando F. Segovia (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 161–73. Jeffrey Kah-Jin Kuan, “Diasporic Reading of a Diasporic Text,” 164. Timothy K. Beal, Esther, Berit (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1999), 33, 51.

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Yehudi, in the displaced context of the society. To illustrate, Danna Nolan Fewell explains such performative work of biblical narratives. She submits that narratives “negotiate an existential balance between self and other both in the ways they construct story worlds and in their storytelling performance.” She elaborates: In biblical story worlds, individuals or communal groups are typically distinguished from other such social spheres, foregrounded for narrative attention. . . . [T]he move to highlight an individual or group against a faceless backdrop launches a new story in which the fates of bodies and questions of identity and identity boundaries, both within the story world and in the social context of the story’s telling become paramount for shaping communal identities for centuries to come.24

Due to such culturally performative functions of the narrative, the diasporic readers of Esther would find themselves attracted to the narrative’s provision of identity. As is frequently the case in cultural text and media, the target audience for such narrative persuasion of identity largely consists of children and youth. Social virtues, identity, and specific cultural standards are communicated and narrativized through stories. Particularly in the context of the Jewish diaspora in the Hellenistic period, the Jewish survival and success within the story-world of Esther would encourage the audience to embody and uphold the cohesive cultural identity-formation presented in the narrative. In other words, the cultural desire of the adult narrator and audience aligns the children both within and outside the story as the target of acculturating discipline and control. What I entitled above, “reading with children of diaspora,” or a diasporic childist reading acknowledges such cultural power of the text critically, and places demand for further interpretive engagement. To illustrate, let us imagine a parent and a child reading the following verses in Esther 4: Parent: “If you keep silent in this crisis, relief and deliverance will come to the Jews from another quarter, while you and your father’s house will perish.” Child: “. . . Then I shall go to the king, though it is contrary to the law [or my wish], and if I am to perish, I shall perish!”25

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Danna Nolan Fewell, “The Work of Biblical Narrative,” The Oxford Handbook of Biblical Narrative, ed. Danna Nolan Fewell (New York: Oxford University Press, 2016), 5–6. Est. 4:14, 16, JPS.

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What would happen beneath the surface of the two readers’ performance of (hence, identification with) each respective character? What role-models for children and parents are communicated in that performance? In their reactivating performance of the script—both textual and cultural, a specific idea about social body and collective identity is delivered to the child: “ ‘We’ is more important than ‘You.’ You must be willing to perish if the success and survival of the ‘We’ is at stake.” Interrogating the cultural and political desire of the narrative in such a way prompts us to seek unrealized, erased, or suppressed motives and characterizations of diasporic children that remain as literary and cultural possibilities beneath and around the linear stream of the narrative plot. Instead of accepting the cohesive understanding of the social body of Jewish community in the diaspora, one may attempt to read the text otherwise than subjecting oneself to the homogenizing teleology of the narrative.26 Specifically, the readers of Esther may turn away from reading Mordecai and Esther as a unified group-character, in which tension between the characters (namely, the adult and the child in the narrative) is minimized, and in which Mordecai’s Jewish diasporic identity stands in for that of Esther. But, instead, one can approach the narrative with attention to the potential conflict between them.

Mordecai vs. Esther It is commonly assumed that Mordecai and Esther share the same cultural location and identity. However, as the disparity in age, gender, and social status between the two characters suggests, each of their identities may be viewed in starkly different ways. The narrative sets up the hierarchical difference between the two characters from their introduction in Esther 2:5–7: There was a Yehudite grown-up man (ʾîš yәhûdî) in the palace of Shushan, and his name was Mordecai, the son of Jair, the son of Shimei, the son of

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For a methodological discussion on narrative and its teleological emplotment, see Scott S. Elliot, Reconfiguring Mark’s Jesus: Narrative Criticism After Poststructuralism (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2011). For discussions on narrative desire and readerly engagement, see Stephanie D. Powell, Amy Beth Jones, and Dong Sung Kim, “Reading Ruth, Reading Desire,” in The Oxford Handbook of Biblical Narrative, ed. Danna Nolan Fewell (New York: Oxford University Press, 2016), 245–54.

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Kish, a Benjaminite, who had been deported from Jerusalem with the group of the Exiled, who had been deported along with Jeconiah the king of Judah, whom Nebuchadnezzar the king of Babylon had exiled. And he fostered Hadassah, that is Esther, his uncle’s daughter, for she had neither father nor mother. The child (naʿărâ) was beautiful and good-looking. When her father and mother deceased, Mordecai adopted her as his daughter.27

The introduction of Mordecai’s patrilineage contrasts with the brief introduction of Esther that focuses on the description of her personal appearance and predicament. Furthermore, Mordecai’s distinguished Jewish pedigree is not only supported by his ancestry but also by his temporal proximity to the experience of the Exile. To illustrate, the text’s grammatical ambiguity obscures the actual subject of the verb hoglâ (“exiled”) in v. 6. Thus, commentators have debated whether Kish or Mordecai is the subject who “was exiled” in this verse. In my view, the ambiguity is intentional in that it virtually sticks Mordecai to the exilic past along with his ancestors. The tacit convergence of identities in this patrilineage grants Mordecai principal authority as an authentic figure of the Jewish diaspora. In other words, what had been a painful experience of trauma in the past history of Judah has, for Mordecai, become a cultural and political capital from which power and authority of representation in the community is acquired. The ages of the characters become significant as they indicate the measure of historical proximity to the authoritative past— that is, the Exile. Thus, the narrative’s temporal play that virtually stretches Mordecai’s life to the past time of King Jeconiah (which makes Mordecai’s age unreasonably old) is an intentional and fictional construction, which, in turn, establishes him as the adult (ʾîš) of the Jewish community in the story. In contrast, Esther is described as a vulnerable child (naʿărâ), who is symbolically severed from the connection with the past since she is introduced as an orphan. She is, then, taken into Mordecai’s patronage. The narrative describes his enculturating role for Esther not only as a fostering caregiver but also as an agent of control (v. 10) and active surveillance (v. 11). Despite the narrator’s portrait of Mordecai as an authoritative subject who enculturates Esther, certain narrative details in the story demonstrate the liminality of his own cultural position. According to the genealogy, we are told 27

Est. 2:5–7. My translation.

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that Mordecai is a Benjaminite. However, he also professes publicly that he is a “Jew” (Yehudi), which literally means that he is from Judah. This prompts Beal to ask,“Does Judean identity ultimately, after the fall of both kingdoms, subsume Benjaminite identity?”28 Relying upon Rabbinic references, Beal argues that “Jewish identity [in the exilic and postexilic context] is an ethnic identity that is constructed from the outside, by other nations, who lumped all those tribal differences into one group identity—namely, those exiled from Judea.”29 Furthermore, Anne-Mareike Wetter suggests that the term, Yehudi, points to “shared historical memories,” from which an alternative diasporic identity would be constructed.30 She asserts that the meaning of the term has little to do with geographical or tribal filiation with Judah or Judea, but it refers to the “common experience of being deported.”31 From a different angle, Elsie R. Stern claims that the Book of Esther is a story about the diaspora but “written within the land of Israel” after the return from the Exile.32 From her perspective, the Yehudite identity is bestowed upon the characters by the postexilic Judean community, whose “nationalist imaginary” regarded the deportation and diaspora as their formative experiences after the return.33 Whether the Yehudite label links the narrative to the foreign lands of the diaspora (following Beal, Wetter, and others) or to the returned community in Judea (following Stern), we can surmise that Yehudi is not a determinant category but a formative one. In the cultural context of displacement, the term has attested itself to be a signifier without the signified. In essence, Mordecai’s representation of Jewishness has no superior claim to other forms of Jewish lives in diaspora. Both Mordecai and Esther may be considered diasporic subjects who are seeking and making the meanings and ways of being in the context of surrounding powers, cultures, and identities. However, as shown in his introduction in 2:5–7, as well as in the entailing events in the story, Mordecai is painted as the sole hero of the representational politics in the Jewish community in the narrative. The characters of Mordecai and Esther confront each other most vividly in chapter 4. Traditional commentators, unapologetically siding with Mordecai, 28 29 30 31 32 33

Ibid., 28. Ibid. Wetter, “How Jewish is Esther?” 598. Ibid., 600. Stern, “Esther and the Politics of Diaspora,” 30. Ibid., 32.

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have interpreted Esther’s reluctance to intercede for her people as her womanly (or childlike) fear or even selfishness.34 In their view, Mordecai is a man of faith, and Esther is a girl who shows hesitation and cautiousness. Carol M. Bechtel comments on this tradition of interpretation: Commentators have not always been kind to Esther concerning these verses. Her hesitation has sometimes been construed as cowardice and/or selfishness. Yet one can hardly blame her for being cautious. The fate of her predecessor, Vashti, must have loomed large in her mind.35

Even Bechtel, although she seems to be criticizing scholars’ treatment of Esther, is echoing the traditional presupposition that Esther is a passive and juvenile figure. However, a closer look at the context of the interchange between Mordecai and Esther in terms of cultural identity politics may suggest different images of both characters. To illustrate, Mordecai’s action in Esther 4:1–2 deserves attention. As Beal points out, his sackcloth, ashes, and loud cries and wailings render an image of public protest rather than grieving or “repentance.”36 He even approaches the palace “up to the face of ” the king’s gate, crying out loudly and bitterly.37 Such a gesture would not be necessary if his intent was just repentance or complaint to God. It is more likely a political action.38 Moreover, all other Jews identify with Mordecai in their mourning and weeping, unified by their common actions and dress. Mordecai’s action has formed a collective identity and communal response that express not just piety but also, and more likely, active defiance and resistance, which, in result, unites the community politically and culturally. Mordecai’s response to Esther’s words in Esther 4:14 also deserves a nuanced reading in this context: On the contrary, if you keep silent in this crisis, relief and deliverance will come to the Jews from another quarter, while you and your father’s house will perish.39

34

35 36 37 38 39

Cf., Carey A. Moore, Esther, AB (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1971), 53, and Carol M. Bechtel, Esther, IBC (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2001), 47. Bechtel, Esther, 47. Beal, Esther, 59. Est. 4:2. Fewell notes that Mordecai’s action is certainly “bound to create stir.” Fewell, Children of Israel, 172. Est. 4:14.

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Traditional interpretations have been focused on the middle clause of this sentence (“relief and deliverance will come to the Jews from another quarter”), into which many scholars have read a subtle allusion to God.40 However, Michael V. Fox suggests that the interpretation of “another place” as reference to God might be a misinterpretation.41 He points out that God is invoked as “the Place [hamāqôm]” in rabbinic Hebrew because it is considered the place par excellence in which the world exists.42 Thus, it would make no sense to call God “another place.”43 Moreover, what sandwiches the alleged assurance of deliverance appears a haunting threat by Mordecai.44 Mordecai designs and initiates such a manner of resistance against the threat of the community—namely, to approach, and finally, to make Esther approach the King. Ironically, the threat of annihilation of the Jews was evoked by Mordecai himself, since he refused to bow to Haman (Est. 3:1–4). Even if Esther had an alternative solution, she is not allowed to present her idea, because Mordecai has already set the stage. Esther is left without any other options. She can either accept the task and risk her life, or reject the assignment and jeopardize her life as well as her household’s. Does she have a household? What is Mordecai referring to when he speaks of her “father’s house” (4:14)? Beal poignantly describes this moment in the narrative: “Esther’s new identity as royalty marks her distance from identification with the Jews. She is in the realm of no sackcloth, when sackcloth is the fashion of the day for the Jews of Persia.”45

Hegemonic Masculinity and the Unmen Mordecai’s cultural identity is not only shaped from the historical memory of the Exile but also from his masculinity.46 He occupies his dominant position in the cultural politics of the Jewish diasporic identity not simply as an adult

40 41 42 43 44 45 46

Michael Fox, Character and Ideology in the Book of Esther (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001), 139. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Fewell, Children of Israel, 175. Beal, Esther, 60. For further discussion about the development of masculinity in later literature from the biblical period, see the chapter by Stephen Wilson, “A Road-Trip to Manhood: Tobias’s coming of Age in Tobit 6–12” in this volume.

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but as a male adult. According to Janice Capel Anderson and Stephen D. Moore, the exemplars of the ancient hegemonic masculinity (particularly, but not exclusively, of the Greco-Roman period) are “adult male citizens, those of high social standing, rulers, heads of elite households, powerful patrons,” and so on.47 Those in the opposite side of the scale would fall into a “catchall category” of “unmen,” which includes “females, boys, slaves, sexually passive (of either sex) or ‘effeminate’ males, eunuchs,” and so forth.48 Interestingly, this gendered binary of men and unmen fits the shape of identity politics in the story. Mordecai is an adult male who has a detailed patrilineal genealogy, a man of high social standing, a head of household, and a public figure who reveals himself in outstanding manners. Mordecai embodies the hegemonic masculinity of the Jewish diasporic community in the story, while other Jews in sackcloth follow his lead as anonymous “unmen” in the background. Esther’s ambivalent position as a Jewish queen in the Persian palace troubles the social uniformity shaped by Mordecai’s hegemonic masculinity. To further illustrate, Lillian R. Klein foregrounds the concept of gendered dynamic of honor and shame to illustrate Mordecai’s public demonstration of his Jewishness and Esther’s hiding of it. She states: What is it that necessitates Mordecai’s abandoning of his well-preserved public anonymity? Nothing less than his perception that his honor has been affronted. Esther may lose her shame, but Mordecai the Jew will not bow before an Amalekite, the prototypical enemy of the Jew. The effect is that Mordecai the Jew refuses to acknowledge the position of Haman the Amalekite, implying that the latter is a lesser man. Haman is enraged that his honor is decried and decides to revenge himself not only on Mordecai but also on all Jews. Mordecai has publicly shamed Haman; and Haman seeks to avenge himself by destroying Mordecai and his entire people, thereby reasserting his (Haman’s) honor in the eyes of the community.49

In his public demonstration, Mordecai invokes his Yehudite identity in order to defend his honor and masculinity against Haman’s assertion of his imperial

47

48 49

Stephen D. Moore and Janice Capel Anderson, New Testament Masculinities, SemeiaSt (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 69. Ibid. Lillian R. Klein, “Honor and Shame in Esther,” in A Feminist Companion to Esther, Judith, and Susanna, ed. Athalya Brenner (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1995), 161.

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hegemonic masculine honor. As Timothy Laniak suggests, Mordecai considers his action, ultimately, a defense of the honor of his tribe against that of Haman and the Amalekites.50 Mordecai’s masculine honor is identified with that of the Jewish deity, as well as the community to which he belongs. In other words, nation, tribe, God, and the politics of individual masculine honor are entangled together in Mordecai’s formation and invocation of the Jewish identity, Yehudi. In this view, Mordecai’s hegemonic masculine honor and his personal political interests are inseparable from the fate, identity, and political success of the Jewish diasporic community in the story.51

Survival from the Threat Within Read from the perspectives of gender and cultural politics, Mordecai’s statement in Esther 4:13–14 is not just a rhetorical threatening but an interrogation fraught with masculine ethno-nationalism. Mordecai is projecting Esther as a less authentic Jew—namely, an un-Jew. In the midst of the dramatic threat of annihilation of the community, Mordecai has shaped the collective identity for the Jews in Persia. Esther, on the other hand, faces a threat to be disowned by Mordecai, as well as by the Jewish community of Susa. Esther’s statement in 4:16, “If I perish, I perish” (wĕka’ăšer ’ābadtî ’ābādtî), may not be just a simple confession of her determination. Rather, it could indicate what she has literally experienced—“I am lost. I am lost” (’ābadtî ’ābādtî).52 It may describe her destroyed and displaced identity, namely, her traumatic loss of self. The characteristic change of Esther in the narrative after chapter 4 seems to support such an image of trauma and loss in her character. To illustrate, one finds a drastic change in Esther’s persona after her

50

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Timothy S. Laniak, Shame and Honor in the Book of Esther, SBLDS 165 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1998), 75–76. In her paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the SBL in Boston (2017), Meredith Stone uses the concept of hegemonic masculinity to interpret the conflict between Mordecai and Haman, and subsequently, the Jews and the Persian empire in the Septuagint version of Esther. I appreciate her suggestions and input in this section of the essay. Her paper is titled “Mordecai’s Refusal to Bow in LXX Esther: The Negotiation of Defiance and a Contest for Hegemonic Masculinity,” and it was given at the Postcolonial Studies and Biblical Studies section on November 20, 2017. Connotations of the verb, ’ābad, include “to become lost,” “to go astray,” “to perish,” “to be destroyed,” and “to be carried off.” See HALOT 1:2–3.

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interlocution with Mordecai in chapter 4. Some commentators have suggested that there is a gradual development in her character within the course of the narrative.53 Others insist that she undergoes a kind of conversion—from objectivity to subjectivity or from passivity to activity.54 In such popular readings of the story, the post-chapter-4 Esther is a heroine figure who has made a “successful” transition from her precautious and passive childhood. She grows up to be a person who saves her people. She enters the royal court (Est. 5:1). She speaks out, and acts like an adult (Est. 9:16–17). However, once we consider her character to be one stricken by the violent hegemonic identity-formation within the unstable political predicament of diaspora, it is difficult to see her change as heroic. Rather, the shift of her character can be read as a destructive result of coercive identity-formation, which makes her character a figure of a disowned and dismantled self. Her request for the second day of attack in Esther 9:13 demonstrates such violent change. As postcolonial critics have pointed out, self-alienation and assimilation of identity are the very characteristics of the subjected people under the regime of colonial power.55 Frantz Fanon, among those postcolonial thinkers, considers the complex relationship between the colonizer and the colonized in terms of the oedipal and ambivalent relationship between adult and child.56 Here, we might turn the critical lens around and ask whether, or to what extent, the child-adult relationship in the diasporic social spheres resembles such colonial psychopathology.57 How do historical experiences of colonization, displacement, exile, or (anti-)colonial nationalist movements (e.g., Ezra-Nehemiah reform) affect one’s understanding of her/his cultural identity? How do such experiences of

53

54 55

56 57

E.g., David J.A. Clines, The Esther Scroll, JSOTSup 30 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1984) and Sidnie Ann White, “Esther: A Feminine Model for Jewish Diaspora,” in Gender and Difference in Ancient Israel, ed. Peggy Day (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006), 196–202. Fox, Character and Ideology, 196–202. Stephen D. Moore, Empire and Apocalypse: Postcolonialism and the New Testament (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2006), 29. Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks, trans., Richard Philcox (New York: Grove Press, 2008). One of the contemporary issues relevant to this point is transnational adoption. Many studies in sociology, postcolonial theory, and globalization studies have discussed the critical issues of identity and culture regarding the international adoptions that have grown exponentially since the late 20th century. See, for example, Trenka et al., eds., Outsiders Within; Rita J. Simon and Rhonda M. Roorda, In Their Own Voices: Transracial Voices Tell Their Stories (New York: Columbia University Press, 2000), and Laura Briggs, Somebody’s Children: The Politics of Transracial and Transnational Adoption (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2012).

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public trauma affect adult parents in their relationship to their children? How are we to discuss the impact of the cultural identity, Yehudi, on the selfconsciousness of the children and youth in the exilic and postexilic Jewish diaspora? Moreover, how might we teach the children of our contemporary globalized world about how to understand, negotiate with, accept, resist, reform, or survive the larger-than-life categories such as nation, people, race/ ethnicity, culture, and history? To what extent do—or can—we allow their responses to these culturally embodied labels?

Two Views on Cultural Identity and Diaspora Stuart Hall suggests that we define cultural identity not only by a common origin from the past but by the present shared experience of rupture, difference, and discontinuity.58 He notes that there are two different ways of understanding diasporic cultural identity. The first is an essentialist approach which defines cultural identity in terms of “one shared culture,” “collective ‘one true self,’ ” and the coherence and continuity from the past.59 It speaks of, and hence defines, diaspora in terms of one’s origin, the point of departure (“looking back”), and home. Hall asserts that this approach to cultural identity provides “an imaginary coherence” that supplants the loss, lack of continuity, and fragmentation experienced by the dispersed subjects—hence, it can be “resources of resistance and identity” for them.60 However, he also critiques this notion of identity for it cannot address the trauma, rupture, and difference in the diasporic and colonial experiences, which, themselves, can become a shared identity among the diverse people in diasporic contexts.61 Queer diasporic theorist Gayatri Gopinath also notes critically that the essentialist “backward-looking conception of diaspora” is congenial to the “myths of purity and origin,” which “seamlessly lend themselves to nationalist projects.”62 Thus, several critics of the essentialist diasporic identities have proposed a reconfiguration of the 58 59 60 61 62

Hall, “Cultural Identity and Diaspora,” 223, 227. Ibid., 223–24. Ibid., 224–25. Ibid. Gayatri Gopinath, Impossible Desires: Queer Diasporas and South Asian Public Cultures (Durham: Duke University Press, 2005), 7.

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meaning of diaspora by making a shift of orientation from the “origin” to the “destination.”63 In his proposal, Hall suggests that cultural identity can be defined as a position that recognizes difference, rather than sameness, as what constitutes the collective social formations in diaspora.64 Instead of a fixed “origin,” the second meaning of cultural identity in Hall’s analysis focuses on “the future” and “becoming.”65 He states: Cultural identity, in this second sense, is a matter of “becoming” as well as of “being.” It belongs to the future as much as to the past. It is not something which already exists, transcending place, time, history, and culture. Cultural identities come from somewhere, have histories. But, like everything which is historical, they undergo constant transformation. Far from being grounded in a mere “recovery” of the past, which is waiting to be found, and which, when found, will secure our sense of ourselves into eternity, identities are the names we give to the different ways we are positioned by, and position ourselves within, the narratives of the past.66

These two positions of view on diasporic identity provide a useful frame for reading and thinking about the Esther narrative and its two Jewish characters—one an adult, one a youth—Mordecai and Esther. As discussed above, Mordecai’s Jewish identity-construction is based on his proximity to the past. The diasporic subjectivity represented by his persona is an identity based on the logic of sameness, continuity, and origin. Such cultural imperative for the essentialist identity-formation is a significant political context from which the narrative emerges in the current form. In the outer structure, Mordecai’s (and the Jews’) tensive relationship to Haman, Amalekites, and ultimately, the Persian empire appears to constitute

63 64 65 66

David L. Eng, “Transnational Adoption and Queer Diasporas,” Social Text 21.3 (2003), 4. Hall, “Cultural Identity and Diaspora,” 225. Ibid. Ibid. Numerous scholars on the subject of diaspora build upon this definition to articulate various issues of diasporic identities. See David L. Eng, Racial Castration: Managing Masculinity in Asian America (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2001), Gayatri Gopinath, Impossible Desires: Queer Diasporas and South Asian Public Cultures (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005), and Jasbir Puar, Terrorist Assemblages: Homonationalism in Queer Times (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007). For methodological appropriation of these works for Asian American biblical hermeneutics, see Dong Sung Kim, “Queer Hermeneutics: Queering Asian American Identities and Biblical Interpretation,” in T&T Clark Handbook to Asian American Biblical Hermeneutics, ed. Uriah Kim and Seung Ai Yang (London: Bloomsbury/T&T Clark, forthcoming).

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the major political issue of the narrative. However, the most tangible and urgent issue within the diasporic community, who is telling and receiving the story, could be the matter of enculturating their children, who are born ignorant of the meaning of Yehudi in the dispersed and unstable cultural condition of diaspora. The childhood and childness of Esther may have been inscribed to the text in order to demonstrate a successful enculturation of the Jewish diasporic children. The childhood of Esther is introduced (Est. 2:7) but is never fully narrativized to the audience and readers, perhaps because the narrative views her childhood as a blank or unstable—hence, insignificant— identity position, which needs the adults’ injection of culture and Yehudization. In other words, if there is something we can call “childhood” in Esther, its narrative utility is for performing its enculturation and the transmission of the essential Jewish ethnic identity. The narrator’s rationale for making Esther an orphan character may be considered in this regard. From a contemporary perspective, Rachel Quy Collier shares her reflection on the denied agency in the lives of diasporic orphans and adopted children: In literature, the Orphan (who is implicitly a child) is often someone upon whom anyone can inscribe or project what he will, an undefined space where there exist no solid definitions or boundaries such as those derived from biological origin, which often is seen to determine identity and fate. The Orphan is the unknown Other, a blank page. An adopted child can be appropriated, assimilated, made into the image and likeness of her parents and society. She is given a (new) name, language, religion, cosmology, worldview; she is, in a sense, colonized—for her own good, out of love. The demands of living in a society that requires so much can be tiring.67

With Esther assimilating and performing the identity of Yehudi in the narrative following chapter 4, her eventual growth into the culture runs its course unapologetically, without giving her (or the readers) space to consider or grieve the loss of “the unknown” childhood of her life.68 In this sense, it can be stated that the narrative both inscribes and “ex-scribes” Esther’s childhood.69

67 68 69

Collier, “Performing Childhood,” 212. Ibid. Beal uses the word “exscription” to describe the erasure of Vashti in the narrative. He considers Vashti as a haunting presence in the whole narrative whose “exscription” makes a strong parallel to the attempted erasure of the Jews by Haman in the narrative. See his Book of Hiding, 15–28.

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However, from the remains of the erasure of Esther’s diasporic and adoptive childhood, one can consider Hall’s second meaning of diaspora in order to envision and imagine unrealized (or unscribed) possibilities of her identity and community. Though the narrative does not offer details, the relationships that Esther makes with other characters in the story are not necessarily based on kinship or common ethnic/national traceability. In fact, her connection with her “father’s house” (Est. 4:14) is obscure—if not absent—in the narrative. Rather, her potential “community” is more likely based on the common experiences of struggle under the Persian empire shared by people from diverse backgrounds. The king’s eunuch who helps Esther (2:15), the women at the harem who had lived with her for twelve months (2:1), and her predecessor Vashti (1:11—2:4) . . ., all of them can be assembled in the minds of the audience and readers as Esther’s community under the common struggle against the imperial/colonial oppression. As Hall claims, such conception of self and community is not a cultural identity which “already exists,” or something that can be “excavated” from the past, but that which is “able to constitute us [and the characters in the story] as new kinds of subjects and thereby enable us [and them] to discover places from which to speak.”70

Conclusion: Esther and the Gatecrashing Children What different desire or voice would emerge if we invoke children of diaspora to become the critic and interpreter of their own culture and text? How would the diasporic children and youth have portrayed Esther in their story if they had been given the cultural agency and literary author-ity? Such questions may bring us back to the scene of Esther 5:1, where Esther is standing at the threshold of the Persian royal courtroom. The image of the threshold not only reflects the social boundary within the story, but it also epitomizes her cultural liminality as a youth. As a youth in diaspora, she stands between Jewish and Persian cultures, between royalty and colonized minority, between older and younger diasporic generations, between the past and the future, and between the communal fate and individual survival. 70

Hall, “Cultural Identity and Diaspora,” 237.

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Could one imagine Esther standing at the threshold as a “gatecrasher,” who interrupts boundaries of identities and cultures of the adult world? What different cultural agency, aspirations, and relationality could the children and youth in the postexilic Jewish diaspora have harbored in their minds as they saw themselves in Esther’s place in their own living contexts? What can we tell the contemporary audience about their stories, namely, the stories of the ancient diasporic children? For childist readers, the biblical narrative of Esther launches another story, a story about untold desires and struggles in diasporic and adoptive childhood. The phantasmal image of gatecrashing children places demand upon the biblical character Esther, as well as our interpretation of her story, to read and listen beyond the culturally and politically sanctioned narrative inscribed in the biblical text.

7

Children in Proverbs, Proverbial Children Ericka S. Dunbar and Kenneth N. Ngwa

The “child” in the book of Proverbs and the child of the proverbial world is a complex and multivalent character.1 Rhetorically a presumed author of the proverbial text and worldview (Prov. 1:1; 30:1; 31:1–2), the child is also the target audience for the sage, as well as the subject matter of proverbial speech. Repeatedly summoned and cajoled to reject Folly and embrace Wisdom and her teachings, the child is variously located: in the home (1:8; 4:1, 3, 10; 6:20), on the street corners (1:10, 15), and in palaces (1:1; 31:1–2). The socioeconomic settings where the child is expected to function range from patriarchal family and kinship farms (10:5) to peer group activities on the street corners of the urban settings (1:20–21). The child is centrally important to social and cultural portraits of parental honor/shame (10:1; 27:11; 29:17), anxieties about loss of parental identity (19:26), and the formation of intergenerational identity and status (13:22; 17:6). The children of Proverbs are the subject of discourse about interethnic bonding or embrace (5:20) and the negotiation of binding social relations and surety to neighbors (6:1, 3). Furthermore, children’s identity and actions are, by analogy and simile, critical to navigating a mythologized world of Sheol and its demythologized manifestation in the realm of social justice (1:10–18); to probing the mystery of creation and its creator (8:30; 30:4); and perhaps even to the experience of humankind’s creaturely delight (8:31). In this polyvalent role, the child is subjected to the sage’s ideological discipline (Prov. 13:24; 19:18; 23:13; 29:17), which is sometimes portayed as a 1

The “child” is variously described in the book: child as bēn (1:1, 8, 10, 15; 2:1; 3:1, 11, 12, 21; 4:1 (pl.), 3, 10, 20; 5:1, 7 (pl.), 20; 6:1, 3, 20; 7:1, 24 (pl.); 8:31 (pl.); 10:1, 5; 13:1, 22 (pl.), 24 (pl.); 14:26 (pl.); 15:11 (pl.), 20; 17:2, 6 (pl. x2), 25 (pl.); 19:13, 18, 26, 27; 20:7 (pl.); 23:15, 19, 26; 24:13; 27:11; 28:7; 29:17 (pl.); 30:1, 4; child as naʿar (1:4; 20:11; 22:6, 15; 23:13; 29:15); child as bar (31:2, twice). See below for further discussion of these terms.

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remedy for internalized folly (22:15). Often urged to cry out for insight, to raise their voice for understanding, to seek wisdom as though it were silver, to love and treasure wisdom more than gold, and refer to Wisdom as “my sister” (e.g., 2:1–5; 7:1–5), the generic child hardly speaks in the book of Proverbs. The text and the textual child is largely that of an educating adult or parent. In a few instances, the literary character of the child is taken up in pedagogical selfstyling (bēn hāyîtî) to highlight a tradition of parent-to-child education (4:3), or to articulate and form a child’s emotional (even erotic) devotion to Wisdom (7:4, “Say to Wisdom, ‘you are my sister’ ”). But even then, the trope and the status of the child in Proverbs 4:3 is evoked as a prior experience, now remembered and articulated by a parent; and the expression of affection for Wisdom (7:4) is an exhortation by the parent. The child as a literary trope and character is variously placed within multiple settings to perform and embody multiple values of the parent/teacher. How does Proverbs construct this polyvalent child? Two Hebrew words and one Aramaic word are used to denote a child in this book. These are bēn, naʿar (Hebrew) and bar (Aramaic)—masculine nouns that refer to a male child. These child-related terms reflect social nuances that allude to male children’s growth and development, as well as their intrinsic value in ancient Israelite families and societies. The male gendered terminology clearly reflects the patriarchal context and ideology of the book. Yet, this use of language is not to suggest that girls and women do not participate in proverbs performance/wisdom traditions. Wisdom is personified as a woman and, as noted above, is affectionately called a sister (Prov. 7:4). The child should heed the instruction of both father and mother (1:8), as well as respect and please the mother (23:22, 25), being careful not to bring shame upon her (19:26; 20:20; 29:15). Much of the counsel directed at a male child would be applicable to a female child as well (e.g., 1:8, 10, 15; 2:1–5, 3:1, 11, 21; 4:10, 5:1; 6:20; 7:20). Nonetheless, our assessments of the “child” in the book of Proverbs reflect awareness of this literary and ideological construction that is largely gendered as male and notes the status and roles of children in familial, educational and other social settings. The “child” functions as a literary generic abstraction, not a particular individual.2 That textual 2

For further discussion around the distinction in the use of terms “child,” “children,” and “childhood” in childhood studies, see “Accessing Childhoods: Interdisciplinary Tools at the Intersection of Biblical Studies and Childhood Studies” by Laurel Koepf Taylor in this volume.

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construct includes noticeable distinctions around gender, age and social status, but also nuances that overlap and lack clear demarcations.

Child as bēn As part of the superscription (Prov. 1:1), the male child (bēn) is introduced as royalty as well as the presumed author of the text (cf. 30:1). Of course, there are multiple “authors” of Proverbs, including the men of Hezekiah (25:1), as well as fathers and mothers (1:8). The child imagined in the superscription is one of privileged social, economic, political, and ideological status. Beyond the superscriptions, the child sometimes appears to be of youthful age, capable of contemplating and participating in ambushes and robbery (1:11), calling out (qārāʾ) to understanding and seeking (bāqaš) wisdom as though for silver (2:1–4), and engaging in affectionate (erotic) discourse (7:4–5). Elsewhere, in the rhetorical self-styling of the instructor (bēn hāyîtî; 4:3), the child is described as tender (raq) of flesh and beloved (yāh.îd) before his mother. The child remembered here is physically delicate (cf. Gen. 18:7; 33:13), but one must not assume that the immediate addressee is also an infant. The tender child is invoked to anchor the teaching on social/cultural maturation, guided by a sense of parental affection. The word “child” (bēn) in the superscription may thus refer as much to biological offspring as to a sense of epistemological or pedagogical endearment. This sense of deep-seated affection seems integral to understanding the “child” (bar) referenced in the words of Lemuel’s mother (Prov. 31:2). Expressing closeness, she speaks to the “child of my womb” (bar bit.nî), the “child of my vows” (bar nәdārāy). As the place of one’s innermost feelings and thoughts (cf. Prov.18:8; 20:27, 30), bet.en (womb) evokes the imagery of birth (cf. Job 1:21) and of social and cultural intimacy (cf. Job 19:17). The vow (nēder) evokes a sense of dedication and social action (cf. Hannah’s vow to dedicate her son to God in 1 Sam. 1:11). The parallelism between bet.en and nēder in Proverbs 31:2 reinforces the sense of affection and commitment towards shaping and forming the child that inhabits the pedagogical and social scenario invoked by the mother/parent.3

3

Like the son of Lemuel’s mother, Isaac is referenced by a range of terms: son (bēn, Gen. 22:2); beloved (yāh.îd, Gen. 22:2, 6); and as a youth (naʿar, Gen. 22:5, 12).

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Child as naʿar The word naʿar can be used to refer to a newborn baby (1 Sam. 4:21) or a child not weaned (1 Sam. 1:22), among other possibilities. After weaning, which in the ancient Near East would occur after three years (cf. Instructions of Ani, 7.19), the child apparently begins another phase of training.4 So naʿar can refer to a youth (e.g., Ishmael in Gen. 21:12; Joseph in Gen. 27:2; the sons of Samuel in 1 Sam. 2:17), and someone of marriageable age (Gen. 34:19). It is likely this older naʿar that one encounters early in proverbial teaching (Prov. 1:4) and later in the teachings on marriage. In Proverbs 22:6, the text distinguishes between becoming old (yazqîn) and a youth (naʿar), apparently someone still being formed. Thus, in general, naʿar in Proverbs refers to a young person (male), perhaps of teenage or adolescent or marriageable age (but not yet married), not an infant or pre-teen.5 This youth may still have their heart bound up with folly (Prov. 22:15), but such association with folly is remediable through discipline (Prov. 23:13; 29:15). This child (naʿar), younger and less experienced than the elders, can be trained on the supposition that, once formed, they will be committed and unwavering in their path. Apparently, such a child could make themselves recognizable or even distinguished by their actions (Prov. 20:11).

The Child and Gender Proverbs is highly patriarchal, meaning that it largely assumes and represents a generic older male’s view of women and of children. As Bruce Waltke writes, “the father addresses his son, never his daughter (1:8, 10, 15, passim), and in his extended discourses he warns him against an unfaithful wife (chs. 5 and 7) but never warns his daughter against an unfaithful husband.”6 Nevertheless, the text also repeatedly portrays the mother and personified Wisdom (Woman Wisdom) as instructors (Prov. 1:8; 4:3; 6:20). The beloved child in Proverbs 4:3 is placed “before” his mother. The preposition lipnê generally means “in the

4 5

6

Bruce K. Waltke, The Book of Proverbs: Chapters 1–15 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004), 277. Douglas K. Stuart, “ ‘The Cool of the Day’ (Gen 3:8) and ‘The Way He Should Go’ (Prov. 22:6),” BSac 171 (2014): 268. Waltke, Proverbs, 116–17.

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presence of,” but also “under the view or oversight of.”7 For Waltke, “in order for the mother to instruct her household in Israel’s wisdom she herself had to be taught the wisdom and knowledge of this book.”8 In fact, as we have seen, the child (bar) is the product of the mother’s womb but also of the mother’s vows (nәdārāy, Prov. 31:2). The child then becomes a vehicle for the mother’s engagement and reflection on social, political, economic, and cultural realities in the world of the text. The child of Proverbs 4:3 is construed very much like Moses, the “child” (bēn, yeled) and “young man/lad” (naʿar) who was placed in the custody of his mother to be raised, and yet identified as a “child” (bēn) after he grew up (Exod. 2:6–10).9 The construal of the naʿar in relation to old age in Proverbs 22:6 constitutes a generalized depiction of social and generational constructions of identity, and echoes other analogous totalizing constructions (e.g., Gen. 19:4, “from young to old,” minnaʿar wəʿad-zāqēn). Such totalizing constructions include gender identifications. For example, in Exodus 10:9 Moses speaks of going out “with our young and with our old” (binʿārênû ûbizqēnênû), and then parallels the plural form of naʿar with “our sons and our daughters” (bəbānênû ûbibnôtênû). It is not implausible to surmise that, in its generalized form, naʿar could include both male and female children. In fact, the plural form nəʿārîm is used in Job 1:19 to represent sons and daughters.

The Child as a Literary and Ethical Character in Private and Public Spaces The initial use of “son” in the title of Proverbs links Solomon to David and conceptually frames the book as the work of a child (bēn). Consistent with wisdom texts in the ancient Near East (e.g., the Instructions of Ptahhotep, Amenemope and Shuruppak), this introductory formula situates “the titles, posts, ancestry, and position of the teacher by way of commending the book to the reader.”10 That is, “son” is used here as part of a literary genre—to signal (ideological) continuity and (social) identity. This ideological framing around

7 8 9 10

See BDB, 816–17 on the meanings of lipnê. Waltke, Proverbs, 117. In Hebrew as in English, the word indicating a “child” can denote age or relationship. Michael V. Fox, Proverbs 1–9, AB (New York: Doubleday, 2000), 55.

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the child stands in tension with the tradition of wisdom associated with experience and therefore with the elderly. For Michael Fox, the epistemological ideology of Proverbs is ultimately rooted not so much in empiricism as in a “coherence theory of truth”—that is, in “an integrated system of assumptions that inform the book (and the earlier wisdom from which it emerged).”11 The child in Proverbs therefore represents a physical being as well as a literary and ideological character, and is involved and deployed as much in understanding the traditions of its community as in shaping the community’s future. There is a striking absence of information about children’s speech, or scenarios in which children speak, even though it is assumed that they have the capacity to resist the teachings of Wisdom and Folly. Of the fifty-seven overt and implied references to “son/sons” and related terms, twenty-three occur in the first nine chapters of the book, most of them in the context of direct speech to the children. In the second portion of the book (chapters 10–31), children become the subject of reflection on a host of themes including discipline, inheritance, social status, etc. When children are directly addressed in the second part of the book, the issues include advice not to stray from the words of knowledge (Prov. 19:27), a description of what a wise child does to the parent (23:15–18), an appeal to the child to stay away from such social ills as drunkenness, gluttony, and drowsiness (23:19), a command to the child to listen to their father (23:22) and submit to the (teachings of the) parent (“Give your heart to me, my son!” 23:26), an appeal not to envy the wicked (24:21), and an explicit command to be wise, “be wise, my son!” (27:11). The wise child makes parents glad (10:1; 15:20; 23:24) and is the product of parental discipline (13:1; LXX and Syr. say the child “listens to” parental discipline), while the foolish child is the source of parental grief (10:1; 15:20; 17:25; 19:13) and disgrace (19:26). The children that one encounters as objects and subjects in the text are a particular creation of the sages. The larger narrative and social setting constructed in these writings stretches from the family setting through the public arena to the entire cosmos. While the family appears to be the place of instruction (by both father and mother) and the cosmos appears to be the space of imagination and creativity (involving

11

Michael V. Fox, “The Epistemology of the Book of Proverbs,” JBL 126, no. 4 (2007): 675, 676. Italics original.

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deities and personified Wisdom), the larger bulk of the proverbial material is located in the streets and city gates (with personified Wisdom and Folly as well as impersonators of Sheol). Through proverbial discourse, the home, the cosmos, and the streets become part of the public arena—the place of potential challenge to the child, even as it is also the place of potential productivity, creativity, dignity and security. As Achille Mbembe has argued, “to publicly articulate knowledge” consists, to a large extent, “in making everything speak— that is, in constantly transforming reality into a sign, and, on the other hand, filling with reality things empty and hollow in appearance.”12 Within this world of contrasted and contrasting signs and meanings, “the great epistemological— and therefore social—break,” according to Mbembe, is “not between what is seen and what is read, but between what is seen (the visible) and what is not seen (the occult), between what is heard, spoken and memorized and what is concealed (the secret).”13 It is in this in-between space of the known and the unknown that the book of Proverbs situates its goal (see Prov. 1:6) and thus the role of the child. To the extent that this portait of the child is textualizable and potentially embodied, the prologue of Proverbs combines the aggregative subject matter of the book—wisdom, understanding, discernment, discipline, insight, righteousness, justice, and equity—with an aggregative subject-person of the book—the child, the simple, the youth, the wise, and understanding person. Because the child represents both the product of tradition, cultural identity, and thought systems, as well as the embodied and imagined custodian and creator of that tradition’s future (Prov. 1:1–6; 4:3), the child is deeply embedded in the construction of the public virtues of the book. Timothy Sandoval describes these as intellectual virtues—things we do with our minds; practical virtues— how we choose to live and express our lives; and social virtues—themes related to justice, righteousness, and equity.14 In the public and private spaces, the multivalent child is a literary and ethical construct and embodiment of the proverbial world.

12

13 14

Achille Mbembe, On the Post Colony (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), 144. Italics original. Ibid. Italics original. Timothy J. Sandoval, Money and the Way of Wisdom: Insights from the Book of Proverbs (Woodstock, VT: Skylight Paths Publishing, 2008), 24. Italics original.

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A Proverbial Worldview and the Proverbial Child The Oxford English Dictionary defines a proverb as: a) a short pithy saying in common and recognized use; a concise sentence, often metaphorical or alliterative in form, which is held to express some truth ascertained by experience or observation and familiar to all; b) a common word or phrase of contempt or reproach, a byword; c) an oracular or enigmatic saying that requires interpretation; an allegory, a parable.15 From these definitions, three factors seem appropriate starting points for examining the genre and function of Proverbs in relation to the construction of the character and role of the child/ren. The first factor is linguistic and semiotic.16 As the definitions above indicate, the word “proverb” may refer to a common saying in currency or a parable with “hidden” meaning.17 Proverbial language as constitutive of both precise and analogical descriptions of reality is important to the creation and understanding of the multivalent child. The aggregative value of wisdomrelated words in Proverbs 1:1–7 and their association with the child’s endeavors suggest a composite understanding of the child. The proverbial child is multipositional. A second factor is the underlying philosophy of proverbs. Kwame Gyekye’s definition of proverbs as “capsules of ideas” is instructive.18 Proverbs are about ideas, but these ideas have been crystallized and encapsulated in phrases and thought patterns that influence character and being. The phrase “capsules of ideas” combines an image with a concept, a tangible object with an intangible concept, a visible product/subject with an abstract value. To think and speak proverbially is to assume a posture of creating and recreating synthetic ideas from previous experiences as well as from imagined outcomes. The proverbial child is situated in that liminal space. A third factor to consider is proverbial function. Isidore Okpewho argues that proverbs generally have three basic functions: 1) they serve to provide a

15

16 17

18

J. A. H. Murray, ed., The Compact Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary Vol. II (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1971), 2339. J. L. Austin, How to Do Things with Words (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1962). For a discussion on the wide semantic range of the Hebrew term māšāl, see Fox, Proverbs, 54–55; R. A. Johnson, “mšl,” in Wisdom in Israel and in the Ancient Near East, ed. Martin Noth and Winton Thomas, VTSup, 3rd ed., (Leiden: Brill, 1960), 162–69. Kwame Gyekye, An Essay on African Philosophical Thought: The Akan Conceptual Scheme, rev. ed. (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1995), 64.

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pointedness and clarity of focus to speech; 2) they provide a form of entertainment value, spicing up statements or making them more exciting to listeners; and 3) they may be considered the storehouse of the wisdom of society, useful for formal and informal discourse.19 The Hebrew word māšāl encompasses these dimensions of meaning, and applies to a variety of utterances beyond any singular genre. It applies as much to short, single-line adages as to extended allegories. For Michael Fox, māšāl may function as a trope, which means that it is displaced from its primary meaning and represents something else; and as a saying it constitutes a phrase that has immediate currency for the audience.20 To think in proverbial terms is to think aggregatively and precisely in a manner that locates humankind at the crossroads of life, allowing for the generative potentials of each person to be fully developed, and supplying the underlying rhetorical, philosophical and moral guidance and encouragement or rebuke necessary for the realization of such potential. Proverbial thinking is not just about ethical dilemmas and injunctions but about human potential, human character, and its development, flourishing, and challenges. To be a proverbial child is to embody and act on these challenges and potentials! The proverbial child evokes sensibilities around genealogy (Prov. 1:1; 30:1; 31:1–2), tradition (4:3), and even mythology (8:22; 30:4) of social construction and belonging. Christine Yoder rightly points out that when the instructor or parent beckons the child (1:8, 10), this interpellation forges bonds and promotes education through the social work of language. For Yoder, the father is calling on “a ready relationship, and affiliation that associates the boy with him.”21 Whether this relationship is biological, professional, or scribal is not always clearly distinguishable; one might even imagine important overlaps between those distinctive forms of social relationship.22 What is clear is that the proverbial child—whether biological, professional or scribal—is and becomes a polyvalent character whose identity and social functions define communal identity and test the limits and durability of tradition and the costs of innovation.

19

20 21 22

Isidore Okpewho, African Oral Literature: Backgrounds, Character, and Continuity (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1992), 235. Fox, Proverbs 1–9, 54. Christine Roy Yoder, Proverbs, AOTC (Nashville: Abingdon, 2009), 14. Temper Longman III, Proverbs, BCOTWP (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2006), 54.

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If the genealogical and political child is the rhetorical author of the sayings in Proverbs (Prov. 1:1), the social and cultural child/youth (naʿar) is one of its rhetorical audiences (1:4). The youth here range from infancy to adolescent and even early adulthood (naʿar can be used interchangeably with bēn; see Exod. 2:2, 6; Gen. 22:2, 5; Job 1:5, 19; 1 Sam. 30:17; 2 Sam. 18:5; 1 Chron. 12:29). The notion of “child” deployed in Proverbs is as much sociocultural and political as it is biological. But the child is also a literary, pedagogical and epistemological trope by which the instructor imagines and constructs knowledge. To this end, the instructor can repurpose or even create knowledge by rhetorically repositioning themselves as a child: “when I was a child.” Similarly, in Egyptian wisdom, Ptahhotep imagined that if one instructs their “son” then when he “grows and reaches veneration, he will speak likewise to his children, renewing the teaching of his father. . . . . He will speak to (his) children; then they may speak (to) their children” (590–596).23 This ongoing intergenerational education is further articulated in Proverbs 22:6 (cf. Prov. 17:6). In his reflections on Proverbs 8, William Brown understands the creation of Wisdom in relation to the child, specifically the playful child: “Wisdom, in short, is created in the imago nati, in the image of the child.”24 At issue here is the meaning of the word ʾāmôn and its relation to the Akkadian ummānu—a semidivine sage responsible for bringing about culture. Although this linguistic and cultural cognate is probable, Brown, however, argues that the biblical text of Proverbs does not in fact portray Wisdom as an artisan. Instead, Wisdom should be viewed as a playful child.25 This perception is vital to the educational purpose of Proverbs, namely, paideia—the education and formation of the whole person. The kind of world imagined by the biblical scribe is one that is “secured for the purpose of play. In other words, God creates a world that is both ‘childproof’ and child-friendly, safe and enriching.”26 If the superscription of the book is attributable to a “child”—that is, if the focus of the reader is tilted towards Solomon as a child of David, then we are invited to reflect on the multivalent character of the “child” in Proverbs. Readers can think about the child as a product and embodiment 23 24

25

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Fox, Proverbs, 81. William P. Brown, “Wisdom and Child’s Play: Proverbs and Paideia,” in Understanding Children’s Spirituality: Theology, Research, and Practice, ed. Kevin E. Lawson (Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2012), 31. For related discussion, see the chapter in this volume, “God as a Child in the Hebrew Bible? Playing with the Possibilities” by Julie Faith Parker. Brown, “Wisdom and Child’s Play,” 33.

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of tradition and equally view the child as adaptive and creative, responsive to novelty and even play.

Proverbs and Proverbial Children in Contexts In her work on wisdom sayings in the Old Testament, Carol Fontaine observes that “clan wisdom operates not just within groups, but between them as well, and so paves the way for the international, diplomatic functions attributed to court sages and bureaucrats.”27 Critical analysis of proverbs is a crucial part of exploring their performance function. In the case of the book of Proverbs, analyses have yielded significant information on the larger cultural milieu in which such sayings probably originated and flourished. The evidence points to various locations, including the home, palaces, and (late) schools. More specifically, focus turns on multiple fronts: politically and economically, the role of the monarchy in developing and shaping the book; theologically, whether the divine is extensively represented in the book; and canonically, how the book itself relates to other books of the Old Testament.28 Beyond contextual analyses, however, historical critics also recognize that it is difficult to definitively describe the compositional history of Proverbs. Further literary analyses lend themselves to further refining of the genre of the text, its possible oral and written “origins,” its pedagogical as well as administrative functions, its use of poetry and even abbreviated prose, etc. Proverbs usually involve general observations about the patterns of life. But they also go beyond simple observations on life to include “didactic recommendations” about successful living in the world.29 The literary character of the sayings is closely associated and intertwined with their pedagogical objective and moral quality, all embodied in the identity and work of the child. This is true of parallelisms (Prov. 10:1, 5), dialogue (26:4–5), autobiographical

27

28

29

Carole Fontaine, “Proverbs,” in In Search of Wisdom: Essays in Honor of John G. Gammie, ed. Leo G. Perdue, Bernard Brandon Scott, and William Johnston Wiseman (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1993), 104. Katharine J. Dell, The Book of Proverbs in Social and Theological Context (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006). Fontaine, “Proverbs,” 104, 109.

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stylizations (4:3), rebukes and admonitions (6:1, 3, 20; 29:27), and even clichés (22:6, 15) about children. Christine Yoder’s dating of the book of Proverbs to the Persian period intends, inter alia, to move the discourse away from the gendered biases that assume female characters to be bad or, if good, then necessarily divine. Yoder’s analyses of the socioeconomic conditions of the Persian period, including the roles of women in shaping the economy and navigating imperial urbanization, lead her to conclude that the female character of Wisdom was a “composite figure of real—albeit exceptional—women in the Persian period.”30 Kinship and political economies constituted the dominant forms of social organization and structure. Indeed, as Yoder points out, the composite female character of Wisdom in Proverbs frames the entire book (Prov. 1–9; 31:10–31). The importance of this economic reality is signaled from the early pages of the book of Proverbs, with the hypothetical scenario involving gangsters trying to entice the child into breaking away from the kinship familial system of economic acquisition and security, and to embrace a political practice premised on self-initiating, sudden, sporadic acts of ambush.31 Given the literary constructions of children and children’s identity in relation to women and mothers in the Hebrew Bible, Yoder’s historical and narrative insight requires one to also theorize about the “child” in Proverbs as a real, if occasionally analogized, composite figure of the Persian period. In the book of Proverbs, children and families are faced with a new imperial economic system, the transformation of local spaces and establishment of new urban spaces, a heightened polyphony of authoritative voices competing for their attention, and a need to find identity in rapidly changing political and cultural settings (e.g., Prov. 8:1–8; 13:3; 25:2; 30:1–33). In these settings, children— often the addressees in Proverbs—seek financial security, but also social, emotional, and cultural belonging. They engage real human characters and spaces, but also indulge in hypothetical scenarios and abstractions; they adhere to traditions but also rebel. Proverbial children are not wholly defined by what they say; they are also defined by what they do. They are the (potential)

30

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Christine Roy Yoder, Wisdom as a Woman of Substance: A Socioeconomic Reading of Proverbs 1–9 and 31:10–31 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2001), 90. Italics original. John J. Pilch, The Cultural Life Setting of the Proverbs (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2016), 184.

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embodiments of knowledge, savoir-faire, and social identity formation in times of social stability and significant change.

Children and Proverb Performance Leo Perdue has argued that the study of wisdom literature ought to move away from “the stranglehold of idealism” that dominated much of its scholarship over the last century. Indeed, Perdue suggests: “The proper understanding of wisdom literature requires one to move out of the realm of philosophical idealism and into the realistic dimensions of history and social construction.” And the wisdom writings “reflect different and changing epistemologies, moral systems, views of God, comprehensions of human nature and religious understandings.”32 For James Crenshaw, the proverbial worldview and teaching in Proverbs 1:8–19 evoke concerns about the costs and benefits of education in the ancient Near East. In that context, the alluring sinners articulated “a compelling counter-argument, specifically that the most effective scheme for acquiring wealth was to join hands with others in using force to extract wealth from targeted victims.” And the teachings of the sage suggest that “the lure of comradery, pecuniary equality, and ready cash must have appealed to many students faced with prospects of endless competition, meager earnings, and delayed gratification.”33 Given the prominent role that mothers and personified Wisdom and Folly play in the formation of children in Proverbs, Madipoane Masenya’s exploration of the woman of substance in Proverbs 31:10–31 highlights the need to be attentive to the layers of textual constructions of women. In particular, Masenya reads the text from a post apartheid South African context, locating the Woman of Worth within the context of specific political and cultural constraints.34

32

33 34

Leo G. Perdue, The Sword and the Stylus: An Invitation to Wisdom in the Age of Empires (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 1, 3. James L. Crenshaw, Prophets, Sages, and Poets (Atlanta: Chalice, 2006), 15. Madipoane Masenya, “Proverbs 31:10–31 in a South African Context: A Reading for the Liberation of African (North Sotho) Women,” Semeia 78 (1997), 55–68. A fuller version of this research is developed in Madipoane Masenya (Ngwana’ Mphahlele), How Worthy is the Woman of Worth?: Rereading Proverbs 31:10–31 in African-South Africa (New York: Peter Lang, 2004).

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These studies about the forms, ideological contents, contexts, and functions of proverbial discourse inevitably raise questions about the imagination and portrayal of the child(ren) in Proverbs. As a working hypothesis, we will assume that the various rhetorical forms employed in proverbial wisdom do have a larger hermeneutical pattern—proverb performance. Carole Fontaine defines proverb performance as the “purposeful transmission of a saying in a social context in order to evaluate or influence outcomes.”35 Three issues are involved here: 1) the idea of purposeful transmission implies selective use of proverbs in and for particular contexts. The use of proverbs is not a random act, nor is it done in a vacuum but rather in a very thoughtful manner. Proverb performance is therefore goal-oriented in its pedagogical or didactic objective; its economy of words (i.e., its discrimination in its use of sayings) is geared towards achieving that objective; 2) the reality of a social, contextual audience that shapes and is shaped by the saying is a crucial element in proverb performance. The social norms and cultural assumptions within which participants, readers, or audience live and interact create a prerequisite foundation for the interaction, and become the basis for eventual evaluation; and 3) although the purpose of proverbial sayings is to evaluate or influence outcomes, there are instances where the audience may resist a proverb and therefore its intended goal (Prov. 26:4–5). Such rhetorical “autonomy” (the ability to resist fixed or intended meaning) suggests that one should make a distinction between intended goals and actual outcomes. As the object of the sage’s instructions in Proverbs and as the subject of proverbial discourse, the child—as a literary trope and character—represents attempts at a purposeful transmission of knowledge; a unique figure in communal exploration of changing social contexts; and the potential embodiment of un/desired communal values and identity. When one reads the biblical book of Proverbs, one is immediately struck by a sense of genuine, passionate, and even urgent desire to persuade the child. A synopsis of the proverbial world, its dynamics and rhetoric of persuasion is portrayed in the early part of the book (Prov. 1:8–19). Through its various metaphors, characterizations, personal and generic concepts, and its morally dualistic view

35

Fontaine, “Proverbs,” 103.

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with an underlying retributive doctrine, this unit engages the child in a pressing manner in attempt to persuade them not only about the worth of wisdom but also about the dangers of the alternative mode of being, symbolized by the “sinners.” The appeal is intensely personal, with the use of a host of personal pronouns (my child, your father/mother, your head, entice you, join us, etc). The proverbial world needs and (the book of Proverbs) creates an antithesis to W/wisdom, a luring presence and alternative to wisdom, a character that is potent enough to convince the child and (according to the proverbial worldview) dangerous enough to ultimately hurt them, especially when the child is unsuspecting or even naïve or stubborn. In “Liminality and Worldview in Proverbs,” Raymond van Leeuwen argues for the need to develop further research on the theme of root metaphors in Proverbs.36 Insisting that one ought to move beyond Norman Habel’s “two ways” metaphor and Claudia Camp’s “woman wisdom” as the central root metaphors of Proverbs, van Leeuwen maintains that, by themselves, these metaphors are not “basic or comprehensive enough to be the root metaphor of Proverbs 1–9.” For van Leeuwen, Proverbs 1–9 is not just interested in proposing a worldview, but a “particular Yahwistic worldview.”37 There is a protrepsis, an invitation to the young man to pursue the path of virtue and life, and oppose the path of evil and death; it is an invitation to the youth, a rite of passage into manhood.38 There is also a paraenetic aspect, aimed at reminding the sages of their worldview and to confirm the sages to that worldview. The juxtaposition of parental advice and wisdom speeches suggests that in this worldview “humans mediate archetypal Wisdom.”39 Here, “Wisdom is not merely a deified symbol of human teaching, rather ‘parental’ teaching should and can embody a deeper structure of meaning and normativity which the texts symbolize as Woman Wisdom.”40 Underlying the dualistic world and images of Proverbs is a worldview according to which “this world possesses two fundamental characteristics. First is its structure of boundaries or limits. Second is the bipolar human eros

36 37 38 39 40

Raymon van Leeuwen, “Liminality in the Worldview of Proverbs,” Semeia 50 (1990): 111–44. Ibid., 113. In this pedagogical construct, the lines between naʿar and bēn are blurred. Van Leeuwen, “Liminality,” 115. Ibid. Furthermore, “cosmic Wisdom serves to ground and legitimate human wisdom teaching” (p. 116).

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for the beauty of Wisdom, who prescribes life within limits, or for the seeming beauty of Folly, who offers bogus delights in defiance of created limits.” Accordingly, “the images of Proverbs 1–9 thus create a symbolic world of good and evil where good means staying within the prescribed religio-moral boundaries and evil means the trespassing of these limits.”41 Such boundaries are at work not just at the level of individual activity but also at the cosmic level, where divine activity ensures boundaries and justice. In instructing the child, parents warn against the “subversive paraenesis of the wicked” which has a “mythic function” and serves to increase awareness about indeterminacy of existing realities and anticipated outcomes. The simile of the sinners enticing the child constitutes a good example of “subversive protrepsis reflecting a negative rite de passage.”42 The symbol of the liminal occurs in the speech of the sinners, whose violent ambush against unsuspecting persons is likened to the activity of the netherworld, Sheol (Prov. 1:10–12). Their actions place them “on the limen not only of legitimate society, but at the very maw of death.”43

Impersonation, Personification, and the Proverbial Child The personification of qualities, attributes, and objects constituted part of the intellectual heritage of the ancient Near East/Orient from as early as the 3rd and 2nd millennium BCE.44 That such personification was concerned with questions of epistemology is evidenced by the sorts of concepts that were personified: “Authoritative Utterance” and “Understanding” (Hu and Sia); “Sight,” “Hearing,” “Intelligence,” “Destiny,” “Justice” (khettu), “Law/Right” (mesharu), Sheol, Divine Anger, the Satan, Folly, and Wisdom.45 In Proverbs, the public presentations of both Wisdom and Folly, along with their notable social positions and their similar rhetorical strategies, suggest that there may indeed be more to the proverbial world than a simple dualism might suggest.46 41 42 43 44 45 46

Ibid., 116. Ibid., 127. Ibid., 128. K. A. Kitchen, “Some Egyptian Background to the Old Testament,” TynBul 5–6 (1960): 4. Ibid., 5–6. Both Wisdom and Folly have “houses” to which they invite their guests (Prov. 9:1, 14); they both speak in loud tones (8:2; 9:13); they call to passersby to feasting (9:2, 5, 17). Further, Folly has a public seat at a high place (9:14).

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For Yoder, personification has a pedagogical function: it is “a literary device used not just by the final sage, but also by the instructor father. In other words, personification is a pedagogical tool of the father.”47 The same could be said of the impersonation of Sheol; it is also a pedagogical tool used by the father/ mother. Although the book of Proverbs is framed by Wisdom and the Woman of Worth (Prov. 1–9 and 31:10–31), the framing of chapters 1–9 is slightly complicated by the presence of characters that are the polar opposite of Wisdom and the Woman of Worth. These characters constitute the layering of the proverbial world that frames Proverbs 1–9. On the outermost layer, there are the impersonators of Sheol and Folly (1:10–19 and 9:13–18), representing a world of violence and death. That is the world into which the children of Wisdom enter, struggle, and live. The portrait of these characters is that they are both interested in ill-gotten wealth, treasures, and pleasures; and their actions are closely associated with Sheol. On the inner layer, there is personified Wisdom (1:20–33 and 9:1–6) who seeks to provide new ways of life and living, both to the individual and to the entire cosmos. It is in the context of such a world that one understands the lectures by Wisdom and about Wisdom, and therefore the place and function of the child in the world of Proverbs. As literary constructs, impersonation and personification accomplish two things. First, they create cognitive, emotive, and evaluative analogies between experiential knowledge (rooted in traditions and handed down through the parents) and hypothetical/imaginative knowledge. The child is subjected to the development, preservation, and assessment of both forms of knowledge at home and beyond. Second, impersonation and personification give epistemology and pedagogy their complex human and social character, played out both at home and in the public arena. The child of the proverbial world is faced with the topsy-turvy world of boundary-making and boundarytransgressing, and the effects of that reality in identity formation and cultural persistence. The proverbial world is, in that sense, bold, dogmatic and engaging, even demanding unequivocal loyalty from the child (e.g., “Give your heart

47

Yoder, Wisdom as Woman of Substance, 101.

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to me!”; Prov. 23:26). At the same time, the proverbial world acts more like catalysts that spur the child into different actions than like anesthesia that numbs the child into a single position or mindset (26:4–5). Proverbs bind and set free the child at the same time. Through personification and impersonation, such work of identity construction becomes simultaneously generic and specific. And the child becomes generic and specific as well. In the context of the impersonation of Sheol, proverbial wisdom makes a powerful demand of the child. The short simile about mythical death and its impersonation by the “sinners” serves as a deterrent to the child, and seeks to reinforce and give rationality to the imperative commands and urgent admonitions within this portion of the text (Prov. 1:8 “hear!” “do not reject!”; 1:10b “do not yield!”; 1:15 “do not walk in their ways!”). The rest of the poem focuses on reasons why the child should adhere to these instructions. The first is a brief description of the value of wisdom as a fair garland and a pendant (1:9). The second and more elaborate rhetoric of persuasion presents the voices of “sinners” that the child encounters—their objectives, their strategy, and their projected benefits. To counter such claims, the sage develops a pedagogical strategy in which proverbial sayings have (or claim to have) the ability to see the end from the beginning.48 With such narrative hindsightforesight, this proverbial simile collapses mythology and social activity into episodes with retributive undertones that the child can reflect on and effectively respond to. The simile is both revealing and concealing: it reveals the destructive character of ethical and social injustice, and thus the need to avoid such actions; but it also conceals the sheer danger that Sheol culturally represents by giving Sheol a human face. The survival of the child in this worldview depends not on a series of do’s and don’t’s, but largely on a vigorous effort by Wisdom to persuade the child into acting in her way, in the hopes of achieving enhanced life.

48

This strategy of hindsight-foresight is also present in other biblical texts, including Eccl. 7:8; Job 8:4; 42:10; Isa. 42. Significantly, in all these instances where the end and the beginning are brought together and serve as an interpretive framework, there is also a sense in which the “end” is better than the beginning, suggesting thereby that between the beginning and the end, there is some form of dynamism and progress. Paradoxically, this “closed” system also leaves room for ambiguity and uncertainty, even as it attempts to create a coherent and unified system of beliefs and human responses.

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The Tenuous Cultural and Socioeconomic Status of Children in Proverbs John Carroll notes that children embody the hope of their families, communities, and a meaningful future.49 This is true of the children of Proverbs, particularly the children and youth envisioned and engaged in Proverbs 1–9. Within a patriarchal structure, these children appear to be from “relatively privileged circumstances” and deal with scenarios where access to secure socioeconomic status and quality of life itself is a matter of endeavor; and where wisdom, wealth, insight, love, can be found if the children apply themselves, not just intellectually but also emotionally and socio-ethically.50 Thus by impersonating mythical Sheol, the “sinners” ultimately become their own worst enemies as Sheol “takes away the life it possesses” or “the life of its master” (Prov. 1:19). Similarly, those that listen to Folly’s promise to her audience that “stolen water is sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant” (9:17), are portrayed as being without knowledge, the consequence of which is death, Sheol (9:18). In contrast, Wisdom presents herself as the possessor of material rewards and as the tree of life itself (3:18). The personalities and themes that frame Proverbs 1–9 resonate with the Garden of Eden story. The world of proverbial wisdom (Prov. 1–9) is a recasting of the Garden of Eden: it has mythical features, invitations to eat food, warnings against certain pursuits, powerful personalities representing good and evil, and at the center of it all, the question of acquiring and using knowledge. Through personification and impersonation, the sages recreate the mythical, folkloric world of the Genesis text about human acquisition of knowledge (Gen. 3:22). This time, though, the sages allow humans access to the tree of life—through personification of Wisdom. Like the mythical world of Genesis, the socioeconomic status of mothers/ fathers in Proverbs impacts that of the child—including livelihood, placement for inheritance, value, chances of surviving, and honor/shame statuses. Within this patriarchal system, male children inherit family property, which explains why the teacher and parent consistently teach the son to marry a wise wife,

49 50

John T. Carroll, “Children in the Bible,” Int 55, no. 2 (2001): 124. Christine Roy Yoder, “Shaping Desire: A Parent’s Attempt,” JP 33, no. 4 (2010): 54–61, esp. 55.

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who is not contentious. These connections between children, spouses, and inheritances are made evident in Proverbs 19:13–14: “A stupid child is ruin to a father, and a wife’s quarreling is a continual dripping of rain. House and wealth are inherited from parents, but a prudent wife is from the Lord.” Children play an essential economic role in the book of Proverbs, as their hard work is critical to individual and communal survival.51 Children are assessed on the basis of their economic initiative or lack thereof. Proverbs 10:5 reads, “a child who gathers in summer is prudent, but a child who sleeps in harvest brings shame.” However, the social value of honor and shame determines the flexible and changeable position of the child within the socioeconomic structure of patriarchy in Proverbs. As William Brown notes, the closest social equivalent to children are slaves, persons that are relegated to the lowest social rung in opposite to a king.52 Within this structure, there is a potential overturning of the socioeconomic hierarchy; slaves can be elevated over a child (bēn) when the latter fails to embody wisdom. As Proverbs 17:2 states, “a slave who deals wisely will rule over a child who acts shamefully, and will share the inheritance as one of the family.” This means that “social location is not simply a matter of birth and inheritance; it depends also on conduct and character.”53 Since children’s value includes their present and future economic and cultural contributions, education in the homes and eventual wisdom schools becomes a means for children to transition from naïve and deficient individuals to lucid, knowledgeable, and economically productive and secure beings. With the expectation of children assuming productive roles within socioeconomic, religious and political systems, enculturation through education helps children become more predictable and reliable adults, with promises of honor and status with families and the wider culture. Throughout Proverbs, it is clear that children’s actions can reflect either honor or shame on their parents. A “foolish” child is his mother’s grief (Prov. 10:1), despises his mother (15:20), is grief to his father and bitterness to her who

51

52

53

Katherine J. Dell, “Proverbs,” in The Oxford Encyclopedia of the Books of the Bible, ed. Michael D. Coogan (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 188. William P. Brown, “To Discipline without Destruction: The Multifaceted Profile of the Child in Proverbs,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Marcia J. Bunge, Terence E. Fretheim, and Beverly Roberts Gaventa (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 66. Ibid., 66.

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bore him (17:25), is ruin to a father (19:13) and brings his mother shame (29:15). All of these actions reflect the shame that parents endure as a result of having a foolish child. Robert von Thaden adds that in wisdom literature, children are related to blessings and good fortune. Teachings demonstrate that, on the one hand, cursing parents (20:20), disrespect for parents (30:11), robbing parents (28:24), abuse of position (30:21–23), bribery (21:14), improper treatment of neighbors (14:21), and pride (16:5) are signs of unrighteous living and thus foolish. On the other hand, honoring parents (23:22), heeding instruction (13:13), showing humility (18:12), having integrity (20:7), saying prayers (15:29), and obtaining wisdom, knowledge and understanding (2:10–12) are signs and rewards for righteous living. As such, von Thaden argues that children become efficient conceptual ways to organize religious rhetoric that aims to demonstrate or argue for righteous living, which becomes a symbol for embodying wisdom.54 The book of Proverbs further illuminates anxieties over the potential roles that children grow into and the attributes they develop. Evidence of this tension is seen in the contrast between the foolish child (Prov. 15:5, 17:25, 19:13) and the wise child (10:1, 15:20). In addition, children evoke and organize typical worries about life, including foolishness, bad manners, disrespecting parents, neglecting the law, and oppressing the poor and the widow. Von Thaden underscores that although Proverbs reasons that instruction and discipline through beatings will produce a wise child, the anticipated outcome is not always certain. Despite one’s instruction and discipline, some children continue to act foolishly. Therefore, while there is hope that children will produce positive value as conduits of wisdom, there is constant fear that children will do the opposite and embody negative values.55

Children, Education, and Discipline There is much debate about the meaning of discipline and its usage in the Proverbs. Leo Purdue argues that mûsār, translated as “discipline,” is “education 54

55

Robert H. von Thaden, Jr. “Bad Children, Children as Bad: Problematic Children from Proverbs to Acts of Thomas and Beyond,” Proceedings: Eastern Great Lakes and Midwestern Biblical Societies 28 (2008): 68. Ibid., 69.

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that includes both course of study embodied in teachings or instructions and the moral formation of character.”56 Moreover, discipline, study, and formation lead to sagehood, the wise person’s successful integration of knowledge, character, action, and speech.57 However, mûsār can translate as discipline, instruction, or chastisement, with verbal and or physical implications. For example, Proverbs 13:1 reads, “A wise child loves the discipline of the father; but a scoffer has never heard a reproof.” The contrast here between the wise child and the scoffer turns on the father’s application of discipline, which one must assume is verbal, given the use of “heard” in the verse as well as reference to speech in the next verse. David Carr rightly argues that ancient scribal education is both the acquisition of a skill and enculturation into a particular worldview.58 In other words, scribal teachers indoctrinate pupils on how to participate in and maneuver through society based on the understandings and behaviors that worked for them and previous generations. As such, education in the home serves to provide a foundation for teachings within wisdom schools. Teachings, instructions, and wisdom in both domestic and public contexts reinforce the wider cultural norms and expectations. Through the process of education, children learn the elements of culture. This serves to initiate the children into the ways of the society by teaching them the traditions. What results is transmission through education, memorization, and recitation of cultural values that ensure the continuation of the narratives of a mythic past, the cultural identity, and the values themselves. Carr states that this process of transmission and recollection is “cultural memory.”59 The process of cultural memory transmission reveals that not only do children in the ancient sociocultural context have socio-economic value, but they have practical value as well, for the endurance and sustainment of their community. Teachers and parents envision children as the mode by which they can perpetuate and reproduce themselves. Significantly, verbal repetition plays a key role in the book of Proverbs. Numerous times, the teacher commands the child to listen and accept his/her words as a means of

56 57 58

59

Leo Perdue, Proverbs, IBC (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2000), 9. Ibid. David M. Carr, Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 20. Ibid., 20.

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maintaining honor because rejecting these words and failing to do what is taught dishonors the teacher. The teacher says to the student repetitively, “Listen to me” (Prov. 4:1; 5:7; 7:24; 8:32); “be attentive” (4:1; 4:20; 5:1; 7:24); “hear, my child” (1:8; 4:10; 23:19); and “do not forget” (3:1; 4:5). Repetition becomes a form of discipline. Elsewhere, discipline is associated with physical force, where mûsār appears along with šēbet.—a rod or stick for punishment.60 Hence, “those who spare the rod hate their children, but those who love them are diligent to discipline them” (Prov. 13:24); and “The rod and reproof give wisdom, but a mother is disgraced by a neglected child” (29:15). The use of šēbet. in conjunction with tôkah.at (argument, reproof, chiding) in Proverbs 29:15 suggests that discipline includes verbal instructions as well as physical and verbal chastisement. Physical punishment from parents is sometimes framed as an act of love. Proverbs 13:24 reads, “Those who spare the rod hate their children, but those who love them are diligent to discipline them.” The failure to discipline suggests that the parents and teachers do not care about or even despise their children. The practice of physical discipline is also framed as a salvific act, “If you beat them with the rod, you will save their lives from Sheol” (Prov. 23:14). Additionally, this type of punishment is said to be the type of discipline that God exercises and is thus validated: “My child, do not despise the Lord’s discipline, or be weary of his reproof, for the Lord reproves the one he loves, as a father the son in whom he delights” (3:11–12). Douglas K. Stuart maintains that such proverbs serve as a warning about the dangers of letting children have their own way, making their own decisions, and not disciplining them.61 However, Proverbs delineates only two ways for the child to follow: the way of the wise and the way of the foolish. This claim is supported in Proverbs 23:19, “Hear, my child, and be wise, and direct your mind in the way.” This proverb recognizes and endorses the teacher’s way, which is the way of the wise and is rooted in the construction of foolish children in need of wise adult education. In this generalized abstraction of the foolish child, there is no attention to children’s individuality or decisions. The child’s way is framed as the way of the fool, and thus dishonorable to parents and teachers, and with

60 61

The rod afflicts men in Lam. 3:1; the people are smitten with a rod upon the cheek in Mic. 5:1. Stuart, “ ‘The Cool of the Day,’ ” 271.

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the potential to transgress socio-cultural norms that parents/teachers desire to preserve, including through physical discipline. However, framing discipline in terms of love, salvation and as an imitation of divine discipline masks the coercive nature of the teachers’ and parents’ actions.

Conclusion The children of Proverbs and proverbial children are intriguing and multivalent characters. They are conceptualized and placed within various ideologically gendered, political, economic, religious, epistemological, and pedagogical landscapes. More specifically, as objects of the parent’s teaching and instruction, and as subjects of proverbial discourse, children in Proverbs occupy a liminal space between Folly and Wisdom, between injustice and justice, between shame and honor, between knowing and unknowing, between life and death. Placed in traditional homes, in urbanized street corners, and in the mythical world of Sheol and creation, children in Proverbs occupy an important rhetorical and epistemological space, and play a key role in proverbial performance. It is assumed that children’s actions will determine not just the moral and social landscape of the community, but also the religious and economic status of multiple generations. The teacher in Proverbs makes repeated appeals to the child to engage in the pursuit of Wisdom, to resist the allures of Folly, to embark on actions that ensure social justice, and that advance a particular religious and ideological stance. That is, the proverbial sage’s appeals—in the form of specific injunctions or hypothetical scenarios—set the children of Proverbs in familial and strange contexts. The child is summoned to engage that reality in ways and language that is familiar, familial (e.g., Prov. 7:4: “say to Wisdom, ‘You are my sister,’ and call Understanding a kinswoman”), and unfamiliar and speculative (e.g., Prov. 30:1–4). Through the literary and rhetorical modes of impersonation (of Sheol) and personification (of Wisdom and Folly), the book of Proverbs presents its children with mythologized and perhaps historicized characters that represent dualistic approaches to life. The children are perhaps composite characters of the Persian period, defined not just by the little they say but also by what they hear and do. They are the literary embodiments of knowledgeseekers, and thus active and crucial participants in proverbs performance.

8

God as a Child in the Hebrew Bible? Playing with the Possibilities Julie Faith Parker

The 2014 Bible-based movie, Exodus: Gods and Kings, was a big flop at the domestic box office. Twentieth Century Fox studios and the film’s director, Ridley Scott, came to discover what Darren Aronofsky, the director of the movie Noah, had also learned. Production studios need to be aware that the portrayal of God is a highly theological (and potentially controversial) choice that easily runs the risk of offending potential viewers (who then do not buy movie tickets). In Noah, God (called “the Creator”) never speaks or responds to any of the world’s perils. Indeed, God’s form onscreen is absence. In Exodus: Gods and Kings the portrayal of God merited a New York Times article devoted to this subject.1 In the movie, God is a child.2 This article explores potential portrayals of God as a child within the Hebrew Bible. The evidence, admittedly, is slim, leading me to play with the possibility of finding God as a child in this literary corpus, perhaps like a game of hide and seek. Four texts are the loci of this discussion as possible places to encounter a childlike divine image. First, I will briefly mention a reference in 1 Kings 19:12, which is cited in the Times article mentioned above as an example of God as a child in the Hebrew Bible, and explain why this interpretation is tenuous. Most of this article explores the interpretive possibilities of Genesis 1:26–27 and

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2

Michael Cieply and Brooks Barnes, “And a Little Child Shall Lead Them: ‘Exodus: Gods and Kings’ Portrays the Deity as a Boy,” New York Times, November 18, 2014, https://www.nytimes.com/2014/ 11/29/movies/exodus-gods-and-kings-portrays-the-deity-as-a-boy.html?_r=1. The part of God is played by a small boy with blond curly hair, Isaac Andrews, who speaks with calm authority in a slight British accent. In the Times article, Ridley Scott praises the boy’s “eerie ability to mix innocence with command.” Ibid.

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Psalm 10:14, followed by a shorter discussion of Proverbs 8:30.3 Mimicking the way children move from one activity to the next, I will vary the approaches of this chapter. This article includes a brief semantic discussion; an extensive list of named children in Genesis; a sad, imagined fantasy narrative; an original translation of Psalm 10; a short philological exploration of Proverbs 8:30a; and concluding observations. In this way, the structure of the article seeks to mirror its intent: to skip among texts that explore the possible images of God as a child in the Hebrew Bible. The goals are to expand the ways in which we might undertake childist biblical interpretation and show the philological, genealogical, and theological implications when we seriously consider the presence of children in the text, even in deity form.

“A Still Small Voice”? A Small Possibility In the Times article on Exodus: God and Kings (mentioned above), the response from a conservative Christian marketer and an established Jewish Studies scholar were similar: to portray God as a child in the Hebrew Bible has no biblical basis. The only passage that the scholar, Dr. Gary Rendsburg of Rutgers University, cited that might approach such an image of God was 1 Kings 19:12, in which God speaks to Elijah as a qôl dәmāmâ daqqâ or a “still, small, voice” (ASV). On the one hand, seeing God as a child through this phrase seems an intriguing possibility. The final adjective, daqqâ (thin, fine, small), has multiple Semitic cognates that suggest a child, as daqīq means “child” in Syriac, Arabic, and Ethiopic, as well as the Samaritan Pentateuch, and the Jewish Aramaic of Targumic tradition.4 The phrase in Hebrew might also invite gender-bending interpretations, with the juxtaposition of a masculine noun (qôl: voice, sound, noise) with a feminine noun (dәmāmâ: whisper).5 The image of God found

3

4 5

For discussion of “Children and the Image of God” see W. Sibley Towner’s valuable article by this title in The Child in the Bible, ed. Marcia J. Bunge, Terence E. Fretheim, and Beverly Roberts Gaventa (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 307–23. Towner explores the implications of Gen. 1:26–27 and the understanding of children as inherently in God’s image. The discussion of this verse in this article takes a different tack by exploring the implications of seeing the image of God genealogically extended throughout the families of Genesis. HALOT 1:229. HALOT 2:1083–85; HALOT 1:226.

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through these words then offers a widely inclusive metaphor with characteristics that correspond to humans but transcend restrictions of gender and age. Yet to see God as a child in 1 Kings 19:12 also seems tenuous because of the polyvalent nuances of these terms. The form of God that visits Elijah after the whirlwind is not necessarily human. While qôl often translates as “voice,” this relatively common word can also be rendered as “sound” or “noise,” which can come from an innumerable range of sources besides people, let alone children. Translations of this phrase may suggest pure quiet (NRSV: a sound of sheer silence) or a natural phenomenon (NAS: a sound of a gentle blowing; NJPS: a soft murmuring sound). In 1 Kings 19:13, Elijah does hear a qôl (voice) that speaks to him, but only after he has left the place inside the cave where he had experienced the qôl dәmāmâ daqqâ. For these reasons, to build the case that God is a child in 1 Kings 19:12 feels precarious. Instead, I turn to other verses that merit consideration. The God of the Hebrew Bible is, of course, ostensibly aniconic, resisting classification, depiction, or embodiment in one form.6 Although the Hebrew Bible provides a wide range of inanimate and animate metaphors for God, many people commonly envision God as a man. The Hebrew Bible promotes a male image of God through masculine pronouns and verb forms used in relation to the deity. For modern, Western readers, this androcentric conception of God is further bolstered and narrowed by abundant portrayals of the Bible’s star deity as a hoary, authoritative, light-skinned, bearded, assumed-to-beheterosexual man. God often adopts a parental role in relation to Israel. Indeed, readers of the Hebrew Bible might easily imagine God taking on the role of the ultimate “helicopter parent” who follows their child (Israel) constantly and monitors the child’s every move.7 Explicit references to God as father, however, are relatively rare in the Hebrew Bible, appearing only in a handful of references.8 Images for God as mother are also sprinkled throughout the 6

7

8

This aniconism is challenged, however, through material items that do not contain the divine but clearly denote the deity’s presence, such as the mas.s.ēbôt (standing stones), bāmôt (high places), and ͗ărôn habәrît (the ark of the covenant). For further discussion, see Stephen L. Herring, Divine Substitution: Humanity as the Manifestation of Deity in the Hebrew Bible and the Ancient Near East (FRLANT 247; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013), 54–73. Herring includes discussion of ͗ašērîm (cultic trees/poles), likely used for venerating the goddess Asherah, not YHWH; see pp. 63–67. For detailed discussion of God’s parental role in relation to Israel, see Brent A. Strawn, “ ‘Israel, My Child’: The Ethics of a Biblical Metaphor” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., 103–40. See Deut. 32:6; Isa. 63:16 [2x], 64:8; Jer. 3:4; 31:9; Mal. 1:6; 2:10.

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Hebrew Bible, providing some counter to YHWH’s presumed maleness.9 Yet portrayals of God as a child are hard to find. However, exploring the possibilities and extending the implications of Genesis 1:26–27, Psalm 10:14, and Proverbs 8:30 reveals some intriguing options.

Genesis 1:26–27 and a Child-Filled Lineage ‫ויאמר אלהים נעשה אדם בצלמנו כדמותנו‬26 ‫וירדו בדגת הים ובעוף השמים ובבהמה ובכל־הארץ ובכל־הרמש הרמש על־הארץ׃‬ ‫ויברא אלהים את־האדם בצלמו בצלם אלהים ברא אתו‬27 ‫זכר ונקבה ברא אתם׃‬ 26

Then God said, “Let us make a human being in our image and according to our likeness, and let them rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the heaven and the beasts and all the earth and all the creeping things that creep upon the earth.” 27 So God created the human in his image; in the image of God he created him: male and female he created them.10

What does it mean to be created “in the image of God”? This question has provided a font for theological reflection far beyond the scope of this chapter.11 Of interest here are the childist implications of this metaphor of God in human form. Humans’ rule over the land and creatures takes place through God’s multiplied image on earth, which hinges on the procreation of children. The book of Genesis teems with references to offspring as a group and to children as individuals whose innumerable presence is then critical to human dominion and therefore the fulfilling of the deity’s intention for creation, according to the Priestly writer.

9

10 11

See maternal metaphors for God in Num. 11:12; Deut. 32:18; Ps. 131:2; Isa. 42:13–14; 46:3–4; 66:12–13; Hos. 11:3–4. All translations are mine unless noted otherwise. As Strawn points out, the phrase “in the image of God” appears only a few times in the text (see Gen. 1:26–27; 5:3; 9:6) and remains unexplained, opening its meaning to prolific interpretation. See Brent A. Strawn, “The Image of God: Comparing the Old Testament with Other Ancient Near Eastern Cultures” in Iconographic Exegesis of the Hebrew Bible/Old Testament: An Introduction to Its Method and Practice, ed. Izaaak J. de Hulster, Brent A. Strawn, Ryan P. Bonfiglio (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2015), 66. For resources that review the history of scholarship on the meaning of imago Dei, see Herring, Divine Substitution, 88–89, fn. 1.

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In ancient Near Eastern thought, a deity’s presence was made known through its image (s.elem), as seen in Genesis 1:27.12 Referring to Mesopotamian texts, Zinab Bahrani explains that the Akkadian cognate s.almu suggests a “mode of presencing.”13 The image recreates the referent’s presence in the world (usually that of a king or deity), thereby extending its influence.14 The image (s.elem, s.almu) is similar but not the same as the one represented. Michel Foucault explains,“The similar develops in series that have neither beginning nor end, that can be followed in one direction as easily as in another, that obey no hierarchy, but propagate themselves from small differences among small differences.”15 Foucault further observes, “similitude serves repetition.”16 Yet the s.elem goes beyond expressing presence through expanded representation. Stephen Herring suggests that “the image . . . [is] actually empowered to accomplish tasks.”17 God’s image in humans, as presented in Genesis 1:26, is empowered to accomplish the task of ruling creation. This action is not only fulfilled by Adam and Eve, but by their progeny who then people the earth. For God’s form to continue in the world, children are necessary. More specifically, God’s image appears in the world through Adam’s genealogy as continued through the line of Seth in Genesis 5:3.18 ‫ויחי אדם שלשים ומאת שנה ויולד בדמותו כצלמו‬ ‫ויקרא את־שמו שת׃‬ When Adam had lived one hundred thirty years, he begot [a son] in his likeness, according to his image, and he called his name Seth. 12

13

14

15

16 17 18

Genesis 1:26 can also be read as a response to Ezek. 1:26. See Mark S. Smith, The Origins of Biblical Monotheism: Israel’s Polytheistic Background and the Ugaritic Texts (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 171. Zainab Bahrani, The Graven Image: Representation in Babylonia and Assyria (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003), 137. Towner, citing J. Richard Middleton, notes the democratization of the “image of God” in Israelite tradition vs. other ANE cultures, which saw only those with great power and wealth as conveying a divine image. Towner, “Children and the Image of God,” 318–19. Michel Foucault, This is Not a Pipe, trans. James Harkness (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982), 44. Ibid. Herring, Divine Substitution, 117. As Robert Wilson explains, Adam’s lineage must continue through Seth since Cain has been “cursed from the ground” (Gen. 4:11–12) after killing his brother, Abel. The biblical writer (here, P) then portrays Seth as Adam’s firstborn (and only) son in Gen. 5:3, leading to the subsequent genealogy that populates the earth. Robert R. Wilson, Genealogy and History in the Biblical World, YNER 7 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1977), 165.

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The phrase in Genesis 5:3a “in his likeness, according to his image” echoes Genesis 1:26a “in his image, according to his likeness” with a subtle shift. The word order and prepositions have been switched. Humans are “in the image” of the deity (preposition: ‫ )ב‬in Genesis 1:26a, and Seth is “according to the image” of Adam (preposition: ‫ )כ‬in Genesis 5:3a. As Randall Garr explains, the ‫ ב‬preposition in Genesis 5:3 (‫בדמותו‬: “in his likeness”) involves location and various forms of proximity. The ‫ כ‬preposition (‫כצלמו‬: “according to his image”) “marks similarity as well as separation.”19 This change in prepositions can be read to suggest that the image of a person is closer to the deity (humans are “in” the image of God; Gen. 1:26a) than the image of a child to a parent (Seth is “according to” the image of Adam; Gen. 5:3a). The image of the deity retains its presence through children, first through humanity in general and then embodied in Seth and his lineage. Children expand the deity’s representation by populating the earth. Providing documentation of the prevalence of children in the text, the chart below lists named children in Genesis, stemming from the lineage of Seth in the text’s narrative trajectory. The angels and messengers who come forth on behalf of God in Genesis are not described as being in the s.elem of God. This role belongs to humans. Babies and then children become the powerful theological vehicle by which the image of God continuously breaks into creation.

The Image of God Made Manifest through the Presence of Children in Genesis While every person in the Bible has presumably entered the world as a child (save Adam and Eve), readers do not usually first encounter the person as a baby. Yet more characters enter the text as youngsters than generally noticed by readers, as evidenced by the many children found in Genesis (below). The challenge is determining who is a child in the text since this task resists clear categorization.20 This next section outlines who might be considered a child in

19

W. Randall Garr, In His Own Image and Likeness: Humanity, Divinity, and Monotheism, CHANE 15 (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 111.

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Genesis, then provides a list of the named children discovered using these criteria. The foremost indicator of youth in the text is context: How does a character enter a story? Is this person given a name? By whom? How do the other actors in the story interact with this character? What agency does the person have? How does the narrator describe her or him? Such questions might reveal the presence of a child. Examining the context is especially useful when the words that signal the presence of a young person can also apply to relational status, such as “child” (yeled). (English has the same ambiguity.) When a young person acts as a responsible adult and bears a child herself, the character is omitted in the list of children below. However, when a young person has not yet had children, gotten married, or seems parentally dependent, the name of the character is included. Another critical clue as to whether or not the character can be considered a child is vocabulary. Words that suggest very young children stem from roots that connote nursing (῾ōlēl, yōnēq), dependency (t.ap), or weaning (gāmûl). The relational terms ben/bat (son/daughter), yeled/yaldâ (child, male or female, respectively), ͗ āh./ ͗āh.ôt (brother/sister), bәkōr, bәkîrâ (firstborn, male or female, respectively) often suggest children, but not necessarily. Qualifying adjectives, such as qātōn/qәtannâ and s.āîr/s.әîrâ (little, masculine and feminine forms, respectively) may help to indicate a young person. The words na῾ar/na῾ărâ bear connotations of youth and servitude; when context suggests an adult, the reference is omitted in the list below (e.g., Gen. 14:24). Conversely, when these terms refer to someone who is youthful in context (e.g., Gen. 37:2), the character is listed. When context suggests the person could be both a youth and a servant (e.g. in Gen. 22:3–5 where the word na῾ar describes both those serving Abraham and the boy, Isaac), the text allows for the possibility that this term is referring to someone young. An older youth might be noted as a bәtûlâ

20

Kristine Henriksen Garroway’s article in this volume, “Methodology: Who Is a Child and Where Do We Find Children in the Ancient Near East?” offers a thorough discussion as to how scholars might determine who is considered a child in the ancient Near East. Here I focus on finding children through literary context. I also build on Garroway’s work by playing out the ramifications of her notation that Cain enters the world as a baby. Extending the implications of this observation, we discover many other offspring in Genesis whose names can also designate children.

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(young woman, virgin), bāh.ûr (young man), ῾elem (male youth), or ῾almâ (female youth). The term zera῾ refers to offspring, who may appear in the text as children. A child without a family, or in some attestations simply lacking fathers (discussion below), is a called a yatôm (orphan). When one of these words, often with gender connotations, indicates the presence of a young person, it appears in the chart. However, not all of the terms that portray children or youth are found in Genesis. Genealogies pose a challenge. Every name indicates someone born to someone else, thus an infant (at one point). This list includes the names from genealogies or introductions to a person when the mother is mentioned, saying that she conceived (tahar) or bore (tēled) a specific child. (If the mother has been mentioned in conjunction with one of these verbs, siblings are listed.) Verbs associated with birth conjure a fleeting image of a baby, so the child is listed by name. Children introduced as “firstborn” are included since this word conveys birth order, and thus birth, connoting infancy. However, if this firstborn is grown in context, the name is excluded. Sons or daughters that are named outside a genealogy appear on the list below to retain the possibility that these names refer to children, since the text does not specify their age. Given demographic realities about the early ages at which many people died in the ancient world, the likelihood that names indicate someone young is greater than generally assumed.21 This chart then bears out the implications of how a human being enters the world as the s.elem of God. Due to space constraints, this list provides only named children, since their presence looms larger than anonymous children. The list of unnamed children is more extensive than the list that follows below, further revealing the prevalence of children in Genesis. Creation’s promise of proliferation in the deity’s image is then fulfilled through the multiplication of the text’s abundant children, both male and female. When helpful, I include a

21

Andrew Chamberlain notes that in cultures with short life expectancies, a third to a half of the population is comprised of children. “Minor Concerns: A Demographic Perspective on Children in Past Societies,” in Children and Material Culture, ed. Joanna Sofaer Derevenski (London: Routledge, 2000), 207. Chamberlain further asserts that children were “the predominant group of individuals in most past societies.” Andrew T. Chamberlain, “Commentary: Missing Stage of Life—Towards the Perception of Children in Archaeology,” in Invisible People and Processes: Writing Gender and Childhood into European Archaeology, ed. Jenny Moore and Eleanor Scott (London: Leicester University Press, 1997), 250.

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phrase that explains how the child character appears in the text. This compilation highlights subjects for possible further childist scholarship, while testifying to the strong presence of children and youth in the Bible’s opening book.

Named Children and Youth in Genesis22 Table  8.1 shows children as the manifestation of God’s image in Genesis, descending from Adam and Eve through the line of Seth and the families of Israel’s twelve tribes. Bible readers imagine the first human beings as adults, perhaps associating Genesis 1:26–27 with Genesis 2:23, where the newly created beings are labeled î͗ š (man) and ʾîššâ (woman).Yet in Genesis 1:27, the vocabulary suggests no expectation of a set stage in life. The first humans are zākār (male) and nәqebâ (female), the same gendered language used to categorize animals (e.g., Gen. 6:19; 7:2, 3, 9, 16) and babies (Gen. 17:12: Lev. 12:2, 5, 7). Children are equally created in the image of God and indeed are the vehicle by which the image of God enters into the world. While God does not take the explicit form of a child in Genesis, this long list of children and youth shows their strong presence and critical role in manifesting and multiplying God’s image.

Table 8.1 Named Children in Genesis 4:1 4:2 4:1–16 4:17 4:20 4:21 4:22 4:22 4:25 10:15

Cain, son of Adam and Eve Abel, son of Adam and Eve story of Cain and Abel (as youth?) Enoch, son of Cain and his wife Jabal, son of Lamech and Adah Jubal, son of Lamech and Adah Tubal-cain, son of Lamech and Zillah Naamah, daughter of Lamech and Zillah Seth, son of Adam and Eve Sidon, firstborn of Canaan

male male male male male male female male male (continued)

22

Versification for this list follows the Hebrew (MT). Hebrew nouns appear in the absolute state for consistency, and are not transliterated according to form for a particular attestation.

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Table 8.1 (Continued) 16:11, 15, 16 17:15–21 vv. 19, 21 18:9–15 19:37 19:38 21:2–8 21:9–13 21:9–20

Ishmael, son of Abraham and Hagar Birth of Isaac foretold Isaac named birth of Isaac foretold Moab, son of Lot and his oldest daughter Benammi, son of Lot and his younger daughter Isaac born, named, circumcised, weaned, celebrated Sarah’s concern over Isaac’s inheritance Ishmael (not named in this passage)

vv. 9, 10, 11, 13 vv. 12, 17 [2x], 18, 19, 20 vv. 14, 15, 16 22:2–19 Isaac, sacrifice by Abraham vv. 2, 3, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 12, 13, 16 vv. 5, 12 22:24 children of Reumah and Nahor: Tebah Gaham, Maacah,1 Tahash 24:36 reference to Isaac’s birth 22:20–23 sons of Milcah and Nahor: Uz, Buz, Kemuel, Chesed, Hazo, Pildash, Jidlaph, Bethuel 22:23 Rebekah, daughter of Bethuel 24:14–60 Rebekah, bride sought for Isaac vv. 14, 16, 28, 55, 57 vv. 16 vv. 23, 24, 47 [2x], 48 vv. 30, 59, 60 v. 43 25:2 children of Abraham and Keturah: Zimran, Jokshan, Medan, Midian, Ishbak, Shuah 25:13 Nebaioth, firstborn of Ishmael (other sons of Ishmael also named in v. 13) 1

male male

male male

ben na῾ar yeled ben na῾ar male, female

male

female na῾ărâ bәtûlâ bat āh.ôt ῾almâ male

male

Maacah is likely a girl’s name (e.g., 2 Sam. 3:3; 1 Kgs 15:2, 10, 13; 1 Chron. 2:48; 3:2; 7:15–16; 8:29).

God as a Child in the Hebrew Bible? 25:25 25:26 25:27 29:6 29:16, 18 29:32

29:33

29:34

29:35

30:5–6 30:7–8

30:10–11

30:12–13

30:14–16 vv. 14, 15 [2x], 16 30:17–18

30:19–20

30:21

30:23–24 33:2, 7 34:1–31

Esau Jacob Jacob and Esau as youth (?) na῾ar Rachel, daughter of Laban Rachel as a youth (?) qәtannâ Reuben, first son of Jacob and Leah (the children of Reuben are named in 46:9) Simeon, son of Jacob and Leah (the children of Simeon are named in 46:10) Levi, son of Jacob and Leah (the children of Levi are named in 46:11) Judah, son of Jacob and Leah (the children of Judah are named in 46:12) Dan, son of Jacob and Bilhah (child of Dan named in 46:23) Naphtali, son of Jacob and Bilhah (children of Naphtali named in 46:24) Gad, son of Jacob and Zilpah (the children of Gad are named in 46:16) Asher, son of Jacob and Zilpah (the children of Asher are named in 46:17, including a daughter, Serah) Reuben as a youth (?) finds mandrakes ben Issachar, son of Jacob and Leah (the children of Issachar are named in 46:13) Zebulun, son of Jacob and Leah (the children of Zebulun are named in 46:14) Dinah, daughter of Jacob and Leah (Dinah also mentioned in 46:15) Joseph, son of Jacob and Rachel Joseph Dinah, rape by Shechem

165 male male male female female male

male

male

male

male male

male

male

male

male

female

male

(continued)

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Table 8.1 (Continued) vv. 1, 3, 5, 7, 8, 17, 19

bat

vv. 3, 12

na῾ărâ

vv. 4

yaldâ

vv. 13, 14, 27, 31

āh.ôt

34:1–26 vv. 2, 8, 20, 24, 26 v. 19 35:17–18 35:18 36:4 36:4 36:5

Shechem, son of Hamor the Hivite prince

male ben (as a youth?) na῾ar

Ben-oni (name from Rachel) Benjamin (name from Jacob) Eliphaz, son of Esau and Adah Reuel, son of Esau and Basemath sons of Esau and Oholibamah: Jeush, Jalam, Korah 36:12 Amalek, son of Eliphaz and Timna 37:2 Joseph na῾ar 38:3 Er, son of Judah and the daughter of Shua 38:4 Onan, son of Judah and the daughter of Shua 38:5, 11 Shelah, son of Judah and the daughter of Shua 38:27–30 twins, sons of Judah and Tamar v. 27 tәôm (twin) v. 29 Perez (the children of Perez are named in 46:12) v. 30 Zerah 41:50–51 Manasseh, firstborn son of Joseph and Asenath 41:52 Ephraim, son of Joseph and Asenath 42:22 Reuben recalls Joseph yeled 42:12–43:34 Benjamin, referred to by words connoting youth 42:13, 15, 20, 32, 34 qātōn 43:29; 44:2, 12, 20, 23, qātōn 26 [2x] 43:8; 44:22, 30, 31, 32, na῾ar 33 [2x], 34 43:33 s.āîr (the children of Benjamin are named in 46:21)

male male male male male male

male male male male

male male

God as a Child in the Hebrew Bible?

44:27 46:20 48:1–20 vv. 1, 5, 8, 9

Joseph and Benjamin ben Ephraim and Manasseh named by Joseph Ephraim and Manasseh ben

v. 11

zera῾

v. 14 vv. 14, 18 v. 16 v. 19

s.āîr bәkōr na῾ar qātōn

167

male male

From Children in Families to an Orphan: God as a Child in Psalm 10 The children in Genesis are all part of families, illustrating the societal foundation of tribal ties in biblical Israel and raising questions about young people without families. Bringing attention to the text’s most defenseless children, this discussion now focuses on the character of the orphan (yatôm), specifically as found in Psalm 10. The term yatôm is attested 42 times, scattered throughout the Hebrew Bible, and is also found in the Dead Sea Scrolls.23 While frequently translated as “fatherless,”24 the orphan should more generally be understood as someone with neither father nor mother. In some instances, to envision a yatôm as lacking only a father is appropriate (see Exod. 22:23 [Eng. 22:24]; Ps. 109:9; Lam. 5:3). However, in 2 Kings 4:1 the widow who saves her children from debt slavery calls them “my children” (yәlāday) and does not refer to her offspring, whose father is dead, as orphans. The fatherless children in 2 Kings 4:1–7 are saved from slavery by their advocating mother who appeals to Elisha’s miraculous power, showing the impact that one parent can have in determining her children’s fate.25 An orphan with no family at all offers a portrait of perhaps 23

24

25

For further discussion, see Gideon R. Kotzé, “Orphans in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” HTS Teologiese Studies/Theological Studies 72.4 (2016): 1–9. The word yatôm is translated as “fatherless” in nearly all attestations in the ASV, KJV, JPS, NIV, and RSV. For an imagined story from the perspective of this mother, see Julie Faith Parker, “Vessels of Hope,” in My So-Called Biblical Life: Imagined Stories from the World’s Best-Selling Book, ed. Julie Faith Parker (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2017), 56–65.

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the most defenseless person in ancient Israelite society. Taking this vulnerability seriously increases the impact of a childist reading of Psalm 10. To read God as a child in Psalm 10 requires close attention to both context and translation, especially in v. 14. Translators from Hebrew to English do not convey God as an orphan in Psalm 10:14, agreeing that Psalm 10:14b should describe God as a helper to the orphan, not as the orphan who is a helper.26 Admittedly, the challenges in reading God as an orphan are significant for multiple reasons, including the corrupt text of this psalm, compounded by the inherent challenges of translating ancient poetry.27 However, in the forthcoming translation with philological notes, I offer a new translation of Psalm 10 that gives a glimpse of God as an orphan. Although temporal or spatial settings can be deduced for some psalms, overall these poems do not have narrative or historical contexts. More than prose, poetry then invites the reader’s imagination and leaves open interpretive possibilities. I therefore choose to place Psalm 10 in the mouth of a woman, recalling her life as a girl. Upon reading the Hebrew Bible, one might think that girls barely existed in ancient Israel. Indeed, the word for “girl” (yaldâ) appears just three times (Gen. 34:4; Joel 4:3 [Eng. 3:3]; Zech. 8:5), although other terms such as bat, na῾ărâ, ῾almâ, and bәtûlâ are frequently rendered as “girl” in English. Obviously, girls were integral to life in antiquity; the job of the childist interpreter is to find the textual cracks from which their voices call out in whispers. We try to pry those openings apart and listen carefully, ready to expand the spaces where young female voices might be heard. Psalm 10 offers one such possibility. To read this psalm as the words of a woman remembering her childhood adds power to the psalm’s plaintive plea. In the Bible and Deuterocanonical books, five women (Miriam, Deborah,

26 27

See Ps. 10:14b in the ASV, ESV, GNV, KJV, JPS, NAB, NAS, NJPS, NRSV, and RSV, among others. A full discussion of the philological challenges in translating Ps. 10 is beyond the purview of this discussion, although a comparison of translations reveals a significant range in word choices due to corruptions in the text. Briefly noted: Pss. 9 and 10 are frequently tied together (as in the LXX) since Ps. 10 lacks its own heading and continues the acrostic begun in Ps. 9, resulting in different versification between the MT and LXX. However, discerning the full acrostic down Pss. 9 and 10 is difficult to impossible. While common themes link the two psalms, such as the rescue of the helpless from enemies, the success of the confident wicked, and God’s role as vindicator, the tone between Pss. 9 and 10 abruptly switches from a rousing national appeal to YHWH (Ps. 9:19–20) to an abject cry for help (Ps. 10:1). For further discussion, see Hans-Joachim Kraus, Psalms 1–59: A Commentary, CC (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1988), 192.

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Hannah, Judith, and Mary) offer psalms.28 All of their songs celebrate a reversal of fortune, like that proposed in Psalm 10:2, 18. Admittedly, Psalm 10 does not directly address the experience of women or girls and the psalm is rife with masculine language. Yet the same is true of the psalms placed in the mouths of women in the biblical narratives. As Marc Zvi Brettler explains, the use of masculine language in women’s psalms suggests that women would have recited poems known to them without making adjustments in grammatical gender.29 Although women may not have authored many of the psalms or much of the Bible,30 they nonetheless had roles as vocal participators in the religious life of Israel, often as mourners.31 With its heartfelt anguish, desire for help, and assured confidence, Psalm 10 sustains a reading from the perspective of a woman, recalling her life as a child. By exploiting possibilities in this corrupt text and working closely with BHS text critical notes, I will translate Psalm 10 against the chilling backdrop of child cannibalism. Psalm 10 portrays one individual catching another. The psalmist repeatedly describes the wicked person’s successful ambush of the defenseless (vv. 8–10), although the captor’s motive remains unspoken. The psalmist portrays the predator like a lion, which seizes prey for only one purpose: meat. Within the Hebrew Bible, cannibalism comes from crisis. Anthropophagy results from YHWH’s punishment or threat (see Lev. 26:29; Deut. 28:53–57; Isa. 49:26; Jer. 19:9; Ezek. 5:10) or from destruction which YHWH has not prevented (2 Kgs 6:24–31; Lam. 2:20; 4:10).32 Often children are the

28

29

30

31

32

See Exod. 15:21; Judg. 5:2–31; 1 Sam. 2:1–10; Judg. 9:2–14; Lk. 1:46–55. For further discussion of women and the book of Psalms, see Nancy L. Declaisé-Walford, “Psalms” in WBC, ed. Carol A. Newsom, Sharon H. Ringe, Jacqueline E. Lapsley, 3rd ed. (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2012), 224–31. For further discussion of the role of women as pray-ers of the psalms, see Marc Zvi Brettler, “Women and Psalms: Toward an Understanding of The Role of Women’s Prayer in the Israelite Cult” in Gender and Law in the Hebrew Bible and the Ancient Near East, ed. Bernard M. Levinson, Tikva Frymer-Kensky, and Victor H. Matthews, JSOTSup 262 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 25–56. For discussion of women, literacy, and authorship in the ANE, see Brigitte Lion, “Literacy and Gender” in The Oxford Handbook to Cuneiform Culture, ed. Karen Radner and Eleanor Robson (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 90–112. See Brettler, “Women and Psalms,” 55. Other ancient Near Eastern cultures also had women expressing themselves publicly and vocally, often as mourners. Examples from Ugaritic literature include KTU 1.16 i 4–5, 18–19 and KTU 1.19 i 34–35, ii 8–10. For more detailed discussion of orphans and child cannibalism in the Hebrew Bible, see Julie Faith Parker, Valuable and Vulnerable: Children in the Hebrew Bible, Especially the Elisha Cycle, BJS 355 (Providence, RI: Brown University, 2013), 53–55, 185–87.

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victims.33 Lamentations 2:20 and 4:10 portray women eating their children amidst the ruins of Jerusalem after the Babylonian conquest of Judah in the sixth century BCE. Samuel Terrien suggests that the period between the deportations of Jerusalem’s inhabitants might be the setting for Psalm 10.34 The text of this psalm does not provide enough evidence to determine if this psalm is set against the historical backdrop of Jerusalem’s destruction. I simply suggest that this Sitz-im-Leben is possible, and perhaps helps us understand the psalmist’s vital need for faith amidst persecution. It is hard to imagine someone more vulnerable (or terrified) than an orphan being hunted as food. This portrayal of abject desperation can offer a jarring and provocative example of where we might find God as a child in the Hebrew Bible. The imagined narrative below then places Psalm 10 in the mouth of a woman remembering her childhood and appealing to YHWH in a statement of radical identification.

An Imagined Narrative from a Woman of Judah in the Sixth Century BCE Mostly, we worried about food. Everyone worried about food. Looking back, I know we were suffering from the siege. But as a young girl, I only knew that my stomach always hurt. My parents died of the hunger that was killing everyone. My baby brother and sister never lived to be old enough to walk. My mother wanted so badly for me to stay alive. Whenever she could get any food, she gave it to me. But often I wished I had died too, because when my mother and father were gone, I did not know how to go on. And so with no one to help me and nowhere to turn, I begged on the streets of our devastated city. I was not alone. Other orphans also held out their hands to those who walked by. But many who passed in front of us were bony and gaunt, their eyes filled with despair. Yet some eyes that we saw were fearless, and looked back at us with murderous intent.

33

34

Later medieval texts testify in greater detail to this practice. In times of famine “many would present eggs or pieces of fruit to children to lure them to isolated spots, then massacre and devour them.” See Danièle Alexandre-Bidon and Didier Lett, Children in the Middle Ages, trans. Jody Gladding (Notre Dame.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1999), 35. Samuel Terrien, The Psalms: Strophic Structure and Theological Commentary (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 145.

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A new horror came to fill my days already drenched in pain. The bad men would lurk in the courtyards. They were hunting children as meat. They might lure a child with food, but mostly they would hide, waiting for the unsuspecting little one. Stealthily they lay low in dark places, and then would snatch a boy or a girl. Sometimes they killed the child right there. Other times, they dragged away the screaming victim in a net. The flesh of the orphan became the fat of the wicked. No one protected the defenseless boy. No one saved the poor girl. Nobody. Why did no one help us? Why did no one care? I remembered the God of my parents—the God of my father’s sacrifices—the God of my mother’s prayers. Where was Yahweh?

Psalm 10 and God as an Orphan 1 2 3 4

35

36

37

38

39

40

Why, O YHWH, do you stand in the distance? Why do you hide yourself35 in times of distress? In pride, the wicked hotly pursue36 the poor— Let them be seized in the schemes which they have devised! For the wicked boasts of the appetite of his throat.37 The one who severs the thread of life38 curses and spurns YHWH.39 The wicked, in the height of his anger, does not seek: “There is no God” is all of his schemes.40

The attested hiphil verb form (‫ )תעלים‬asks, “Why do you close [your eyes]?” but there is no word for “eyes” in the verse. Translations frequently supply a hithpael reflexive translation (as above) compared with Sir. 4:2, 38:16 (see HALOT 1:835). The verb ‫ דלק‬suggests fierce intentionality, connoting burning pursuit from individuals (e.g., Gen. 31:36), an army (e.g., 1 Sam. 17:53), or God (e.g., Deut. 28:22). While ‫ נפש‬is often translated as “soul” or “life,” its first lexical definition is “throat,” which also has Akkadian and Ugaritic parallels. HALOT 1:712. The critical notes (without manuscript evidence) suggest reading ‫ בצע‬as an inanimate noun meaning “unjust gain.” I retain the participial translation with ‫ בצע‬parallel to ‫רשע‬, and nominally convey agents of evil. The word ‫ בצע‬is a technical term related to the weaver’s cutting of thread (HALOT 1:148). Here it may relate to the cutting of the throat. Cf. Jer. 51:13. The verb ‫ ברך‬is usually translated “to bless” but can also be used in an antithetical sense, meaning “to curse.” See BDB, 139. Perhaps the pious writer will not juxtapose the words that suggest cursing YHWH. Cf. 1 Kgs 21:10, 13; Job 1:5, 11; 2:5, 9. Admittedly awkward in English, this translation portrays the wicked with arrogant confidence only in themselves. I translate ‫ מזמותיו‬as “his schemes,” recalling the same word in v. 2; the wicked who plot also blaspheme.

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5

6 7 8

9

10 11 12 13

41 42

43

44

45 46

47

48

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His ways prosper at all times— Your judgments are on high, away from him. All of his foes—he smells them.41 He says in his heart, “I will not be shaken. From generation to generation, there will be no evil.”42 His mouth is filled with oaths, treachery, and injury. Under his tongue is harm and disaster. He sits in ambush in courtyards,43 In hiding places he murders the innocent. His eyes stealthily look44 for the helpless. He lurks in the hiding place like a lion in his lair, He lurks to catch the poor one.45 He catches the poor one to drag him off in his net. He stoops—he lies low And the helpless fall by his might.46 He says in his heart, “God has forgotten. He has hidden his face.47 He does not see gore.”48 Rise up, O YHWH! O God, Raise your hand! Do not forget the afflicted! On what account does the wicked spurn God? He says in his heart, “You will not seek.”49

Rendering ‫ יפיח‬as “he smells” supports the cannibalistic interpretation of this psalm. See HALOT 2:917. The above translation reads ‫ ב‬as a preposition, followed by the noun ‫ רע‬and is further supported by the LXX ἂνευ κακου (Ps. 9:27). Translations frequently render ‫ חצרים‬as “villages” (e.g., ASV, JPS, KJV, NRSV, RSV). “Courtyards” (above) provides a focused image of the attacker in a specific location and carries the connotation of enclosure. See BDB, 346. The Hebrew root here ‫ צפן‬suggests “to hide, treasure up” and seems enigmatic, although the writer may be seeking verbs of covert activity. The text critical note suggests the root ‫ צפה‬meaning “to spy, keep watch” (as above). The LXX offers further support with ἀποβλεπουσιν (Ps. 9:29). The Hebrew offers a pun: the eyes of the evil one ‫( עיניו‬v. 8) are on the afflicted ‫( עני‬v. 9). As the Masora Parva note, this is one of the fifteen occurrences in the Bible where what is written as one word should be read as two ‫“ חיל כאים‬host of afflicted ones.” The image here is of a powerful person intentionally plotting and waiting to spring attack on the helpless. Waltke and O’Connor cites this verse as an example of two fientive verbs in the perfect state, resulting in a present perfect translation. Bruce K. Waltke and M. O’Connor, An Introduction to Biblical Hebrew Syntax (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1990), § 30.5.2. The word ‫ נצח‬is often translated as implying duration of time (e.g., “he never sees”) but the noun also refers to blood (cf. Isa. 63:3, 6). The wicked antagonist again shows disdain for the deity (cf. v. 3), although now addresses God directly in the second person.

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14 Yet you do see!50 You notice toil and grief to deliver by your hand!51 Because of you, he will leave the helpless, You are an orphan.52 You are a helper. 15 Break the arm of the wicked and evil!53 You will seek his wickedness—until it is found.54 16 YHWH is king forever and ever Nations perish from his land! 17 You have heard the desire of the afflicted, O YHWH. You will strengthen their heart; you will incline your ear, 18 To do justice for the orphan and the oppressed. He will no longer continue to terrify people of the earth. With its abundant textual challenges, Psalm 10 gives room for various translations. Verse 14b can be read to show God as a child, although admittedly the reading is not easy. English translations consistently render the verse by declaring God as a helper to the orphan, not as the orphan. Any word for “to,” however, through a preposition or implied in a verbal form, is absent from the Hebrew text. Text critical notes refer the reader to v. 18, where the preposition ‫ ל‬comes before the verb ‫( שפט‬to judge, render justice), but there is neither verb nor preposition in v. 14bα. After the words ‫( יתום אתה‬yatôm ͗attâ; lit.: orphan you) the poetic accent (called a mәhappak lәgarmeh) is disjunctive. This pausal marker supports a reading that links the words “you” and “orphan” as a nominal phrase, supplying the form of “to be.” To read v. 14b as an independent clause (you are an orphan) followed by the next phrase (you are a helper), offers a jarring mixed metaphor.55 God becomes as vulnerable as a parentless 50

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While the text critical note suggests omitting ‫ כי־אתה‬due to dittography, these words convey emphasis and contrast. The note suggests reading ‫ ליתום ודך‬here, as in v. 18, having God notice the orphan and oppressed. I translate ‫ יתום אתה‬as it stands in the text, although the note (without evidence) suggests ‫ליתום‬. Perhaps the psalmist’s appeal to God is a plea for embodied empathy with the oppressed. This translation follows the text critical note, placing the atnach under ‫ורע‬. This translation follows the Syriac, which gives the verb ‫ ימצא‬as a niphal. The MT ‫( בל־ימצא‬you will not find) seems incongruous with an assertion of faith. In her discussion of Paul, Beverly Gaventa notes the function of a mixed metaphor, as found here in v. 14b, to identify different dimensions of the metaphor’s tenor. See Beverly Gaventa, Our Mother, Saint Paul (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 2007), 26–27. (I am indebted to Sharon Betsworth for calling this citation to my attention, as well as the reference to Prov. 8:30 [below].) Perhaps the Psalmist is broadening an understanding of YHWH to include one who is both utterly forlorn, yet, through the Psalm, empowered.

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child, prompting a swift response to aid those in trouble. This hemistich can be read as the poetic motivation for God’s subsequent vindication against the evildoer. The movement of the Psalm pivots on this verse, and perhaps God’s portrayal as a child.

Proverbs 8:30—Wisdom as a Child The word ͗āmôn in Proverbs 8:30 may also indicate the divine in the form of a child. This verse is part of a larger encomium spoken by personified Wisdom (Prov. 8:1–36) where she describes her role at the scene of creation (vv. 22–30). With stunning antiquity and authority, Woman Wisdom declares that she was alongside God at the dawn of creation (cf. Jn 1:1–4), acting as an ͗āmôn. But what does this enigmatic word mean? Translations differ widely. Bible versions commonly render ͗āmôn with doubly male connotations including both “master” and the suffix “man.” These terms take attention away from the femaleness of the speaker (Woman Wisdom) and preclude an image of a child.56 In marked contrast to translations such as “master workman” or “craftsman” are those that suggest a child, such as “nursling” (JPS) or “one brought up with him” (KJV).57 Michael Fox offers a philological explanation for adopting a translation with the sense of the KJV.58 Fox notes that ͗āmôn meaning “artisan” (or variations thereof) has no other attestation in the Hebrew Bible. Rather, āmôn is an infinitive absolute (as its form appears) functioning as a verbal complement suggesting growing up. “Lady Wisdom is declaring that while God was busy creating the world, she was nearby, growing up like a child in his care (v. 30a) and giving him delight (v. 30b) by playing before him (v. 30b) in the world that would be inhabited (v. 31a).”59 Fox’s interpretation highlights Wisdom’s subordination to YHWH, as expected in the Hebrew Bible’s consistent avowal

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E.g., ASV, ESV, NAS, RSV (“master workman”); NJB (“master craftsman”). Similar translations suggest mastery, craftsmanship, or reiterate God’s maleness, e.g., CEB (“a master of crafts”); NAB (“his craftsman”); NIV (“the craftsman”); NRSV (“master worker”). See also André Barucq who translates “maître d’œuvres” in Le Livre de Proverbes (Paris: LeCoffre, 1964), 94. Further translations include “confidant” (NJPS) and “nourisher” (GNV). Michael V. Fox, “ʾAmon Again,” JBL 115, no. 4 (1996): 699–702. Ibid., 702.

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that YHWH is the supreme deity. Yet the hint of interest and even revelry in a child from the source of divinity suggests direct appreciation for a child’s actions and way of being, which is rare in the Hebrew Bible. The female child of Proverbs 8:30a, as an earlier form of Woman Wisdom, has her own divine attributes as part of the wonder of creation.60 William Brown further notes the stages of Wisdom’s growing up mirrored in this creation poem. “She [Wisdom] is conceived in verse 22, gestated in verse 23, birthed in verses 24–25, present before creation in verse 27, and actively ‘playing’ in verses 30–31.”61 Ellen Davis asserts that “The picture of Wisdom playing, even giddily, before God must be allowed to stand as the important theological statement it is.”62 For the childist interpreter, this verse may have significant ramifications. While not an image of YHWH in the Hebrew Bible, the portrayal of the ͗āmôn as a child in whom God delights suggests an appreciation for children, including small female children. Wisdom, as a young girl, becomes not only integral to the wisdom tradition of ancient Israel, but a source of joy and enchantment.

Conclusion Finding God as a child in the Hebrew Bible is not easy or obvious, as the above discussion demonstrates. The qôl dәmāmâ daqqâ (still, small voice) of 1 Kings 19:12 likely does not portray God as a child. The other possible representations of God as a child arise through extrapolation (Gen. 1:26–27), translation (Ps. 10:14), or association (Prov. 8:30). Genesis 1:26–27 invites us to notice children as the vehicles for God’s image coming into the world. Yet an image is different from an incarnation or even a metaphor. The child is not an embodiment or encapsulation of God, or even

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Markus Saur further points out the echo of God’s revealing of the divine name in Exod. 3:14 (‫ )אהיה אשר אהיה‬found in Prov. 8:30 (‫)אהיה אצלו אמון אהיה‬. See Markus Saur, “Die literarische Funktion und die theologische Intention der Weisheitsreden des Sprüchebuches,” VT 61, no. 3 (2011): 452. William P. Brown, “Wisdom’s Wonder: Proverbs, Paideia, and Play,” Covenant Quarterly 68.3 (2010): 21. For a contrasting view, see R. B. Y. Scott who rejects translations suggesting a child because “the imagery of gay, thoughtless childhood is inappropriate.” R. B. Y. Scott, “Wisdom in Creation: The ͗ĀMŌN of Proverbs VIII 30,” VT 10, no. 2 (1960): 219. Ellen F. Davis, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, and the Song of Songs, WBC (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 2000), 68.

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God in partiality. Rather, children are ways for God’s representation to be manifest on earth. The magnitude of understanding children in the image of God becomes clearer when we see how many children fill the pages of Genesis. The list above encourages further exploration of children’s pervasiveness in the text, with recognition of the theological overtones conveyed by their presence. Genesis provides a copious array of children (some well-known) in various stages of life with a range of engagement in the wider narrative; Psalm 10, by contrast, offers the childist interpreter one two-word phrase. Focusing on the child in this psalm requires careful attention to the philological and translational options offered by a corrupt text. Like the orphan in Psalm 10, the text of this poem is also weak and susceptible to manipulation. My translation has moved the text to attend to the grim fates that often face children with no adult protectors. The contrast between the many children integral to families in Genesis and the lone orphan in Psalm 10 offers a spectrum of possibilities for childist interpretation. One discussion focuses on children in a social structure, surviving, often thriving, manifesting God’s image, and continuing into perpetuity. The other discussion zeroes in on an orphan who is barely noticeable and whose presence in the text, like her life in the presence of evildoers, is precarious. Offering two contrasting portrayals of abundance and depravity, this merism invites further work from childist scholars. Where might we find children who identify with the divine but do not reside on either margin? If the translation of ͗āmôn in Proverbs 8:30 as connoting a child is accepted, this image is perhaps the most uplifting portrayal of children and divinity in the Hebrew Bible. However, the connection with YHWH is through association not manifestation. The ͗āmôn’s relationship to the God of the Hebrew Bible hinges on the connection between YHWH and Woman Wisdom. Is she a hypostasis? a goddess? a heavenly sage? The ͗āmôn is part of Wisdom’s own stages of growth and development and a source of keen interest for God. While this discussion does not provide a decisive image of God as a child in the Hebrew Bible, the findings nonetheless offer theological and sociological insights. The modern movie makers who portray God as a child in Exodus: God and Kings seem to share an idealized image of a child with the writer of Proverbs 8:30. Yet for the most part, the Bible writers did not romanticize children. Children in ancient Israel were integral to the grit of daily existence, inextricably part of tribal society. Due to their stages of dependency, children

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were (and are) more vulnerable than adults. Modern notions about children as inherently pure or innocent are inappropriate and anachronistic when applied to the biblical world.63 These romantic attributes that we frequently associate with children would counter, not complement, the biblical writers’ yearnings for a powerful God. In ancient Israel (as in much of the world today), survival was hard. Gods were only as good as their ability to preserve and protect their people. Perhaps we should not be surprised that images of God as a child in the Hebrew Bible are so hard to find. What purpose would a vulnerable God serve to a small nation of people almost constantly under threat of far greater world empires? As childist biblical interpretation comes of age, scholars might experiment with new approaches to working with ancient texts. In this chapter, I have sought to expand the ways we can explore texts related to children in the Hebrew Bible. Some of the insights gleaned here enforce awareness already introduced by childist biblical scholars: biblical concepts of children are significantly different from our own. And perhaps this insight is new: the striking vulnerability of children in antiquity, minus associations with innocence and purity, make children an unlikely vehicle for a divine metaphor or direct deity manifestation in the world of the Hebrew Bible.

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For further discussion about constructs of childhood, see “Accessing Childhoods: Interdisciplinary Tools at the Intersection of Biblical Studies and Childhood Studies” by Laurel Koepf Taylor in this volume.

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Children and the Memory of Traumatic Violence1 Kathleen Gallagher Elkins

In a statement on protecting immigrant children, the American Academy of Pediatrics declares, “Children do not immigrate, they flee.”2 This statement emphasizes that the AAP is “non-partisan and pro-children,” but raises concern about US immigration policies that harm children and their families. They point especially to the effects of “toxic stress” from prolonged fear and anxiety that can harm developing brains.3 Political conversations that discuss children’s immigration rights as if they have made rational, informed decisions about moving to another country obscure the pain and fear of their lived realities. Deporting those children or their parents only adds to their trauma. Attention to the effects of trauma (especially the traumas of exile, deportation, and political violence) on children is a pressing issue in our time. This same attention can be brought to biblical texts and ancient children. Even though the circumstances are different, there are ruptures in the biblical world that trauma theory illuminates: the destruction of the Jerusalem Temples in 586 BCE and 70 CE were ancient traumas that were part of warfare and

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My thanks to the editors and Sarah Emanuel for their helpful feedback and to my teaching assistant, Alex Gruber, for his help with the bibliography. I am grateful to the Wabash Center for Teaching and Learning in Theology and Religion for a fellowship to research the pedagogy of traumatized students. I have incorporated this research on trauma into the present article. “AAP Statement on Protecting Immigrant Children,” January 25, 2017, https://www.aap.org/ en-us/about-the-aap/aap-press-room/Pages/AAPStatementonProtectingImmigrantChildren.aspx. This statement was released in response to Donald Trump’s Executive Orders, signed on the same day, which focused on immigration and border patrol. Rachel Aviv, “The Trauma of Facing Deportation,” The New Yorker, March 27, 2017, http://www. newyorker.com/magazine/2017/04/03/the-trauma-of-facing-deportation; Olga Khazan, “The Toxic Health Effects of Deportation Threat,” The Atlantic, January 27, 2017, https://www.theatlantic.com/ health/archive/2017/01/the-toxic-health-effects-of-deportation-threat/514718/.

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mass deportation, enslavement, and loss. Examining biblical narratives about children in these violent contexts provides readers a glimpse into an ancient community’s “sense of a foreshortened future,” one of the markers of traumatized peoples.4 The death of children in the midst of political violence and forced migration literally and metaphorically points to the loss of a collective future. Portrayals of children in the Bible that are connected to loss, pain, trauma, and violence evoke the threat of communal extinction. This is especially the case with narratives that are “unsayable,” as the destruction of the Jerusalem Temples seem to be.5 Neither experience of destruction is narrated in detail in the biblical text. The traces of these traumas remain, however, even if a detailed description of the events is missing. In Sarah Emanuel’s words, “because there is no story with which to compare it, no language with which to describe it, and no means by which to absorb it, trauma often resists assimilating into narrative—whether personal or otherwise.”6 Narratives about children in these violent contexts may be one of the ways that communities can indicate the impact of these traumas, specifically by depicting the poignant loss of the future. A story with a child who dies shows symbolically the loss of the future. Having a child die in shocking ways, like ancient narratives about mothers who eat their own children, does this in an even more deliberate way: the symbolic present moment of the mother overtakes and consumes the potential future of the child that may have been.7

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“Sense of a foreshortened future” is one symptom listed for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) in the fourth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM 4), which is the handbook used for diagnosing and classifying mental disorders. See chart in Raben Rosenberg, “Trauma and Mental Disorders: A Biomedical Approach,” in Trauma and Traumatization in Individual and Collective Dimensions: Insights from Biblical Studies and Beyond, ed. Eve-Marie Becker, Jan Dochhorn, and Else K. Holt (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014), 33. In the DSM 5, the criterion more generally refers to negative beliefs about the future and the world. See American Psychiatric Association, Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders: DSM-5, 5th ed. (Washington, DC: American Psychiatric Association, 2013). Annie Rogers, The Unsayable: The Hidden Language of Trauma (New York: Random House, 2006). Literary theorist Cathy Caruth describes trauma as “speechless terror”; see her Trauma: Explorations in Memory (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995), 153. Sarah Emanuel, “Trauma and Counter-Trauma in the Book of Esther: Reading the Megillah in the Face of the Post-Shoah Sabra,” The Bible and Critical Theory 13, no. 1 (2017): 25. Biblical references to parents who eat their own children include Lam. 4:10 (considered below), 2 Kgs 6:26–30; Deut. 28:55–57; Jer. 19:9; Ezek. 5:10. Josephus includes the story of Mary, daughter of Eleazar, who kills and eats her son in Jewish War 6.201–213.

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Many biblical references to children include violence or the threat of violence; indeed, children’s lives in antiquity seem to involve precarity that modern readers do not always see or assume.8 Older psychiatric definitions of trauma usually involved some reference to an experience of violence that is “out of the ordinary,” but that definition is increasingly questioned as certain experiences of violation are strikingly common (statistically speaking) even while they cause harm.9 Children in antiquity lived with violence that was both ordinary and catastrophic: slavery, war (which sometimes also led to enslavement), sexual abuse, corporal punishment, and exposure (abandonment). Looking at texts about children under the rubric of trauma brings out new aspects of these texts and questions about children’s lives in the ancient world. Even in modern societies, the birth of a new child is often tied to the promise of the future. A new life brings with it the hope for renewal, change, and fresh starts; a new life also assures us of our continued existence. This theme is likewise present in biblical narratives about infertility and pregnancy. Kathleen O’Connor writes, “The condition of the [barren] matriarchs’ wombs conveys the people’s situation. Without offspring, the people are dead. If the women of the promise have no children, the family will become extinct. Yet God effects the impossible through a woman ridiculously beyond child-bearing age. God opens wombs of the barren and gives them children.”10 Children point to the future and to the family’s continued existence. When children, in particular, are violently destroyed, the family ceases to exist (except, perhaps, through divine intervention).

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Judith Butler writes, “The precarity of life imposes an obligation on us. We have to ask about the conditions under which it becomes possible to apprehend a life or set of lives as precarious. . . . Of course, it does not follow that if one apprehends a life as precarious one will resolve to protect that life or secure the conditions for its persistence and flourishing” (Frames of War: When Is Life Grievable? [New York: Verso, 2009]). Here she is building on her earlier work in Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence (New York: Verso, 2004). See Laura Brown’s convincing argument about psychotherapy with survivors of incest, rape, or gender-based violence in “Not Outside the Range: One Feminist Perspective on Psychic Trauma,” in Trauma: Explorations in Memory, ed. Cathy Caruth (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995), 100–12. Earlier versions of the DSM included some similar marker of PTSD. The most recent version, published in 2013, does not. See DSM 5, 271–72. Kathleen M. O’Connor, “Stammering Toward the Unsayable: Old Testament Theology, Trauma Theory, and Genesis,” Int 70, no. 3 (2016): 309.

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The Usefulness of “Trauma Studies” in the Biblical World Like many other modern theoretical lenses, “trauma studies” is a lens for reading and interpreting the Bible.11 As with other modern scholarly lenses, scholars debate the usefulness and application of the idea of “trauma” to the ancient world: did the ancients have a concept of psychological trauma or wounding? Is it appropriate to use a modern, psychological concept to analyze ancient, pre-psychological texts, events, and figures? Is this a clear example of anachronism, to say that an ancient person or group was “traumatized,” just because their experience would potentially be traumatizing to a modern person? Two contributions to Trauma and Traumatization in Individual and Collective Dimensions: Insights from Biblical Studies and Beyond illustrate the potential tensions in this debate.12 Raben Rosenberg, a psychiatrist, argues for the usefulness of trauma studies, specifically, the potential helpfulness of the humanities for those who study trauma in medical and psychiatric settings; patients may be helped by insights from religious studies, theology, and other humanities fields.13 He hopes for more interdisciplinary work, stating, It is my suggestion to neuroscience that traumas and PTSD should be seen in a much broader perspective under the inspiration of history, art, literature and religion and my claim that patients may benefit significantly from this approach. . . . Similarly, there is a clear and important message to scholars within the [sic] theology, humanities and social sciences. The impact of traumas—[hu]manmade or natural ones—cannot be understood without seeing [a hu]man as a whole, e.g. as a psychobiological unity, the function of which also requires substantial neuroscientific knowledge.14

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David G. Garber Jr. provides a helpful state of the field discussion (up to 2014) in his “Trauma Theory and Biblical Studies,” CurBR 14, no. 1 (2015): 24–44. Becker et al., eds., Trauma and Traumatization in Individual and Collective Dimensions. In an appendix to his book, David Carr wrestles through these issues in detail; see his Holy Resilience: The Bible’s Traumatic Origins (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2014), 253–70. Rosenberg, “Trauma and Mental Disorders.” Ibid., 41.

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Nadine Metzger, a medical historian, argues for more caution in this interdisciplinary field. She details the problems with retrospective diagnoses and especially with the usefulness of a concept based in modern medicine and a different understanding of the human body: “even if the basal mechanisms stay the same through time, everything we know about historical individuals is channeled into text—language-shaped, interpreted, explained and put into their own historical frame of reference by the authors.”15 These two approaches demonstrate the tensions in this discussion: either trauma studies is wholly appropriate to understanding the ancient world because the ancients experienced trauma, or trauma studies has limited usefulness to understanding the ancient world because their experiences were not understood within a frame of reference that included modern ideas about trauma. This mirrors conversations about using modern theoretical lenses like gender, empire, sexuality, and so on to analyze biblical texts.16 With the necessary cautions in place, I advocate for using trauma theories to expand our understanding of biblical narratives, especially narratives about children. Daniel Smith-Christopher has suggested that part of our engagement with violent, troubling biblical texts is to put our hand on the shoulder of the author and ask, “Are you okay?” Even though this may sound overly involved and too emotionally attached for academic biblical studies, it is appropriate and perhaps, for some of us, inevitable. He writes, “The basis for this discussion is that I suspect, and continue to suspect, that many of the writers of the Bible are not ‘ok,’ and part of our task is to think together about what this might mean.”17 Biblical scholars employing trauma theory have typically looked at texts like Ezekiel, Lamentations, Jeremiah, and other texts that deal explicitly with traumatizing events like the destruction of the Temple in 586 BCE and

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Nadine Metzger, “Railway Spine, Shell Shock and Psychological Trauma: The Limits of Retrospective Diagnosis,” in Trauma and Traumatization in Individual and Collective Dimensions, ed. Becker et al, 46. For a discussion of these issues as they relate to Revelation, see Sarah Emanuel, “A Post-Traumatic Revelation: Reading John’s Apocalypse as Communal Repair” (paper presented Annual Meeting of the SBL, San Antonio, TX, November 2016). Emanuel’s forthcoming book, Roasting Rome: Humor, Resistance, and Jewish Cultural Persistence in the Book of Revelation, deals with similar themes and issues. Daniel L. Smith-Christopher, “Trauma and Old Testament: Some Problems and Prospects,” in Trauma and Traumatization in Individual and Collective Dimensions, ed. Becker et al., 229.

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the subsequent exile.18 Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and Lamentations in particular have “posed challenges for interpreters based on questions relating to their conceptual and formal coherence, and trauma hermeneutics has proven helpful in addressing these questions.”19 This work on trauma studies is an outgrowth of older, more established work in psychology and the Bible though it tends to be more theoretically grounded and is not always interested in psychoanalyzing certain authors or characters. Biblical texts that were developed in circumstances of war and violence give interpreters reason to think that the author was not “okay.” Christopher Frechette’s nuanced discussion elucidates some of the historical and cultural issues. He writes, The Judean experience of the Babylonian assaults and forced deportation to Babylon would have constituted a massive trauma with both individual and collective dimensions. Psychological categories developed in recent decades for understanding trauma have emerged largely in the context of research conducted in Western cultures. Nevertheless, psychology promises to illuminate patterns in human responses to trauma that are immediate (sometimes with lasting effects) and largely unconscious. As such, these patterns are less culturally conditioned, and recognizing them can provide a basis from which to assess across cultures strategies—which are more culturally specific—for recovering from the effects of such traumatic responses.20

The same could be said for the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple in 70 CE and the war, starvation, and enslavement that resulted. The biblical authors 18

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See, for example, Tod Linafelt, Surviving Lamentations: Catastrophe, Lament, and Protest in the Afterlife of a Biblical Book (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000); Kathleen M. O’Connor, Lamentations and the Tears of the World (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 2002); Kathleen M. O’Connor, Jeremiah: Pain and Promise (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2012); David Janzen, The Violent Gift: Trauma’s Subversion of the Deuteronomistic History’s Narrative (London: T&T Clark, 2012); Lauress Wilkins, “War, Famine, and Baby Stew: A Recipe for Disaster in the Book of Lamentations,” in By Bread Alone: The Bible Through the Eyes of the Hungry, ed. Sheila E. McGinn, Lai Ling Elizabeth Ngan, and Ahida Calderón Pilarski (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2014), 67–87; and various contributions in Bible through the Lens of Trauma ed. Elizabeth Boase and Christopher G. Frechette (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2016); and Becker et  al., eds., Trauma and Traumatization in Individual and Collective Dimensions. Christopher G. Frechette and Elizabeth Boase, “Defining ‘Trauma’ as a Useful Lens for Biblical Interpretation,” in Bible through the Lens of Trauma, ed. Elizabeth Boase and Christopher G. Frechette (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2016), 17. Frechette cites the work of Marten deVries; Christopher G. Frechette, “Daughter Babylon Raped and Bereaved (Isaiah 47): Symbolic Violence and Meaning-Making in Recovery From Trauma,” in Bible through the Lens of Trauma, ed. Boase and Frechette, 73.

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situated in these historical moments were not okay; narratives about children that emerge from these same moments are evidence of these wounds. The destructions of the Temples, though clearly significant to ancient Israel and early Judaism, are not the focus of most biblical narratives. Samuel Balentine writes: The narrative that reports the events surrounding 586 BCE is curiously brief. The siege of Jerusalem and consequent famine, mass slaughter, and forced deportation to Babylon require a mere eleven verses, 2 Kgs 25:1–11. About originating causes or traumatic effects, the historical record contains not a word. . . . [T]he noiselessness of the narrative signals . . . what trauma theorists call a “collapse of witnessing.”21

This is a crucial point for biblical scholars using trauma theory: the destruction of the first Temple is narrated in eleven verses, while the destruction of the second Temple is not narrated at all in the Christian Testament (see allusions in the form of “prophecies” in e.g., Mk 13:1–4 and parallels, Jn 2:19–22). Even though many of the biblical authors are writing during or after a Temple’s destruction, they do not mention it explicitly. This absence, however, can be read as a kind of haunting presence. While the events may remain unnarratable and unsayable, traces of the trauma are apparent in other ways. I contend that one of the places we see the scars is in narratives about vulnerable children. Biblical scholars interested in children and childhood have not tended to employ theories of trauma. This is a notable gap: children, in antiquity and today, are particularly vulnerable to traumatic experiences and narratives about children are places for communities to locate their communal trauma. Our own affective entanglements with biblical texts (including the response “Are you okay?”) may be stronger when we are dealing with children who are also not okay.22 And yet, trauma theorists emphasize the survival of the traumatized, which means reading biblical narratives about children for their resilience, too.23 21

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Samuel E. Balentine, “Legislating Divine Trauma,” in Bible through the Lens of Trauma, ed. Boase and Frechette, 163. The “collapse of witnessing” is a concept that Balentine uses from Dori Laub’s work; see his “Truth and Testimony: The Process and the Struggle” in Trauma: Explorations in Memory, ed. Cathy Caruth (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995), 61–75. For a discussion of our affective entanglements with early Christian texts, see Maia Kotrosits, Rethinking Early Christian Identity: Affect, Violence, and Belonging (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2015). Louis Stulman, “Reading the Bible as Trauma Literature: The Legacy of the Losers,” CBW 34 (2014): 1–13.

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Focusing on the survival that comes after trauma (which may or may not be thriving or successful) means that the violence is acknowledged but so is the recovery and resilience. Louis Stulman argues that reading the prophetic corpus with the lens of trauma and survival enables interpreters to counter a hegemonic reading that sees scripture only as the “narrative of the winners.”24 Rather, in line with liberationist and postcolonial readings of the Bible, a reading focused on trauma and survival sees the wounds and wreckage of ancient Israel, early Judaism, and emerging Christianity. This reading also resists the tendency of many first-world readers to see “canonical warrant for dominance, acquisition, and moral hegemony.”25 This, to my mind, is the most important implication of an approach focused on trauma and recovery: it attends to the “public health” of biblical interpreters and communities.26 Seeing trauma theory as ethically beneficial is just as crucial as acknowledging its historical appropriateness. Reading for ancient children’s traumas requires an additional ethical move. In her discussion of the elusive Thessalonian wo/men, Melanie JohnsonDeBaufre advocates for a critical practice of “gazing upon the invisible,” looking around and away from historical monuments to expand our field of vision so that we include people and activities that may not immediately be visible.27 Looking for traumatized children in the biblical world takes a similar discipline: the texts do not frequently focus on children qua children and are not focused on children’s pain. But finding invisibilized children and asking if they are okay can help biblical scholars be more attentive readers of difficult texts.

The Bible and Its Traumatized Children Biblical narratives about children may be a way to “attempt to understand historical suffering in the terms of the historical time in question,” as we read 24 25 26

27

Ibid., 2. Ibid., 12. Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, Rhetoric and Ethic: The Politics of Biblical Studies (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1999), 32. Johnson-DeBaufre uses the work of Natalie Boymel Kampen and Steve Friesen, in addition to Connie H. Nobles’s work on women and children in a Baton Rouge penitentiary, from which she borrows the idea of “gazing upon the invisible”; see Melanie Johnson-DeBaufre, “ ‘Gazing Upon the Invisible’: Archaeology, Historiography, and the Elusive Wo/men of 1 Thessalonians,” in From Roman to Early Christian Thessalonike: Studies in Religion and Archaeology, ed. Laura Nasrallah, Charalambos Bakirtzis, and Steven J. Friesen (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2010), 73–108.

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ancient authors and societies dealing with violence and loss.28 These narratives show “foreshortening” in a national or communal sense: the lifetime of a child is threatened or obliterated, as the author or community cannot imagine a world that continues beyond this catastrophe. Although the texts do not express the threat of communal extinction directly, the threat is represented through the loss of a child and thus, the symbolic loss of the future.29 When reading narratives about ancient children, there are a few instances of “historical suffering” that interpreters could choose to foreground. Here, I focus on slavery, sexual abuse, and exposure. Enslavement imposed oppressive restrictions and strains on family life. Funerary inscriptions give suggestive evidence of enduring family ties in slave families, though these ties were not legally recognized.30 Children of a slave mother were viewed as property that belonged to the woman’s owner to be sold, sent away, or used as the owner saw fit.31 Orlando Patterson’s foundational work on slavery, though he does not focus only on antiquity, is relevant for understanding the role of violence in ancient children’s lives. He famously called slavery a state of “natal alienation,” a phrase that has been used in many studies of slavery in antiquity and the Bible. The definition itself points to something relevant for childhood studies: an enslaved person is legally and practically separated from their natality, from their birth, genealogy, parents, and, indeed, their childhood. Patterson emphasizes both the legal/cultural experience and the (assumed) emotional experience. He writes, When we say that the slave was natally alienated and ceased to belong independently to any formally recognized community, this does not mean that he or she did not experience or share informal social relations. A large number of works have demonstrated that slaves in both ancient and modern times had strong social ties among themselves. The important point,

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Metzger, “Railway Spine, Shell Shock and Psychological Trauma,” 57. Anxieties about a community’s future are often discussed under the rubric of children and specifically, birth rates. This is a theme in Margaret Atwood’s novel The Handmaid’s Tale (New York: Anchor Books, 1998). Jennifer A. Glancy, Slavery in Early Christianity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 46; See also Dale B. Martin, “Slavery and the Ancient Jewish Family,” in Shaye J. D. Cohen, ed., The Jewish Family in Antiquity (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993), 113–29. Ross S. Kraemer, “Jewish Mothers and Daughters in the Greco-Roman World,” in Cohen, The Jewish Family in Antiquity, 103; Suzanne Dixon, The Roman Mother (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1988), 17–18.

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however, is that these relationships were never recognized as legitimate or binding.32

While accessing an ancient slave’s relationships is not my focus here, Patterson rightly points to the possible implications for these relationships: Slaves had no custodial claims or powers over their children, and children inherited no claims or obligations to their parents. And the master had the power to remove a slave from the local community in which he or she was brought up. Even if such forcible separations occurred only infrequently, the fact that they were possible and that from time to time they did take place was enough to strike terror in the hearts of all slaves and to transform significantly the way they behaved and conceived of themselves.33

For slaves who were also children (or parents), this threat of forced separation from parents (or children) is part and parcel of their “natal alienation.”34 Commentators frequently describe children’s status as equivalent to slaves; often, Aristotle’s famous maxim that slaves, children, and women are the classes who are fit not to rule, but to be ruled is cited as evidence.35 The dual definition of the Greek word pais (child or slave), for example, is also frequently invoked. While there are important points of overlap between free children and slaves (especially regarding inheritance law and bodily autonomy), the similarities should not be overstated.36 Free children eventually grew up to be free adults while slaves, even if freed, retained a lower status (a reality that Paul exploits in Gal. 4).37 As Cornelia Horn and John Martens argue, “To say therefore that a given [free] child was ‘little better than a slave’ both does injustice to ancient 32

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Orlando Patterson, Slavery and Social Death: A Comparative Study (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1982), 6. Ibid. For a discussion of the ways that the categories of “slave” overlapped with categories of “parent” or “child,” see Margaret MacDonald’s discussion of the complexities of the Haustafeln in her The Power of Children: The Construction of Christian Families in the Greco-Roman World (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2014), 33–65. Aristotle Pol. 1.1253b [Rackman, LCL]. Jennifer A. Glancy suggestively points to the impact of the “violent, coercive, dehumanizing institution of slavery” on free children, who would grow up to own slaves themselves (Slavery in Early Christianity, 152). The effects of this kind of moral injury on free members of ancient Jewish and Christian communities deserve more reflection. See Reidar Aasgaard, “Like a Child: Paul’s Rhetorical Uses of Childhood” in The Child in the Bible (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008) ed. Marcia J. Bunge, Terence E. Fretheim, and Beverly Roberts Gaventa; Cornelia B. Horn and John W. Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me”: Childhood and Children in Early Christianity (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2009), 70 n.3.

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notions of childhood and dismisses the harsh differences between slavery and belonging to a family as a child.”38 Another instance of historical suffering involving ancient children is the sexual abuse of children.39 Pederasty was common in the ancient GrecoRoman world and is presented as unproblematic in many ancient texts.40 The texts in the New Testament do not explicitly prohibit pederasty; indeed, they do not openly refer to pederasty at all. Free children and slaves of all ages were subject to the sexual whims of free, adult males; in the modern West, these sexual relationships between adult men and children of both genders (though boys were thought to be especially enticing) would be considered abusive and illegal. “In Greco-Roman culture these sexual liaisons [between free, adult men and children] were acceptable and thus the lives of many children, slave and free, would have been marked by involuntary sexual activity.”41 Even if pederasty is part of “normal” life in antiquity, there does seem to be anxiety and/or shame around the practice: it is prohibited in certain texts and presented as less than ideal in others (though it is an ideal in some ancient Greek philosophical texts), so perhaps this indicates that pederasty could have been a source of violent trauma for ancient children. In his article about children and early Christian sexual ethics, John Martens discusses the unusual word paidophthoreo, which he argues was coined by early Christians “as a direct response to and rejection of the compound verb paiderasteo,” the word usually translated as “pederasty.”42 There is no straightforward translation of paidophthoreo, though Martens suggests “sexual abuse of a child” (the other options are “corruption,” “destruction,” or “ruin” of a child). Because of this

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Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 71. This would also relate to enslaved people; a discussion of the sexual abuse of enslaved people who were adults remains outside the purview of this chapter. Moreover, marital relationships that involve a much older man married to young girl (who, to modern Westerners, would be classified as a child) would seem to fall in the category of sexual abuse of children, even though that was the established norm in many ancient cultures. See entries on “Children,” written by Erin E. Fleming, Jennifer L. Koosed, Pierre Brule, Christian Laes, Christopher Frilingos, Karina Martin Hogan, John W. Martens, and Melvin G. Miller in The Oxford Encyclopedia of the Bible and Gender Studies ed. Julia M. O’Brien (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 1:25–60. Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 35. John W. Martens, “ ‘Do Not Sexually Abuse Children’: The Language of Early Christian Sexual Ethics,” in Children in Late Ancient Christianity, ed. Cornelia B. Horn and Robert Phenix (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 237.

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difference in meaning (love of a child vs. corruption or abuse of a child), Martens argues that sexual ethics is one of the arenas in which “Christianity in its earliest centuries impacted the lives of children for the good.”43 By prohibiting the sexual abuse of children, some early Christians aimed to protect children more than the larger Greco-Roman world did. The scholarship on pederasty indicates that it is a challenge for modern historians to consider the practice of pederasty without assuming modern notions of sexual abuse (and, for that matter, sexual orientation).44 To modern scholars, these relationships of domination are both illegal and harmful. But if it was acceptable at the time (at least in certain times, in certain texts), would pederasty have traumatized children in antiquity? This is a similar tension to the one named above, about the problem about retrospective diagnoses. The challenge is instructive for childhood and children’s studies as a whole: how can scholars make judgments about cultural practices from other times and places? How do we do so without too easily assuming the rightness of our own cultural practices? And how can this desire be balanced with the importance of critiquing practices that seem to be so clearly harmful to children? The practice of exposing children (Latin expositio; Greek ekthesis) is another source of potential violence in the life of ancient children.45 Exposure did not always result in death; sometimes a child would be reared by another family, perhaps as a slave.46 The evidence is vague but suggests that, in ancient Rome, for example, children were more likely to be abandoned if they were girls or born to poor families;47 moreover, “a concern to improve the chances of surviving children is often present,”48 so this practice may sometimes be a kind

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Ibid., 227. For a related discussion of delicia children, that is “pets” or “little darlings,” which sometimes involved pederasty, see Beryl Rawson, Children and Childhood in Roman Italy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 261–63. For a description of the relevant Greek and Latin terms, in addition to helpful English synonyms, see John Boswell, The Kindness of Strangers: The Abandonment of Children in Western Europe from Late Antiquity to the Renaissance (New York: Pantheon Books, 1988), 24–26 and relevant footnotes. Glancy, Slavery in Early Christianity, 76. Boswell, The Kindness of Strangers, 100–10. Beryl Rawson, “Adult–Child Relationships in Roman Society” in Marriage, Divorce, and Children in Ancient Rome ed. Beryl Rawson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991). Modern sociological studies have shown that child death and/or murder are not viewed the same way in all cultures, even today; a classic example is Nancy Scheper-Hughes, Death Without Weeping: The Violence of Everyday Life in Brazil (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992).

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of family planning.49 In a discussion of Exodus 2, Kenneth Ngwa explores the trauma of exposure (since Moses’ story begins with the potential of his death) and connects it to the larger history of Israel when he says, “Exile is exposure writ large, territorially.”50 Ngwa also connects the anxiety about a child surviving exposure to both trauma and resilience, particularly located in the existence of the child Gershom, whose name indicates his family’s dislocation.51 “Exodus 2 is a postwar story, infused with multiple consciousnesses and varied memories—conjunctive, disjunctive, and adjunctive—all of which produce Gershom, the narrative trope and communal embodiment that transforms the traumas of alienation to hopes of survival and integration.”52 Narratives about other vulnerable, violated children in other ancient texts likewise include traces of trauma, the threat of communal extinction, and the hope of survival.

Weeping Daughters and Boiled Children (Lamentations 2 and 4) Lamentations uses images of children to evoke pathos and to raise questions about YHWH’s aggression against a particular child, the personified Daughter Zion (who is also called a mother and a lonely widow).53 As in 4 Maccabees and Josephus’s Jewish War, these narratives about suffering children show how useful children and their mothers are for tugging at audiences’ heartstrings.54 Daughter Zion is the focus of some interpretations of Lamentations (especially

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Carolyn Osiek and Margaret Y. MacDonald, A Woman’s Place: House Churches in Earliest Christianity (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2006), 53. Kenneth Numfor Ngwa, “The Making of Gershom’s Story: A Cameroonian Postwar Hermeneutics Reading of Exodus 2,” JBL 134, no. 4 (2015): 873. See also responses by Juliana Claassens, Aliou Niang, and Musa Dube in the same JBL issue. The Akedah has a similar threat. Kathleen O’Connor writes: “the future of the family is at stake in the life of one child who sits on the brink of extermination at divine command and who survive[s] when God rescinds his sacrifice. . . . [This narrative] encapsulates in structure, if not in content, the challenge facing the people of Judah in post Babylonian period” (“How Trauma Studies Can Contribute to Old Testament Studies” in Trauma and Traumatization in Individual and Collective Dimensions, ed. Becker et al., 221). Ngwa, “The Making of Gershom’s Story,” 875. Wilkins, “War, Famine, and Baby Stew,” 68. Julie Faith Parker discusses the starving mothers who eat their sons in 2 Kgs 6:24–31 (Valuable and Vulnerable: Children in the Hebrew Bible, Especially the Elisha Cycle [Providence, RI: Brown Judaic Studies, 2013], 175–89). Laurel Koepf Taylor helpfully argues that the loss of children in warfare is not just an emotional loss, but also a communal (biological and cultural) loss (Give Me Children or I Shall Die: Children and Communal Survival in Biblical Literature [Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2013], 102–60.

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when interpreters are using trauma theory), but few interpreters focus on her being a daughter, a girl child.55 David Carr helpfully focuses on her gender when he writes, “Insofar as women were more vulnerable to trauma in the ancient world (as in the contemporary one), the feminine gender of the Daughter Zion image made that image a particularly powerful expression of the suffering, dissociated ‘self ’ of the Babylonian exiles.”56 She is, it is true, positioned as feminine, but she is also positioned as a child, a daughter, which is a doubly vulnerable position.57 Even if Daughter Zion is not young, her title (“Daughter”) indicates her status as someone’s child, a dependent and contingent relationship. Thus, the community is described as suffering as an endangered and abandoned daughter. Lamentations gives voice to the vulnerable and traumatized.58 Although there are other ways that the narrator of Lamentations expresses horror and loss, one of the most shocking elements of this text are the brief references to mothers who cook and eat their own children. In Lamentations 2, the destroyed city is personified as “Daughter Zion” or “Daughter Judah,” who has been humiliated and broken; the cries of the hungry children echo in that city. The narrator laments to God, “To whom have you done this? Should women eat their offspring, the children they have borne?” (Lam. 2:20). Later, the narrator emphasizes the unnaturalness of a mother eating her child: “Even the jackals offer the breast and nurse their young, but my people has become cruel. . . . The hands of compassionate women have boiled their own children; they became their food in the destruction of my people”

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See, for example, Wilkins, “War, Famine, and Baby Stew”; Else K. Holt, “Daughter Zion: Trauma, Cultural Memory and Gender in OT Poetics,” and Elizabeth Boase, “The Traumatized Body: Communal Trauma and Somatization in Lamentations,” in Trauma and Traumatization in Individual and Collective Dimensions ed. Becker et al., 193–209. Kristine Henriksen Garroway discusses Lam. 2 and 4 under the rubric of “child sacrifice” (Children in the Ancient Near Eastern Household, EANEC 3 [Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2014], 188); Christl Maier discusses the metaphor in detail, though mostly focused on Daughter Zion’s gender and status but not as much on her age (Daughter Zion, Mother Zion: Gender, Space, and the Sacred in Ancient Israel [Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2008], 141–60). Carr, Holy Resilience, 80. Compare Lam. 5:11, which calls God to remember what has happened to Jerusalem, including famine, drought, death, enslavement, and rape: “women have been violated in Zion, and virgins in the towns of Judah.” See Smith-Christopher’s discussion of Lamentations as “singing the blues”; Daniel L. SmithChristopher, “Biblical Lamentations and Singing the Blues,” in The Oxford Handbook of Biblical Narrative, ed. Danna Nolan Fewell (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 550–60.

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(Lam. 4:3, 10).59 These references, however brief, indicate the unspeakable horror of the destruction of Jerusalem, including the threat of starvation and famine from an invading army. The image of “compassionate women” cooking and eating their own children shows the impending doom of this foreshortened future: hungry, weeping children are endangered, while consumed children do not survive the war. Thus, the images of traumatized “Daughter Zion” and compassionate cannibal mothers point to the speechless terrors of war.

Disrupted Families and Threatened Infants in Mark 13 Although a different genre than Lamentations, the so-called “little apocalypse” of Mark 13 gives some similar glimpses of the threat of war and deportation, especially as it concerns children. The setting for this apocalyptic warning is already threatening: when one of Jesus’ disciples points out the Temple and says, “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” (Mk 13:1), Jesus “predicts” the destruction of the Temple.60 Some of the disciples ask when this will happen and what sign will accompany this destruction. In the course of Jesus’ description of the dangers to come, he famously references “wars and rumors of wars . . . earthquakes . . . famines” (13:7, 8). Jesus frames this impending crisis as “birth pangs” (13:8; cf. Rom. 8:22–25; Rev. 12:1–6), indicating both pain and promise. In addition to the large-scale disasters that Jesus predicts, some of this apocalyptic vision includes direct threats to children and families: “brother will betray [paradosei] brother to death, and a father his child, and children will rise

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These themes, including the “natural” love that parents should have for children (juxtaposed with a mother who wills her child’s death), are echoed in later texts, like Josephus’ JW 6.201–213, 4 Macc. 8–18, and Lam. Rab. (Kathleen Gallagher Elkins, Mary, Mother of Martyrs: How Motherhood Became Self-Sacrifice in Early Christianity [Cambridge: Feminist Studies in Religion Books, 2018]). Christl Maier discusses these themes in Lam. 2 (Daughter Zion, Mother Zion, 156). Carr, Holy Resilience, 234; see a helpful discussion of the traumas in Mark’s context in Maia Kotrosits and Hal Taussig, Re-Reading the Gospel of Mark amidst Loss and Trauma (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), 26–31 and Zorodzai Dube, “Jesus’ Death and Resurrection as Cultural Trauma,” Neot 47, no. 1 (2013): 107–22; Kari Syreeni discusses the losses of Jesus and the Temple in “Coping With the Death of Jesus: The Gospels and the Theory of Grief Work,” in From Gospel to Gnostics, ed. J. Harold Ellens and Wayne G. Rollins, vol. 3, Psychology and the Bible: A New Way to Read the Scriptures (Westport, CN: Praeger, 2004), 63–86; Adele Reinhartz shows that the destruction of the Temple was not necessarily seen as traumatizing for everyone in her “The Destruction of the Jerusalem Temple as a Trauma for Nascent Christianity,” in Trauma and Traumatization in Individual and Collective Dimensions, ed. Becker et al., 275–88.

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against parents and have them put to death” (13:12). The signs, then, include betrayals and disruptions within a family unit. In the context of Mark’s Gospel, “household divisions and alientation of children as a consequence of Jesus’ eschatological gathering of followers” are not in themselves surprising; Jesus has already promoted belonging in a new “family” unit, which includes leaving one’s own family behind (see Mk 3:34–35; 10:17–22, 28–30).61 Moreover, Jesus mourns especially for vulnerable children and pregnant mothers: “Woe to those who are pregnant and to those who are nursing infants in those days!” (13:17). This “suffering” (thlipsis) will be that much worse for them; Is it because they are weaker or more vulnerable? They need more sustenance to survive? Because they need more support from family, who will have betrayed them (13:12)? Or because they will be slower to “flee to the mountains” when “the desolating sacrilege” has been set up where it ought not to be (13:14)? The reasons for singling out pregnant and nursing mothers (including, presumably, their fetuses and babies) are not clear, though it is easy to imagine that mothers and children were especially vulnerable to the effects of war, famine, and forced migration in antiquity, as today.62 And it is clear that the impending crisis is especially threatening to those who are vulnerable and dependent.

Conclusion Biblical scholars continue to use insights from interdisciplinary studies of trauma, disaster, and recovery in order to illuminate various aspects of the biblical canon. Those insights can also be used in order to understand the lives and portrayals of children in the biblical world with more depth, texture, and complexity. Psychiatrist Judith Herman compares the characteristics of traumatic memory to the memories of young children: they are non-linear, “frozen and wordless,” focus on bodily sensation and imagery, lacking narrative, and so on.63 Similarly, children’s traumas are not always seen or highlighted in

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A. James Murphy, Kids and Kingdom: The Precarious Presence of Children in the Synoptic Gospels (Eugene, OR : Pickwick, 2013), 103. See the discussion in Caryn A. Reeder, “Pity the Women and Children: Punishment by Siege in Josephus’s Jewish War,” JSJ 44, no. 2 (2013): 1–21. Judith L. Herman, Trauma and Recovery (New York: Basic Books, 1992), 37–8.

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biblical narratives but perhaps the memory of (children’s) trauma remains, even if partially erased. A community’s traumatic memories may also be like the memories of children. The use of children in media narratives about violence and war shows the power of childhood to evoke haunting responses. Photographic images in particular mobilize the viewer’s compassion and grief.64 These images are places for modern viewers to focus our cultural trauma and work through the pain, grief, and horror of witnessing such violence from afar. The biblical narratives about children may function in a similar way: biblical authors use a child, an image of vulnerability, smallness, even helplessness, as a metaphor for their own sense of devastation. That child encapsulates the fear and weakness that the community feels. Moreover, if that child is threatened with death or consumed by their own mother, as in Lamentations, an image of potentiality that will not grow, the narrative conveys the grief and speechless terror accompanying destructive violence. If children are used in a narrative that highlights their vulnerability, as in Mark, a community may identify with that incoming threat. In any place where biblical authors use traumatized and violated children, readers can be attentive to the function of both the pain and the child in order to understand the original community’s traumas and our own.

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Here, I am thinking of the Syrian refugee crisis, the coverage of which has included many powerful images and stories. The images of Alan Kurdi, the Kurdish Syrian boy who washed up dead on a beach in Turkey, sneakers still on his small feet, or Omran Daqneesh, the Syrian boy from Aleppo shown in an aid vehicle, covered in ash and soot, are two such examples.

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A Road-Trip to Manhood: Tobias’s Coming of Age in Tobit 6–12 Stephen M. Wilson

The study of childhood in the Bible is no longer in its infancy. Indeed, it appears to be hitting an adolescent growth spurt, with a number of recent monographs, edited volumes (including the present one), and articles indicating the first flush of a healthy maturation.1 Concurrent with the burgeoning scholarly interest in biblical childhood has been the rise of a subfield within gender studies of the Scriptures: masculinity studies. Research in this topic endeavors to reveal how masculinity is a socially-constructed phenomenon with defining characteristics that can readily evolve over time. While these two areas of inquiry may not seem at first glance to inform one another, a contact point between the two exists in the theme of male coming of age. Narratives that depict a boy transitioning out of childhood and into manhood provide an informative glimpse into a culture’s understanding of both of these life stages.2 Such stories also address the significant question for childhood scholars about when this period of life concludes according to a given society. In previous work, I have offered an initial exploration of this theme in the Hebrew Bible (HB).3 By my reckoning, the HB contains five tales of male coming of age, and two of the failure to mature. That study, however, limited its scope to the texts of the HB, when in fact the coming-of-age theme extends beyond 1

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For a helpful discussion of recent work in the field, see Reidar Aasgaard’s article, “History of Research on Children and Childhood in the Biblical World: Past Developments, Present State—and Potential Future” in this volume. For discussion of a girl’s identity-construction, with attention to both age and culture, see the Dong Sung Kim’s treatment of Esther in “Children of Diaspora: The Cultural Politics of Identity and Diasporic Childhood in the Book of Esther” in this volume. Stephen M. Wilson, Making Men: The Male Coming-of-Age Theme in the Hebrew Bible (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015).

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that canonical boundary. In particular, narratives found in the so-called Deuterocanonical Literature or Apocrypha offer great potential for identifying the theme of male maturation and comparing its use in this literature to its precursors among the coming-of-age stories of the HB. One such text is the book of Tobit, most often dated to the Hellenistic period.4 The book is named for its main character Tobit, an Israelite exile in Nineveh whose zealous commitment to the law of Moses initially brings him the dual misfortunes of blindness and financial ruin. Divine assistance that rectifies Tobit’s suffering comes in the form of the disguised angel Raphael, but this assistance is mediated through the person of Tobit’s son, Tobias. The book’s plot accelerates in chapter 6, when Tobias goes on a journey to Ecbatana in Media (some 325 miles from Nineveh) with the angel Raphael, who is in the guise of a young man named Azariah. Tobias is commissioned by his father to take this potentially perilous expedition in order to reclaim money Tobit left in trust with fellow Israelite Gabael in the Median town of Rages. On this trip, Tobias is confronted with a fish that attacks him by attempting to swallow his foot. After overcoming and killing the fish, “Azariah” informs Tobias that the fish’s innards contain powerful apotropaic and medicinal qualities. The apotropaic powers of the innards immediately become useful when Tobias meets with his kinsman Raguel in Ecbatana. Raguel’s daughter Sarah, introduced in chapter 3, has been married seven times but has seen each of her husbands die on their wedding night, killed by the demon Asmodeus. Tobias quickly arranges to marry Sarah and is able to thwart Asmodeus in the bridal chamber by burning part of the fish innards. Once Azariah acquires the money in Rages from Gabael, he accompanies the newly married couple on their return to Nineveh, where Tobit and his wife await. Upon seeing his father, Tobias applies the remainder of the innards onto his father’s blind eyes, which miraculously heal. Given the apparent fairy-tale elements of this story, further discussed below, it is quite appropriate to end this thumbnail sketch of the book’s plot with the expected formulaic conclusion: “and they lived happily ever after.” Obviously, since Tobit is sixty-two years old at the time of his blindness (Tob. 14:2), applying a coming-of-age exegesis to his story would be

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For a discussion of the status quaestionis on the dating of Tobit, see Andrew B. Perrin, “An Almanac of Tobit Studies: 2000–2014,” CRBS 13, no. 1 (2014): 113–15.

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wrongheaded.5 However, the journey and transformation of his son Tobias throughout the narrative rewards such a reading. In fact, the conclusion that Tobias’s maturation is recounted in the story is not an original one: Lester Grabbe remarks, for instance, that Tobit 7 marks the point at which Tobias “grows up,” “appear[ing] as a fully mature individual,”6 while Cary Moore notes the “transformation” of Tobias that concludes in Tobit 11, and how he “matured in the course of his journey.”7 At present, however, no scholar has undertaken to identify the coming-of-age theme with precision or to offer a sustained reflection on this maturation tale as it relates to the ideologies of boyhood and masculinity in the HB or Deuterocanonical literature.8 These are the goals of this essay. I begin by briefly summarizing recent research on the characteristic features ascribed to children and men in the Classical world—an essential task in identifying narratives in which a boy comes of age by transitioning from boyish to manly qualities. I give special attention to the emphasis on the dependence of children upon adults versus the autonomy of the ideal man, as this dichotomy plays a central role in the maturation tale of Tobias. I then demonstrate how Tobias’s journey to and from Ecbatana in Tobit 6–12 functions as this character’s coming of age by applying the four principles I articulated in my work on the HB to aid in locating the coming-of-age theme. After arguing for the presence of this theme, I conclude by comparing Tobias’s story with those of other biblical and Deuterocanonical “initiatory heroes,” and focus on the presence or absence of violence in each depiction of male maturation.

Characteristics of Boys and Men in the Classical World Identifying male coming-of-age narratives requires knowledge of the traits most associated with boys and men in a culture, otherwise it is impossible to

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The Aramaic text of Tobit and Jerome’s Latin translation differ with the Greek here, placing Tobit’s age at the time of his blindness at fifty-seven. Lester L. Grabbe, “Tobit,” in Eerdmans Commentary on the Bible, ed. James D. G. Dunn and John W. Rogerson (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 743. Carey A. Moore, Tobit, AB (New York: Doubleday, 1996), 265, 200. For an analysis of the depiction of female childhood in Tobit, see Sharon Betsworth’s discussion of Sarah as a daughter and child (The Reign of God is Such as These: A Socio-Literary Analysis of Daughters in the Gospel of Mark [London: T&T Clark, 2010], 62–75).

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specify when a boy protagonist makes a recognizable change from being depicted as youthful in a text to being characterized as a man. A survey of HB literature reveals that the following features most frequently describe children: physical vulnerability, endangerment, powerlessness (both physical and social), a lack of wisdom and a predilection toward rash and impetuous actions, beauty, association with women,9 economic value, importance to a community’s biological and cultural survival,10 the ability to congregate in social circles of their own making, and a certain measure of accountability for their own actions.11 These qualities mark children generally; however, a smaller subset of older male youths—or “young men,” as I refer to them in Making Men—are often praised for their strength and virility, qualities often associated with adult men. Still, these young men are not fully considered adults, presumably because they have not reached the biblical Israelite age of majority at twenty (Exod. 30:14; Lev. 27:3–5; Num. 1:3, 18; 14:29; 26:2; 32:11), and/or because they are not yet married and remain childless.12 The terms specifically denoting this period of a man’s life (bāh.ûr and ʿelem) are comparatively uncommon (fortyfive and two occurrences, respectively), suggesting a lack of sustained reflection on this stage of life in HB literature. Manhood, in contrast, is most linked with the following features: strength (both physical and psychological, i.e., courage), wisdom and persuasive speech, avoidance of association with women, self-control, honor, kinship solidarity, and reaching the age of majority.13 Marriage and fertility also distinguish men from boys. These, however, are sufficient conditions for manhood that emphasize one’s masculinity, making a married and fertile male “more of a

9

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12 13

For an extended discussion of these features of childhood in the HB, see Wilson, Making Men, 47–72. For childhood vulnerability, see also Julie Faith Parker, Valuable and Vulnerable: Children in the Hebrew Bible, Especially the Elisha Cycle, BJS 355 (Providence, RI: Brown University, 2013), esp. 74–76. See Laurel W. Koepf Taylor, Give Me Children or I Shall Die: Children and Communal Survival in Biblical Literature (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2013), esp. 27–31, 93–124. See Parker, Valuable and Vulnerable, 91–101. With regard to childhood accountability, Parker cites the story of Elisha and the she-bear that kills a group of youths that had been taunting the prophet (2 Kgs 2:23–24). Other sources in the HB, however, suggest that children are not as culpable for their actions as are adults. For example, the children of the wilderness generation are permitted to enter Canaan while their parents are not because the children did not yet “know right from wrong” (Deut. 1:39), and therefore are not held responsible for their parents’ lack of faith. Wilson, Making Men, 65–73. Ibid., 29–46.

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man” than his unmarried or childless fellows; but marriage and children do not qualify as necessary conditions for manhood.14 As noted, these constructions of boyhood and manhood are found in the texts of the HB; but clearly they would exert influence on views in the Deuterocanonical literature of which Tobit is a part, given its indebtedness to and reverence for the sacred texts of Judaism. Still, the Deuterocanonical literature is also a product of Jews living in a Greco-Roman social context, therefore it is essential to consider the perceptions of manhood and childhood in that cultural milieu as well. Doing so identifies many similarities with views in the HB; however, the differences of content and emphasis deserve mention when undertaking to outline Tobias’s maturation from boy to man. In many ways, Greco-Roman depictions of childhood match those found in the HB. For example, children in the Classical world were similarly viewed as susceptible to impetuousness and uncontrolled flashes of destructive emotions like anger and greed.15 They too are typically associated with the world of women, with both Plato and Aristotle often grouping these two together with slaves and animals in their writings.16 But alongside these shared perceptions of childhood are some substantive differences. For instance, Greco-Roman thinkers were more willing to speculate on the stages of youth than the authors of the HB, producing several examples of schemata that divide the periods of life into stages based on age. A work attributed to Hippocrates, for instance, divides life into seven periods of seven years. The stages prior to manhood are identified by different terms for children and youths: boys from birth to age seven are called paidion; for those eight to fourteen, the term employed is pais; fifteen- to twenty-one-year olds are referred to as meirakion; and from twentytwo to twenty-eight, neaniskos.17 Roman physician Galen carried on this sevenyear division of the life cycle,18 and both Philo of Alexandria and Aristophanes 14

15

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Note, for example, that Jeremiah remains unmarried and childless throughout his life, but is still considered to be a “man” (Hebrew ʾîš, e.g., Jer. 15:10; 26:11). See Plato, Leg., 7.808D; Aristotle, [Proble.], 8.20.889a15; 10.45.895b30. These sources are highlighted by Mark Golden, Children and Childhood in Classical Athens (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990), 9. See, e.g., Plato, Ep., 8.355C, Leg. 4.710A, 7.808DE, 12.963E; Aristotle, Gen. an. 1.728a17, Hist. an. 7.588a31. For a detailed discussion of the contours of the Classical understanding of childhood, see Golden, Children and Childhood, 1–22; and Olympia Bobou, Children in the Hellenistic World: Statues and Representation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 19–40. Hippocrates, in Philo, Opif., 36.105. Galen, On the Doctrines of Hippocrates and Plato VIII.6.25–28.

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of Byzantium demarcate stages of boyhood with youth-specific terminology, but do not provide exact age ranges.19 Two points relating to these schemata are noteworthy. First, in none of them does the age twenty appear as a significant transition point as it does in the HB.20 Second, even when accounting for the possibility that the extant life-cycle schemata may only represent philosophical reflections on the stages of life with little connection to societal practice, it is apparent that the Classical world had an accepted and broad understanding of “young manhood” that pushed back the borders of adult manhood later than that found in ancient Israelite culture. In fact, Hippocrates reckons manhood as beginning only at age thirty,21 and Aristotle recommends men marry at thirty-seven.22 Males in “young manhood” shared many characteristics with adult men, in that they could serve in the military, had voting power in the case of the Athenian democracy, and were developed physiologically. Thus they were no longer children, but were still not reckoned by their societies as adult men (anēr/vir). With marriage and the production of children they could attain manhood; although, as with all iterations of masculinity, it was a status in need of constant defense. Certain characteristics of boyhood find greater emphasis in Classical literature than in the HB, even if the biblical writers may not have disagreed with GrecoRoman authors in their assessments. One such quality is the lack of courage among boys. Mark Golden, citing Plato, Aristotle, Sophocles, and Aeschines contends that in the Classical world “[i]t was courage that children were felt to lack in particular; children might seem brave, but this was dismissed as mere ignorance and thoughtlessness.”23 The necessity of childhood obedience to parents, especially their fathers, is also a repeated theme in Classical literature.24

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20

21 22 23 24

See A. James Murphy, Kids and Kingdom: The Precarious Presence of Children in the Synoptic Gospels (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2013), 19–20. The emphasis on the twentieth year for male maturation continued beyond the time of the HB and into Hellenistic Jewish culture, as indicated by the Qumran community’s membership prohibition of any males under the age of twenty (1QSa 1:10–11). See Bobou, Children, 24; citing Hippocrates, Hebd., 5.25–30. Ibid., 26. Citing Aristotle, Pol. 1335a.xvi.9. Golden, Children and Childhood, 6. For a concurring opinion in the HB, see Judg. 8:20–21. See Reidar Aasgaard, “Like a Child: Paul’s Rhetorical Uses of Childhood,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Marcia J. Bunge, Terence E. Fretheim, and Beverly Roberts Gaventa (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 265. See also Margaret Y. Macdonald, “A Place of Belonging: Perspectives on Children from Colossians and Ephesians,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et  al., who cites Aristotle (281), Neopythagorean traditions (282) and Philo (284). Again, the authors of the HB would likely agree on the centrality of a child’s obedience (see, for example, Isaac’s willingness to be bound on an altar

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Most significant for the present project, however, is the Greco-Roman stress on the dependence of children on their parents. Ancient Israel certainly shared this view of childhood dependency. Indeed, a common term for children (t.ap) essentially means “dependents.”25 Still, scholars of childhood in the Classical world and in the New Testament (like Tobit, a product of a Hellenized society) have drawn greater attention to this quality of childhood than have their ancient Near Eastern and HB scholarly counterparts. Classicist Olympia Bobou, for example, notes that from birth children in the Hellenistic world were “under the protection of their relatives and the gods,” and were particularly dependent on the eldest male in their families, whom Aristotle defined as the rightful ruler of any household.26 Judith Gundry’s exegesis of Jesus’ famous blessing of children in Mk 10:14, and his declaration that the Kingdom of God belongs to “such as these,” hinges on the dependence of children on others; thus, Jesus encourages his followers to be radically dependent on God.27 Most conclusively, A. James Murphy’s exhaustive study of Jewish and Greco-Roman sources on childhood from 300 BCE to 200 CE finds “no evidence” from this period “that presents a child or children acting autonomously from their caregivers,” adding that “[children] were entirely dependent on structured family settings for food, shelter, and protection.”28 As is the case with cultural constructions of boyhood in ancient Israel and the Greco-Roman world, both cultures share a great deal of similarity with regard to their views of masculinity. Honor, strength, fertility, and a general avoidance of female society are shared in the normative views of the ideal man in both societies.29 One difference deserving of attention, however, concerns

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and almost sacrificed in Gen. 22), even if the locus classicus for obedience to parents—the command to honor father and mother in the Decalogue (Exod. 20:12)—was likely addressed to adult children, not those still dependent upon their parents. See Brevard S. Childs, The Book of Exodus, OTL (Louisville: Westminster, 1976), 418. C. Locher, “‫טַף‬,” TDOT 5:347. Aristotle, Pol. I.ii.6–7, cited in Bobou, Children, 40, 20. Judith M. Gundry, “Children in the Gospel of Mark, with Special Attention to Jesus’ Blessing of the Children (Mark 10:13–16) and the Purpose of Mark,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et  al., 150–54. Murphy, Kids and Kingdom, 66–67. For a recent review of the current state of masculinity studies in the New Testament, including a summary of Classical views of manhood, see Eric Stewart, “Masculinity in the New Testament and Early Christianity,” BTB 46, no. 2 (2016): 91–102.

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the mutual emphasis on self-control in Classical and HB literature. Both view this quality as absolutely central to masculinity, but the motivation behind the action is not identical. In ancient Israel, self-control grows out of a desire to obey the restrictions in the Torah that YHWH places on certain natural urges like food consumption, sexual desire, and vengeance against enemies.30 Selfcontrol in the Greco-Roman world, however, is more a function of the manly expression of power. Just as a man should wield control and power over others while maintaining his own autonomy, his control of his own body and desires demonstrates his strength.31 In fact, as political freedom and military defense increasingly were ceded to the emperor in the Roman period, this emphasis on self-control became a primary way for men to exert their power in the Classical world.32 To conclude, generally the idealized masculinity and the accepted views of boyhood articulated in the HB bear a great deal of resemblance with those in the Greco-Roman context in which Tobit was composed. When identifying and analyzing the story of Tobias’s maturation, one can assume that the author of Tobit recognized the similar understandings of the male life cycle in the two cultural sources upon which he or she was drawing—biblical and Classical. It is worthy of mention, however, that the Classical world did appear to have a more well-articulated view of a lengthier time of “young manhood,” stretching as late as thirty years old, and that Greco-Roman society was often more explicit in viewing boys as lacking courage, utterly dependent on and ideally obedient to their parents (especially their fathers). Additionally, the manly quality of self-control is understood in the Classical thought as stemming from a man’s power and autonomy, and not from his devotion to keeping a deity’s commandments.

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32

Wilson, Making Men, 39–40. See Stephen D. Moore and Janice Capel Anderson, “Taking it Like a Man: Masculinity in 4 Maccabees,” JBL 117, no. 2 (1997): 250; Halvor Moxnes, “Conventional Values in the Hellenistic World: Masculinity,” in Conventional Values of the Hellenistic Greeks, ed. Per Bilde et al., Studies in Hellenistic Civilization VIII (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 1997), 269; Richard Alston, “Arms and the Man: Soldiers, Masculinity and Power in Republican and Imperial Rome,” in When Men Were Men: Masculinity, Power, and Identity in Classical Antiquity, ed. Lin Foxhall and John Salmon, Leicester-Nottingham Studies in Ancient Society 8 (London: Routledge, 1998), 207–8, 215–16. See Alston, “Arms and the Man,” 215–16.

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Tobias’s Coming-of-Age Narrative In my previous work on coming-of-age stories, I articulated four methodological principles that aid in their identification. These principles were formulated with biblical literature in mind, but their potential for applicability outside of the canon is high, especially for such “canon-adjacent” literature as the works in the Apocrypha. Their aim is to lend specificity to the search for the comingof-age theme, and to prevent its over-application onto texts where the theme is not explicitly present. When referring to the main character, the first principle is that comingof-age narratives will often employ shifts of terminology that signal his maturation. For example, boy-terminology (especially the term na῾ar) is applied to Samuel throughout 1 Samuel 1–3, but ceases after the theophany that serves as his coming-of-age story in 1 Samuel 3. Second, a maturation tale should feature the boy protagonist’s acquisition and display of certain qualities associated with manhood. Ideally, the protagonist should begin the story being characterized in boyish fashion—marked by the characteristics of childhood outlined above—and by its conclusion should demonstrate his transition to manhood by embodying the characteristic features of masculinity in his society. Third, the ubiquitous association of the tripartite structure of a rite of passage (separation–liminality–reintegration) with maturation rituals suggests strongly that if such a structure can be located in a narrative, it can aid in identifying it as a coming-of-age story. This need not necessarily be the case, as rites of passage exist for several social transitions other than maturation; but nevertheless the presence of this tripartite narrative structure does strengthen the argument that a given story is concerned with coming of age. Fourth, a character’s maturation must take place within the recognizable borders of a single narrative. This principle is particularly applicable to the highly episodic ancestral narratives of Genesis, with different pericopes originating in different sources. It prevents the exegete from assuming that just because one narrative precedes another in which a character is first described as a man, that the preceding narrative must therefore be viewed as a coming of age.33

33

Wilson, Making Men, 20–22.

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In this section I will apply these four principles to the case of Tobias in the book of Tobit. Specifically, I will argue that Tobias’s journey to and return from Media (Tob. 6–12) function as his coming of age, and that therefore maturation from boyhood to manhood should be recognized as a significant theme in Tobit, alongside previously-identified themes in the book like theodicy, the efficacy of prayer, and the importance of endogamy. For the sake of the argument’s clarity and coherence, I begin with the fourth principle above (the necessity of an easily-delineated and integral narrative); then I will address each remaining principle in turn.

Narrative Integrity If the final form of Tobit were a hodgepodge of disparate sources from different times and places, each concerned with putting forward its own preferred themes, the case for recognizing Tobias’s maturation in the course of the narrative would be more difficult to make. At the very least it would require detailed and hypothetical source analysis in the effort to single out the particular narrative strand that contains the coming-of-age theme. Thankfully, the integrity of the narrative, despite its curious shift from first- to third-person narration and its incorporation of several literary genres, has largely been upheld by most modern commentators. Joseph Fitzmyer summarizes: “there is no serious reason to think that the Book of Tobit, as we have it today, is not integral or does not represent the original form of the account.”34 Despite this consensus on the unity of authorship, several scholars have posited a fairy-tale source, perhaps of Persian origin, behind the final text of Tobit. This is a point I return to below; but for now it suffices to note that even among the scholars that argue for a fairy-tale source for Tobit, it is acknowledged that the final author significantly shaped it to his or her purposes in such a way that the final text is still rightly considered a unitary composition. For example, Will Soll’s work, which applies Proppian analysis to distinguish fairy-tale elements in Tobit, still concludes that the ultimate benefit of this endeavor is to “see how the author of Tobit adapts this plot to his audience’s circumstances,

34

Joseph A. Fitzmyer, Tobit, CEJL (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2003), 45. See also Moore, Tobit, who avers that “probably the great majority of scholars rightly regard Tobit as the product of just one author” (22).

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elaborates on it, shifts its emphases, and otherwise enrolls it in the service of his larger purpose of Jewish edification and encouragement.”35

Terminology The author of Tobit employs male life-cycle terminology—i.e., words describing a particular stage of a man’s life, like the English “infant,” “boy,” “young man,” “man,” etc.—with frequency. Tracking the application of this terminology to Tobias demonstrates that a change in the estimation of this character occurs as the narrative progresses, signifying his maturation. Unfortunately, the most commonly-used life-cycle term in the book, paidion (applied thirty-six times to Tobias) is generally not helpful for the present analysis.36 This term, a diminutive of pais—therefore literally translated as “little child”—cannot aid in identifying Tobias’s age or development because it is applied to Tobias despite his age, and appears primarily to be a familial term of endearment for him.37 For example, Tobit refers to his son as paidion when he is on his deathbed (14:3, 8), fifty years after the main events of the book have transpired (14:2), and consequently at a time when Tobias has aged into his sixties at least. Clearly, then, when characters in the narrative use paidion in reference to Tobias, this does not provide insight into his age or development. However, when the narrator uses life-cycle terms to describe Tobias, including the term paidion as in 6:1, 3 (Sin. v. 2), we are on firmer ground for

35

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Will Soll, “Misfortune and Exile in Tobit: The Juncture of a Fairy Tale Source and Deuteronomic Theology,” CBQ 50, no. 2 (1989): 220. The text of Tobit exists in two main Greek recensions, a shorter one called GI and the longer GII found in the fourth/fifth century manuscript Sinaiticus. Most modern scholars believe that the longer recension is earlier, with GI being a later abridgment (for discussion, see Fitzmyer, Tobit, 3–6). GII also aligns more closely with Qumran’s Aramaic Tobit fragments, suggesting that it is closer to the hypothetical Semitic original text of Tobit. Its priority is reflected by NRSV’s choice to use GII as the basis for its English translation. For these reasons, my discussion of Tobit is based on the GII text. Occasionally versification differs between NRSV and GII. In those cases, I list NRSV’s verse first, with parenthetical reference to verses in GII (abbreviated Sin., for Sinaiticus). The term’s use is “familial” because the only characters to apply it to Tobias are family members (his father in 2:3; 4:4, 5 etc.; his mother in 11:9; his kinsman and father-in-law Raguel in 7:7 (Sin. v. 6); and his mother-in-law Edna in 10:12 (Sin. v. 13). In fact, Raguel only switches to using this term when he knows that he is related to Tobias; before that time, he calls him adelphos (“brother,” 7:1) and neaniskos (“young man,” 7:2). I assume its “endearing” use because diminutives often function in this way, alongside their use to describe something small. Since “little child” doesn’t seem an accurate descriptor of size and age for a “young man” (7:2), let alone a man in his sixties with seven children (14:2–3), its use is certainly affectionate. For a comparison with the terminology Tobit employs when addressing Sarah, see Betsworth, Reign of God, 71 n. 43.

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evaluating the character’s growth. The narrator would not naturally employ affectionate diminutives as the story’s characters regularly do regarding Tobias. Focusing on the narrator’s description of Tobias using life-cycle terms gives a small but telling sample of evidence. Of the eight examples, seven are found in chapter 6, when Tobias and Azariah have just started out on their journey to Media. The narrator refers to Tobias twice in this scene with paidion (6:1, 3 [Sin. v. 2]), and five times with paidarion, another diminutive of pais (6:3 [Sin. v. 2], twice in 6:4 [Sin. v. 3], 6:6 [Sin. v. 5], 6:7). The weight of this evidence demonstrates that Tobias is reckoned by the narrator to be distinctively boyish in chapter 6, which matches his actions in this chapter, as I will show below. However, by Tobit 8:1, the narrator drops the terminology suggestive of boyhood in reference to Tobias, and calls him instead neaniskos, or “young man.” At this point in the story, Tobias has arranged his marriage with Sarah, and is on his way to the bridal chamber with his bride. A term like neaniskos, connoting young men before marriage, is therefore appropriate at this point just before the marriage is consummated. Significantly, after this point, the narrator never uses any life-cycle terms of Tobias, and refers to him only by his name (e.g., 8:2; 9:6; 10:8 [Sin. v.7]; 14:3). This terminological survey suggests that Tobias undergoes a maturation in the course of the narrative between chapters 6 and 8, and again after Tobit 8:1 when no further youthful terms are applied to him by the narrator. An analysis of the character’s actions in the next section clarifies the changes in him that match his terminological maturation.

Demonstrating Characteristics of Manhood As the narrative progresses in Tobit, the depiction of Tobias evolves from an initial boyishness to one defined by the traits of masculinity outlined above, signifying the character’s maturation. The most obvious change signaling Tobias’s growth into manhood is his marriage to Sarah, negotiated in chapter 7 and consummated in chapter 8. Marriage is not only an indicator of manhood in biblical and Classical sources, but the book of Tobit itself clearly telegraphs the connection between the two early on in Tobit 1:9, where Tobit, in firstperson narration, states “When I became a man (anēr), I married a woman.” Beyond the simple fact of his marriage, it is significant that Tobias arranges the

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marriage himself in discussion with Sarah’s father Raguel (7:11–13). Unlike earlier biblical examples where the parents of the groom and bride or their representatives engage in the marital negotiations—especially Genesis 24, which scholars have recognized as a clear influence on the narrative of Tobit— here Tobias’s father and mother have no role in the proceedings.38 This underlines the most apparent change in the characterization of Tobias as the book unfolds: his movement from dependence upon others and acquiescence to their commands to an autonomous and authoritative man. Prior to his arrival in Ecbatana with Azariah in Tobit 7, Tobias is depicted as dependent on those with more social power or authority than him. This is evident from the first scene in which he appears as an active and speaking character, in Tobit 2:1–4. Here Tobit commands his son to invite any indigent Israelites he might encounter on the streets of Nineveh to his dinner table. Tobias dutifully obeys, but instead of finding dinner guests, he encounters the corpse of a murdered Israelite that remains unburied in the marketplace. Tellingly, rather than acting on his own to rectify this wrong, he returns to his father and informs him of the situation, waiting for him to act. His reluctance to take initiative could stem from a lack of the physical strength required to bury the body, fear of engaging in a potentially dangerous and subversive act (cf. 1:18–19), or a lack of knowledge about the proper course of action—all typical features in the characterization of children. Whatever the reason, Tobias’s return to his father to await his response speaks to the character’s dependence upon a more socially-authoritative figure. Similarly highlighting his dependence is the fact that, when Tobit loses his eyesight and becomes dependent on others to survive (2:10), only Tobias’s mother Anna is said to work to support the family (2:11–14), with no mention of the boy’s contribution. Tobias’s trip to Media, commissioned by his father, requires a guide to lead the boy (5:2–3), a sign of both his vulnerability and dependence. Upon finding the guide in the person of Raphael, under the pseudonym Azariah, Tobias cannot hire him for the journey himself, instead bringing him back to his father so that he may be vetted and hired (5:7–16). Lastly, Tobias’s lack of authority and dependence is emphasized when Azariah dismisses his initial objection to

38

See Benedikt Otzen, Tobit and Judith, Guides to Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha (London: Sheffield Academic, 2002), 21–22.

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marrying Sarah based on the understandable fear of experiencing the same fate as her previous seven betrothed husbands with a series of imperatives ending with a curt “Now say no more!” (mē logon eche; Tob. 6:18 [Sin. v. 17]). Tobias quietly and humbly acquiesces. The dependence and submission to the authority of others that mark Tobias in the first half of the book begins to change starting in Tobit 7, when he starts to show assertiveness suggestive of increased social power. Tobias is no longer the dutiful submitter to commands, but is the author of them himself, as he twice (7:1, 9) directs Azariah to perform acts in accordance with Tobias’s will (leading him to Raguel’s house and beginning the marriage negotiations, respectively). Later he further commands Azariah to retrieve his father’s money held by Gabael (9:1–4). Still, since Azariah is described as a “young man” (neaniskos, e.g., 5:5, 7) perhaps this expression of social power is less surprising, in that Azariah appears to be of approximately the same age as Tobias (also called a neaniskos in 7:2). More noteworthy, then, is when Tobias adopts a similar authoritative tone with his future father-in-law Raguel in 7:11, demanding that he immediately “settle the things that pertain to [him]” by giving Tobias his daughter Sarah as wife. After the wedding, Tobias continues to assert himself in discussions with Raguel, as he requests to be permitted to return to Nineveh with Sarah initially in respectful tones (10:7) but later with increased stridency (10:9). Most significantly, after Tobias’s reunion with his father—a man to whom he had deferred without question before his journey— he demonstrates his newly-minted authority by suggesting to his father the wages that they should provide to Azariah for his services (half of the possessions Tobias brought back from Media, 12:2), a suggestion that Tobit accepts. Tobias is no longer the dependent and powerless child he was at the story’s beginning, having transitioned into an authoritative and autonomous adult man. Matching this movement from dependence to autonomy and social power is Tobias’s decreasing need for paternal advice as the narrative proceeds, a sign of his increasing wisdom (another characteristic feature of biblical and Classical manhood). This becomes evident when comparing the two “deathbed speeches” Tobit gives to Tobias, one in Tobit 4 when Tobit decides to send his son on the journey to Media and is unsure whether he will survive to see his return, and the other in Tobit 14, before Tobit’s actual death. The earlier speech reflects a narrative context in which a father wishes to impart to his still-youthful son an

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outline for how properly to live as a man. In this regard it is very similar to David’s final instructions to Solomon in 1 Kings 2:2–9, which I have shown elsewhere provide a roadmap for the young man outlining how to mature as a king and man.39 As such, it contains a high volume of advice and warnings: twenty-nine individual admonitions, by my count. In Tobit’s speech in Tobit 14, however, Tobias is only counseled to do two things: to leave Nineveh, for Tobit knows that it will soon fall (a warning given twice: 14:4, 8), and to “serve God faithfully and do what is pleasing in his sight” (14:8). The comparative lack of counsel in the latter speech clearly indicates Tobit’s assessment of his son’s maturation as one who no longer needs extensive guidance from his elder. Lastly, Tobias’s transition to manhood is depicted in the narrative by his change from vulnerable and fearful boy early in the story to courageous man in control of his self and his emotions by its conclusion. His vulnerability is evident in his need for a guide on his journey to Media (5:3) and the danger he encounters when the fish attacks him by swallowing his foot, to which he responds with a cry of alarm (6:2). His fearfulness may be indicated by his reluctance to bury the corpse he finds in the marketplace of Nineveh (see above), but it is made explicit in his initial response to Azariah’s suggestion that he marry Sarah (6:14–15). However, by the time of his wedding night he fearlessly enters the bridal chamber with his bride and overcomes the demon Asmodeus through the use of apotropaic magic. His fearlessness and selfcontrol is underscored near the story’s end when he informs his father to “take courage” (11:11), a phrase uttered repeatedly throughout the narrative by those in possession of greater confidence and fearlessness than those to whom they speak: Raphael says it to Tobit in 5:10, Raguel’s wife Edna reassures her daughter Sarah with the phrase in 7:15, and Raguel uses it when speaking to Tobias in 8:21. In sum, the characterization of Tobias changes markedly throughout the narrative in a way that emphasizes his coming of age. The boyish qualities of dependence, vulnerability, an unmarried status, fear, and the need for guidance give way to marriage, autonomy, authority, wisdom, boldness, and self-control.

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Wilson, Making Men, 115–17.

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Tobias’s Journey as a Rite of Passage The case for viewing Tobit 6–12 as Tobias’s coming-of-age is strengthened by recognizing how the story fits the schema of a traditional rite of passage. First described by anthropologist Arnold van Gennep in the early twentieth century, rites of passage are rituals that facilitate an individual’s transition from one social state to another, and are performed at key transition points in life.40 Van Gennep devoted a third of his work to coming-of-age rites, due both to their prevalence and, arguably, because they mark a more elusive moment than other similar rituals like those for birth, marriage, and death.41 Famously, van Gennep also noted the ubiquity of a three-part structure to such rituals, in which initiates proceed through a period of separation, followed by one of liminality—the state of being caught between one stage and another—and concluding with a reintegration into society, during which their transition to a new state is acknowledged. Van Gennep’s work in ritual was first applied to literature by Victor Turner, and has been a staple of biblical exegesis for decades.42 Given the association between the rite-of-passage tripartite structure and coming of age, locating this structure in a narrative suggests that the story could be read as a maturation tale, although more evidence is often needed to identify it as such persuasively.43 Before mapping the rite-of-passage schema onto the plot of Tobias’s journey to Media in Tobit 6–12, it is relevant to note that the identification of a fairytale source behind the book of Tobit argues for the validity of a rite-of passage analysis of the narrative. With its similarities to the plot of certain well-known fairy tales like the Monster in the Bridal Chamber (where a series of men betrothed to the same princess are killed by a monster on their wedding night, until the hero arrives, defeats the monster, and marries the princess) or the 40

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Arnold van Gennep, The Rites of Passage, trans. Monika B. Vizedom and Gabrielle L. Caffee (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1960). Ibid., 65–115. For examples, see Wilson, Making Men, 10–12. Such caution is warranted here for the simple fact that anthropological research shows that not all rites of passage are coming-of-age rituals, but can include birth, marriage, and death ceremonies, among others. Thus, simply identifying the rite-of-passage schema in a narrative does not on its own ensure that the narrative is about maturation; other corroborating evidence of the theme must be evident to label a story a coming-of-age tale. Still, the presence of the rite-of-passage schema strengthens this identification, given its prevalence in coming-of-age rituals. For a more thorough discussion of the precautions necessary when applying rite-of-passage analysis to biblical narratives, see Wilson, Making Men, 12–13.

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Grateful Dead (in which a hero provides a proper burial to an exposed corpse and then receives assistance on a quest from the spirit of the deceased), it is not surprising that a number of scholars have claimed that a fairy-tale source lies behind Tobit, even if it has been significantly reworked by the author.44 The influence of fairy-tale themes and plotting on Tobit makes a rite-of-passage exegesis so rewarding because fairy tales, according to scholars including the prominent folklorist Vladimir Propp, contain the same structure as initiation rites and attempt to accomplish narratively what these rituals embody.45 The tripartite rite-of-passage structure can be applied to Tobias’s journey with ease, and in fact can also explain some peculiar features of the narrative. The separation phase is obviously portrayed at the conclusion of Tobit 5 and the beginning of Tobit 6, where Tobias leaves behind the social world of his family in which he had lived until that time, much to the dismay of his tearful mother.46 His reintegration occurs in Tobit 11, when he returns from Media with his new wife and the money Tobit originally sent him to retrieve. His transformation to manhood is acknowledged subtly in the ways outlined above: his use of the imperative “take courage” with his father (11:11), and his ability to participate in the negotiations regarding Azariah’s payment (12:2). The fact that Tobias’s mother Anna is the first to encounter him upon his return (11:9) also fits the pattern of typical maturation rites of passage, where women often greet the initiates upon their return and integration back into society.47 The liminal stage of a rite of passage encompasses the period between separation and reintegration, in which the initiate is “betwixt and between” two

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See Joseph Blenkinsopp, “Biographical Patterns in Biblical Narrative,” JSOT 6, no. 20 (1981): 37–38. See also Otzen, Tobit and Judith, 8–20; Pamela J. Milne, “Folktales and Fairy Tales: An Evaluation of Two Proppian Analyses of Biblical Narratives,” JSOT 11, no. 34 (1986): 46–51; Soll, “Misfortune,” 209–31. See Vladimir I. Propp, Morphology of the Folktale, trans. L. Scott, 2nd ed. (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1968), 114. See also Mircea Eliade, Myth and Reality (New York: Harper Torchbook, 1968), 202; and N. J. Girardot (“Initiation and Meaning in the Tale of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves,” JAF 90 [1977]: 275), who writes that “the narrative form of a fairy tale as a particular structural constellation of symbols basically reveals an initiatory pattern.” For the common presence in ancient heroic folklore of the “detaining woman” (often a mother) that attempts to slow the progress of the hero’s journey, see Thomas Van Nortwick, Imagining Men: Ideals of Masculinity in Ancient Greek Culture (Westport, CT: Praeger, 2008), 7, 35. See Glen Weisfield, “Puberty Rites as Clues to the Nature of Human Adolescence,” CCR 31 (1997): 38–39.

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social statuses. During this time initiates often undergo harrowing ordeals, acquire special knowledge, and experience an overturning of societal norms. On Tobias’s trip to Media, he encounters ordeals that he overcomes, both in the form of the fish that attacks him and in the demon Asmodeus who seeks to kill him as it had Sarah’s seven previous grooms. He also acquires special knowledge that benefits others, specifically the medical knowledge to cure his father’s blindness with fish innards.48 Tobias’s negotiations with Raguel for Sarah’s hand, without the involvement of his parents or their representative (as in Gen. 24), while certainly a sign of his growing masculine autonomy, also could be viewed as the sort of inversion of societal norms common to the liminal phase of a rite of passage. Finally, the curious fact that, despite Tobit’s insistence that Tobias find a “man” (anthrōpos; 5:3) to guide him to Media, Azariah is repeatedly referred to as a “young man” (neaniskos; 5:5,7, 10), may be explained by the common practice in coming-of-age rituals to initiate boys in groups known as “age-sets,” forging camaraderie and mutual support among the boys as they participate in the ritual. This ritual practice may find its narrative reflection in the partnering for the journey of Tobias and Azariah—both “young men” during the journey, and both never referred to as young after it. While the separation-liminality-reintegration structure of a typical rite of passage, so readily recognizable in the story of Tobias’s journey to Media, is only suggestive of the coming-of-age theme, together with the other evidence outlined above it furthers the case for viewing Tobit 6–12 as a maturation story.

Conclusion Having detailed Tobias’s coming of age in Tobit 6–12, at the conclusion of this investigation a pressing question remains: how does this maturation story compare to those found in the HB? Additionally, since male coming-of-age tales offer insight into a culture’s understanding of both boyhood and manhood, what does Tobias’s story tell us about changing conceptions of these life stages

48

Note that, in Joseph Campbell’s discussion of the “metamyth” behind all heroic stories (Hero with a Thousand Faces, 3rd ed. [Novato, CA.: New World Library, 2008], 23, 29), a significant feature of the liminal stage of these stories is the acquisition of a “boon” that the hero shares with others upon his reintegration into society.

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between the time of the composition of the biblical coming-of-age stories and that of Tobit? In my previous work, I identified two kinds of coming-of-age stories in the HB. One tells a more agonistic tale of maturation, in which the boy hero— largely through his own power—matures through his performance of certain, often violent, manly acts. These are stories of boys achieving the status of man by actively proving their manhood to others. Stories of this kind include that of Moses in Exodus 2, David in 1 Samuel 17, and Solomon in 1 Kings 1–2. The narratives describing the failure to mature (that of Jether in Judges 8 and Samson in Judges 13–16) also belong in this group, as the character’s lack of success arises from his inability or unwillingness to perform the duties required of a man: battlefield violence in the case of Jether, and wisdom and the emotional separation from parents required to marry in the case of Samson. The second variety of coming-of-age stories in the HB describe the transition from boy to man as a more passive process. Nowhere in the two stories belonging to this group—that of Samuel in 1 Samuel 3 and the alternate story of Solomon’s maturation in 1 Kings 3—does the boy protagonist need to overcome dangerous obstacles or perform any forceful act in order to be recognized as a man. Surely, Samuel and Solomon evidence maturation in these stories, but the qualities of manhood are bestowed on them in both cases by YHWH, and are not actively acquired and displayed. Nor are these stories as marked by the display of physical strength through force or the combative defense of honor as found in the other stories of male maturation. These two sets of biblical coming-of-age stories, while generally agreeing on the characteristic features of boyhood, differ markedly in their construction of masculinity. I argued in Making Men that these differences can be traced back to the historical context in which the stories were composed. Attributing the coming-of-age stories of Samuel and Solomon in 1 Kings 3 to an exilic Deuteronomistic historian, I claimed that the loss of political autonomy and the monopoly of force diminished the importance of bellicose qualities to masculinity in an exilic context, which is reflected in the narratives.49 Conversely, the stories in the first group belong to a pre-exilic edition of the Deuteronomistic History, with the more agonistic tone better fitting their context. 49

Wilson, Making Men, 151–53.

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Tobias’s coming of age, composed in a time in which Jews remained a colonized group—although now under the political control of Greek kingdoms—predictably bears greater similarities with the maturation tales written during the Babylonian exile than with the pre-exilic tales. With the possible exception of a greater emphasis on childhood dependence, its views of childhood are generally consistent with those in both groups of maturation tales; but its understanding of a masculinity divorced from violent displays of power coheres closely to that of Samuel and Solomon in 1 Kings 3. Nowhere does Tobias use violent force to assert his manhood; even the confrontation with the demon Asmodeus requires Tobias only to burn fish innards, with Raphael doing all the forceful binding and imprisoning of the demon (8:3). Tobias does actively assert certain characteristics of manhood like self-control, social authority, and wisdom to a greater extent than Samuel or Solomon in their stories; but like them his maturation involves assistance from YHWH, mediated through the angel Raphael. The angel’s aid is essential to Tobias’s journey, protecting him on the way, guiding him toward his future wife, instructing him on the powerful properties of the fish innards, retrieving Tobit’s money, and returning with him. Without his guiding presence, Tobias’s coming of age simply could not have occurred. In one way, however, Tobias’s coming of age is distinguished from stories in both groups of biblical maturation tales. Marriage appears as a much greater theme in his transition to manhood than in any previous example. Certainly marriage factors in to several biblical coming-of-age tales: David secures his marriage to King Saul’s daughter by slaying Goliath, and both Moses in Exodus 2 and Solomon in 1 Kings 1–2 get married at the conclusions of their tales. But in none of these cases is marriage as heavily emphasized as it is in Tobit 6–12; it is instead more of a final note following other demonstrations of masculinity. For Tobias, his marriage to Sarah provides the opportunity for his display of masculinity (e.g., his negotiations with Raguel, his fearlessness entering the bridal chamber); it is not an afterthought that serves as a veritable reward for demonstrating other masculine qualities. Again, this can be attributed to historical context, since in-group marriage and the siring of legitimate children became a greater concern for Jews in the years after the exile, as Ezra 9–10 readily shows. A final note on the role of violence in coming-of-age narratives is in order. Tobias’s story demonstrates that the diminished role of masculine violence first

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seen in the exilic biblical maturation narratives continued on into the Apocryphal literature. Another Deuterocanonical work that can be read as a coming-of-age story also addresses the role of violence in male maturation: 4 Maccabees. While a thorough discussion of the coming-of-age theme is not possible here, it suffices for our purposes to point out that the seven martyred brothers, described initially as “young men” (meirakia; 4 Macc. 11:24) show themselves to be more manly than the tyrant brutally executing them, thus elevating their status to that of “men” in the narrator’s eyes by the narrative’s conclusion (andres; 14:11).50 This work nuances the relationship between maturation and violence found in previous coming-of-age stories. As with Tobias, Samuel, and Solomon in 1 Kings 3, exerting violent force is not a demonstration of masculinity. Here, however, violence does play a role in becoming a man, as in the case of the preexilic tales; but 4 Maccabees turns the relationship on its head. Becoming a man requires not the ability to use violence, but the strength to endure it, even to the point of a martyr’s death. Thus, the coming of age of Tobias in Tobit 6–12 reveals that this theme remained as significant to the inheritors of the biblical literature in Hellenistic Judaism as it was to the biblical authors themselves. And indeed, as is the case with every male maturation story, it can provide readers with important insights into the conceptions of manhood and boyhood in the society that originally told these tales.

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For a thorough discussion of the contest of masculinity implied in the martyrdom scenes of 4 Maccabees, see Moore and Capel-Anderson, “Taking it Like a Man,” esp. 252–56.

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Part Four

New Testament

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Methodology: Who Is a Child and Where Do We Find Children in the Greco-Roman World? John W. Martens

Who is a child and where do we find children? As we seek the presence of children in Greco-Roman antiquity, we quickly run up against the same issues and complexities that Kristine Garroway outlines in her introductory essay on the Hebrew Bible and the Ancient Near East. Yet, as she demonstrates, these issues and complexities are by no means insuperable; what they demand is careful attention first to what we are seeking, children, and then to seek carefully to find them in our sources, the ancient texts and archaeological and inscriptional evidence that opens up to us the world of antiquity in the Mediterranean basin. As Garroway writes, “By understanding first what ‘child’ means in the biblical context, one can begin to explore the presence of children in different sources.”1 This exploration is meant to supplement Garroway’s research by paying particular attention to how to define “child” in the world in which the New Testament texts emerged and then how we can best locate the presence of children in our sources.

Who is a Child in the Greco-Roman World? Much of the research on children in antiquity, and specifically children in the Greco-Roman world, points out that childhood today and in antiquity are different realities. The differences are true at some fundamental levels, such as 1

Kristine Henriksen Garroway, “Methodology: Who is a Child and Where Do We Find Children in the Ancient Near East?” 69.

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the sorts of work which children performed at any early age, especially if they were slaves or living in poverty; in terms of education, which was not available for many children and for very few girls; and in terms of marriage, which included girls at a young age. Sweeping claims like this, however, often have in mind the lives of children in wealthy Western countries, as children’s lives in many parts of the world today still include work from a young age, a lack of education, and marriage at a young age.2 With respect to marriage at a young age, there are still areas in the Western world, such as parts of the United States, where this remains uncomfortably common.3 But cultural differences in how many children live their lives today in much of the world should not obscure the reality that the biology of childhood remains a constant from antiquity to today. Garroway outlines the biological realities of childhood, specifically the physical growth categories that mark children across cultures and time, and she determines that a “child” in biological terms spans an age range from 3.1 to 6.9.4 Social reality, however, does not always map neatly onto physical and biological development. Physical development takes place in social and cultural contexts in which someone who is not yet an adult must go through a variety of forms of social and cultural achievement, depending upon their status and gender in a given society, before they are considered grown. This is dependent upon social and legal realities which will in fact withhold adult status from certain people regardless of their age or physical development, male or female, on the basis of their social status as slaves.5 In bringing together intersecting physical and social realities, Garroway locates four categories of children: Infant/Baby (0–2); Young Child (3–6); Older Child (7–13); and Adolescent (14–19). These categories chart quite well, though not identically, onto the Greco-Roman categories in Jewish, Greek, and Roman sources of 2

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Laurel W. Koepf Taylor, “Accessing Childhoods: Interdisciplinary Tools at the Intersection of Biblical Studies and Childhood Studies,” in this volume. On recent attempts to revise child marriage in Kentucky see: https://www.courier-journal.com/ story/news/2018/03/05/child-bride-marriage-kentucky-legislation-revised/396031002/ Garroway, “Methodology,” 70. Mark Golden, “Pais, ‘Child’ and ‘Slave’ ” L’Antiquité Classique 54 (1985), 91–104, https://www.persee. fr/doc/antiq_0770-2817_1985_num_54_1_2143. This can be true in the inverse also, as is the case even today with African-American children who are not allowed the cultural and social freedom granted to white children in the United States. See Alex Kotlowitz, There Are No Children Here: The Story of Two Boys Growing Up in The Other America (New York: Doubleday, 1992); and Koepf Taylor, “Accessing Childhoods,” 42–43.

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antiquity. One thing that must be stressed, however, is that there is no “average” childhood in the Greco-Roman world for use as a measuring stick to assess all children.6 As Cornelia Horn and I wrote, “apart from differences among classes—whether a child was a slave, freeborn, or an aristocrat—one also has to account for gender differences. In addition, one has to consider what separated Jews, Greeks, Romans, as well as other cultures and peoples of the region from one another.”7 All of these qualifications, and more, still apply. Nevertheless, the ancients did try to define the nature and stages of a human life, including the stages of childhood.

The Intersection of Biology and Culture: Philo of Alexandria Philo of Alexandria offers a good starting point for determining the ages of children in Greco-Roman antiquity, especially as it relates to a study of the New Testament. He lived just prior to and at the emergence of Christianity, and he was a Jew fully immersed in Greco-Roman literature, including that regarding the physiological development of children. Philo provides typical views and language regarding Greco-Roman childhood, including a greater focus on male rather than female development. Philo speaks of life stages in De opificio mundi 103–104 and De congressu 74–88.8 His most thorough discussion, though, takes place in De opificio mundi where Philo speaks of ten stages of seven years from brephos (infant) to gēros (old person), a division which follows that of the Athenian lawgiver Solon.9 In the first seven-year stage, the pais (child) is first a brephos (infant) and nēpios (infant or young boy). The second seven-year stage is that of a hēbē (youth), which ends at age fourteen and the transition to puberty. Philo is clearly focused on boys in these stages since he marks the second stage by the ability

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Jill Korbin, “Prologue. A Perspective from Contemporary Childhood Studies,” in Coming of Age in Ancient Greece: Images of Childhood from the Classical Past, ed. Jenifer Neils and John H. Oakley (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2004), 9–10. Cornelia Horn and John W. Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me”: Childhood and Children in Early Christianity (Washington, DC: Catholic University Press, 2009), 5. Much of the material discussed in the following pages is dependent upon research carried out initially for Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 6–18. Translations of Philo’s work, unless otherwise noted, are from Philo, 12 vols, trans. Francis Henry Colson et al., LCL (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1929–1962, reprinted 1981).

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to produce sperm. The third and fourth seven-year stages maintain the terminology of hēbē (youth), but in the third stage the hēbē is capable of growing a beard and in the fourth stage the hēbē grows in physical strength. At some point childhood is no longer in view, as the growing of the beard is often seen as the dividing line between childhood and adulthood, at least physiologically.10 By the fifth seven-year stage, which reaches to age thirty-five, when Philo says a young man should marry and have children, we are clearly no longer near the realm of childhood. Following this stage, though, Philo outlines the seven stages of Hippocrates (fifth to fourth centuries BCE), whose first four stages plot more directly onto Garroway’s four stages: a person begins as a paidion (infant, young child), grows to a pais (child), to a meirakion (a young teenager),11 and then a neaniskos (young man) (Opif. 105).12 In De congressu 82, Philo describes the stages of childhood, with fewer stages, but using similar language. Childhood (paidikos) is a period of ten years after which the boy passes through puberty (meirakiouomai)—“adolescence” one might say—for the next ten years. For Hippocrates, as for Philo, a boy ceases to be a pais (child) when he reaches puberty, that is, somewhere around age fourteen, but that person is not yet close to being considered an adult. The boy in either calculation of stages (two or four) remains a meirakion until age twenty or twenty-one. One can see the extent to which Philo, reliant upon Solon and Hippocrates, depends upon the physiological characteristics of the male body. But with this focus on the male body, what then determined a girl’s development through the stages of childhood? It is reasonable to suggest that the first two seven-year stages that Philo outlines, dependent upon earlier Greek authors, would represent the life stages of a girl also. The female child is also a pais, who is for the first years considered

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Christian Laes, Children in the Roman Empire: Outsiders Within (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 267–68. Male biology did indeed play a major role in the understanding of these stages in the Greco-Roman world as the ability to grow a beard was taken to indicate that a boy had outgrown pederastic relationships. We should not rely too much on the rigidity of the age ranges of these terms and must be sensitive to the suppleness of their usage. Philo says that meirakia were the boys who recently were “pets” of the pederasts, but now are too old to gain attention since they are beginning to grow beards (Contempl. 52). Christian Laes, however, comments on the division of ages in Plutarch, where it is precisely the meirakion who has the attention of his lover (erastēs) (Children in the Roman Empire, 87). The remaining three stages are anēr (man), presbytēs (older man), and gerōn (old man).

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a brephos (infant) and nēpios (infant or young girl). The second seven-year stage for a girl is not that of a hēbē (youth), of course, but is best seen as a parthenos in Greek or virgo in Latin (virgin). The stage of a parthenos is basically determined physiologically, by the onset of puberty, as is that of the hēbē or meirakion. Philo saw the transition defined for a boy by the production of sperm, while for a girl it was the onset of menstruation. As Lauren Caldwell writes, “menarche, while not designated by a formal rite or public recognition, was a moment that defined a girl as potentially sexual and marriageable, initiated a new life-stage, and demanded a response from the household.”13 Even more than for a boy, this transition was the significant stage for a girl as early marriage was the norm in the Greco-Roman world for freeborn girls. But as with the male categories of teenagehood, cultural considerations also come into play in defining this stage of life and the push to early marriage, which could be anywhere from twelve to fifteen.14 Girls at the onset of puberty are not usually physically ready for childbirth, something known to ancient doctors such as Soranus, but social expectations regarding girls’ gender roles and fear of sexual activity outside of marriage drove the practice of early female marriage.15 Caldwell states that it was a combination of pressures that pushed these girls into early marriage, including competition among upper-class families for brides, traditional paternal authority in the family, state promotion of marriage, the custom of dowry, and cultural expectations of youthful femininity, including the preservation of sexual purity until marriage and the belief that female passions began to become unruly at puberty.16

Thus, the parthenos, while dependent upon certain physiological developments, is also socially constructed. Girls, though, as a result of such early marriage, 13

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Lauren Caldwell, Roman Girlhood and the Fashioning of Femininity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 139. Giulia Sissa speaks of parthenos as not simply reflecting sexual purity, but socially constructed on the basis of gender norms and expectations (Greek Virginity [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990], 73–86). Caldwell writes that the Latin equivalent of parthenos, virgo, implies nascent sexuality, physical virginity, and unmarried status (Roman Girlhood, 50–55). The age range is not specified as such, but it seems to be in the range of fourteen or fifteen: “In imperial epitaphs commemorating virgines who died before marriage, most are between the ages of twelve and nineteen, with fourteen as the most common age” (Roman Girlhood, 55). A virgo in Latin literature is best defined as a young, unmarried woman. Caldwell, Roman Girlhood, 7, 80, 95. Ibid., 6.

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make the transition from girlhood to adulthood more definitively at puberty.17 It must be stressed though that early marriage was more common for wealthier girls in Greece and Rome; poorer girls seem to have married later, though often in their later teenage years, and slave girls were not given the right to marry, though they were used sexually by owners and often prostituted.

The Intersection of Biology and Culture: The Mishnah To understand the stages of development for Jewish girls, it is worth examining some rabbinic texts specifically from the Mishnah. Though the Mishnah emerged after the writing of the New Testament, some of the oral traditions contained within it certainly predate the New Testament literature. Indeed, views of childhood and childhood development tend to be traditional in antiquity, reflecting the received wisdom of many generations.18 The focus of the Mishnah regarding girls is on the transitional point and determining that transitional point, from girlhood to womanhood.19 While Mishnaic texts also discuss male childhood, and the transition to adulthood is more complicated, as Philo’s work demonstrates, the discussion of girls is relatively abundant in comparison. However, as in so many of the GrecoRoman texts, it is a discussion which focuses on what matters to the male authors and male readers of the texts. That girls married prior to puberty was not uncommon among Greeks or Romans, at least among the elite, and this seems to have been the case among

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Helen Foley defines marriage as “the” coming of age ritual for girls (“Mothers and Daughters,” in Coming of Age in Ancient Greece: Images of Childhood from the Classical Past, ed. Jenifer Neils and John H. Oakley [New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2004], 113–37). Unless otherwise noted, the Mishnaic texts are taken from Philip Blackman, Mishnayoth. Pointed Hebrew Text, English Translation, Introductions, Notes, Supplement, Appendix, Indexes, Addenda, Corrigenda (New York: Judaica Press, 1990), which supplies the Hebrew text and an English translation. On childhood and children in general in rabbinic literature, see David Kraemer, “Images of Childhood and Adolescence in Talmudic Literature,” in Exploring Judaism: The Collected Essays of David Kraemer, ed. David Kraemer (Atlanta: University of South Florida, 1999), 37–50; and the short anonymous article “Children,” in EncyJud 5 ed. Cecil Roth and Geoffrey Bernard Wigoder (Jerusalem: Keter Publishing House, 1971), 426–28. Ben Zion (Benno) Schereschwesky, “Child Marriage,” in EncJud 5 ed. Roth and Wigoder, 423–26.

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the Jewish elite also.20 M. Yebamoth 6:10, for instance, states that a high priest was not to marry a bogeret, but a younger girl. In m. Ketuboth 3:8, it says that the bogeret was a girl of twelve and a half years old; a katanah, literally the feminine of “small one,” was younger than twelve years and a day; and a na‘arah was a girl twelve years and a day.21 M. Niddah 5:7 offers the stages of a girl’s life in much the same way as in m. Ketuboth 3:8, comparing the girl’s development to a fig ripening. The unripe fig is a yaldut, indicating the ages from three to twelve years; the ripening fig is a na‘arah, no older than twelve years and a day; while the ripe fig is a bogeret, no older than twelve and a half years. These ages all focus on the transition to puberty, parsing out a girl’s life on the basis of the biological developments which would render her, following the imagery of the fig, “fruitful” in marriage.22 The focus on emergent sexuality is made most clear in m. Niddah 5:8, where the rabbis debate the physical signs, all related to a girl’s breast development, that show evidence of the transition to womanhood. For all the stages of a girl’s life that the rabbis in the Mishnah discuss, the significant dividing line is the onset of menses and that is important due to its relation to marriage. In m. Niddah 5:6 a girl who was eleven years and a day, technically a katanah or a yaldut, was to be tested to see if she understood her marriage vows, while a girl who was twelve years and a day, a na‘arah and perhaps a b’ulah, was to be questioned regarding her marriage vows throughout her twelfth year. No such questioning was necessary for the bogeret, which indicates that twelve and a half years was a clear division between childhood and adulthood. Marriage was also significant for the transition from boyhood to adulthood, as m. Aboth 5:21 declares that a boy was ready for marriage at the age of eighteen, but if levirate marriage was a consideration, a boy nine years old and a day might marry his childless sister-in-law according to m. Niddah 5. But boys, like girls, had to be questioned about their marriage vows, although for a boy the transition point was not twelve years and a day but thirteen years and 20

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“The minimum betrothal age of seven recommended in Digest 23.1.14, for example, may have been an interpolation; there was, as Modestinus there states, no minimum betrothal age in classical Roman law. Seven is specified as the earliest age at which children would be capable of understanding what was being done” (Caldwell, Roman Girlhood, 48). Some scholars determine this age to be twelve and a half years. See Blackman, Mishnayoth: Nashim(3), 140, and Jastrow, Dictionary of the Targumim, 137. On the sexual imagery linked to this rabbinic imagery, see Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 11.

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one day.23 The significance of biological development for the transition to adulthood for both boys and girls is also described clearly in m. Niddah 5:9, in which a boy/young man who was twenty years of age and a girl/young woman who was eighteen years of age, but who had not shown the necessary signs of sexual development, were not able to contract a levirate marriage.24 Puberty was a key mark of a boy’s transition to adulthood, even if training in a career or an education (usually in the Torah) was still essential and even if marriage took place at an older age. For although a boy was to begin his study of Torah at five years old, and at thirteen he could partake in fasting, it was at eighteen that he was considered ready for marriage and at twenty that he began to pursue a vocation.25 For Jewish boys the transition to adulthood begins at thirteen, but it does not end at that point.

The Intersection of Biology and Culture: Greek and Roman As is the case with Philo, in Roman texts puberty is the transition point for girls into adulthood. While medical texts give the age of puberty as fourteen, Roman legal and literary texts suggest a girl could marry at age twelve and a boy at age fourteen.26 Again, as with the Mishnah, puberty is a key boundary line between childhood and adulthood. In Roman thought, a child was first an infans, “the one who does not speak,” until the age of seven, then one entered into impuberitia, called pueritia, from age seven to fourteen. A child next became an impuberes, at age twelve for girls and age fourteen for boys.27 As Philo and the Mishnah discuss, the transitional stage of development in a child’s life, here called impuberes, is determined by puberty and the ability to procreate. Roman young people then entered into stages we might categorize 23

24

25 26

27

The age of nine years and a day reflects the youngest age at which a boy could enter into the special situation of levirate marriage, but he was still treated as a child by the rabbis (m. Yebamoth 10:6–9). M. Yebamoth 10:9 indicates that the regulations which apply to the nine-year-and-a-day-old boy apply also to the twenty-year-old who has not yet shown signs of sexual development. Blackman, Mishnayoth: Nezikin (4), 537. Marcel Durry, “Le Mariage des Filles Impubères à Rome,” Comptes Rendus de l’Académie des Inscriptions (1955), 84–91; Brent D. Shaw, “The Age of Roman Girls at Marriage: Some Reconsiderations,” JRS 77 (1987), 30–46; Richard P. Saller, “Men’s Age at Marriage and its Consequences in the Roman Family,” CP 82 (1987), 21–34. See Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 15, n.42 for a fuller discussion of these technical terms and further reading.

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as “youth,” “teenagehood,” or “young adulthood,” called adolescentes and subsequently adulti, lasting together until age twenty-five. Again, though, these stages are a combination of physiological development and social construction, for the actual age at which children entered into the category of adolescentes and adulti depended on a person’s legal status, gender, social status, and economic position and some people, slaves especially, would never make such transitions. While a wealthy, noble male at age eighteen might enter the military or public service, a poor boy might have started working in the fields at age seven. After the combined periods of adolescentes and adulti came the age of maioritas. Regardless of age, or marriage, or being the father of a number of children, or being a renowned public servant or soldier, a Roman son remained under the power of his father, that is, in his father’s patria potestas, until his father died, as did his children, the father’s grandchildren. So while a citizen male would be a man in every respect—age, physical development, achievement, status, and wealth—Roman sons remained according to cultural norms and law under a father’s authority as long as he lived. A Roman girl, at least of the upper classes, could be married at twelve or at fourteen, if not even younger in many cases. This was the transitional stage to adulthood for a girl, as discussed already with respect to Philo’s stages of life. Who had authority for the daughter, though, was dependent upon the type of marriage she was entered into. If married in manum, she would be under her husband’s potestas or under her father-in-law’s potestas if he were still alive. If married sine manu, she remained under the authority of her own father’s potestas, as did her brothers.28 Here the social construction of childhood and adulthood are most powerfully seen: Roman law and social practice decreed that the achievement of adulthood did not indicate freedom from parental authority. On the other hand, achievements of age and status indicated that Roman boys and girls were no longer considered children as they were prior to marriage, childbearing, and military and public service. For instance, as impuberes, boys and girls both 28

For helpful discussions of the history of Roman marriage and marriage in the Roman world in early Christian times, see, for example, Susan Treggiari, Roman Marriage: Iusti Coniuges from the Time of Cicero to the Time of Ulpian (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991); and Judith Evens Grubbs, Law and Family in Late Antiquity: The Emperor Constantine’s Marriage Legislation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995).

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wore the toga praetextas, but the boy would next wear the toga virilis while the daughter was directed into marriage.29 Girls could be educated in a Roman setting, again dependent upon wealth and status, until about ten years of age, while boys might continue their studies into adolescentia. The freeborn, wealthy boy would also be inducted formally into Roman society at the festival of Liberalia, where he gained the toga virilis, usually at the age of fifteen to seventeen.30 After this he could continue to study, join the military, or give himself over to a period of youthful freedom before marriage.31 Greek society in the Greco-Roman period divided the stages of childhood in ways similar to Roman society, as outlined particularly in Philo’s age divisions and his explications of them. The boundaries between childhood and adulthood for both boys and girls were set at much the same age: for girls this was puberty, around the ages from twelve to fourteen, while boys had many of the same options for education, military life, or public service prior to later marriage, though Greek boys/young men tended to marry earlier than their Roman counterparts, often in their late teenage years. This might have been due to the reduced influence of the patria potestas which allowed Greek young men greater freedom and autonomy at an earlier age.32 To sum up the data briefly, the end of a boy’s childhood was based not simply on age, but taking on the stages of social and cultural incorporation which allowed a boy to transition to adulthood. In Rome, a boy putting on the toga virilis at about the age of seventeen was at a key transition point; in Greece, adulthood began with entry into political life, military life, or even marriage, all of which could take place around seventeen or eighteen; and in the Jewish community, a boy’s transition to adulthood comes between the ages of eighteen to twenty. For girls in all cultural contexts the transition to adulthood comes at puberty, sometime between twelve and fourteen, although girls were sometimes

29 30 31

32

KIPauly s.v. “Toga,”; PW s.v. “Toga.” On the Roman feast of the Liberalia, see PW s.v. “Liberalia.” For a study of the structures of life for youths in the ancient western world, see Pierre Ginestet, Les Organisations de la jeunesse dans l’Occident Romain (Bruxelles: Revue d’Etudes Latines, 1991). Although we cannot explore the issue fully, Greek boys engaged in same sex relationships as part of a confluence of Greek cultural norms prior to entering married life more often than their Roman or Jewish peers. On varying views of pederasty among Jews, Greeks, Romans, and Christians see John W. Martens, “I Renounce the Sexual Abuse of Children” in Children and Family in Late Antiquity: Life, Death and Interaction, Interdisciplinary Studies in Ancient Culture and Religion 15, ed. Christian Laes, Katarina Mustakallio, and Ville Vuolanto (Leuven: Peeters, 2015), 169–211.

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married at an earlier age and often betrothed at much earlier ages. Once again, it is important to stress that these ages and boundary lines apply to certain boys and girls, generally those of the wealthier or elite classes, and that poor children and slave children, of both genders, would not be able to achieve some or all of these stages. In some cases, poorer children or slaves took on the roles of adults at much earlier ages, and in other cases, they were denied the status of adult no matter how old they were, as with slaves. In terms of the emerging Christian world of the first century CE, it is important to keep in mind that attitudes toward children, the roles and functions of children, and the lives of children generally were shaped by the broader cultural considerations of the wider Jewish community, as well as the Greco-Roman world of which the Jewish community was a part. At this point there is no settled “Christian” view of children, so it is reasonable to say that the general view of children is shaped by the views of the greater cultures in which they are embedded.

Where do We Find Children? As Garroway rightly stresses, children are everywhere in the biblical world, including in the New Testament, yet children have been reduced to silence historically in the study of the Bible, sometimes due to oversight, sometimes due to lack of interest, and sometimes due to translations that do not clearly identify the children in the texts. The first way to locate children, who are certainly present as a large proportion of the population in antiquity, is consciously to seek them out.

New Testament In the New Testament, children are present particularly in Gospel narratives, though it is not often that they speak for themselves. Both the Gospels of Matthew (1–2) and Luke (1–2) contain infancy narratives, which give us accounts of conception and birth, including that of John the Baptist in Luke 1:36–45, 57–66. In these accounts, the language used to describe the children John and Jesus ranges from brephos (Lk. 1:44, 2:12, 16), to paidion (Mt. 2:8, 9, 11,

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13, 14, 20, 21; Lk. 1:59, 66, 76, 80, 2:17, 27, 40), pais (Mt. 2:16; Lk. 2:43), and teknon (Mt. 2:18; Lk. 1:7, 2:48). While teknon can also mean more generally “offspring” or “descendant,” the use of it in the infancy narratives, especially by Jesus’ mother in the Temple in Luke 2:48, indicates it is also a term for a child. The scene of Jesus as a boy in the Temple is one of the few places where a child speaks in the New Testament, when Jesus responds to his mother in Luke 2:49.33 While the infancy narratives are formulaic in their presentations of special children and special births, they must not to be overlooked for providing the language of childhood and children, including that of birth and infancy (brephos, “infant”; paidion, “small child”). Even the term parthenos (Mt. 1:23; Lk. 1:27) as applied to Mary speaks of the age of married girls in antiquity. Indeed, passages such as these offer researchers the opportunities to mine Greco-Roman and other Jewish sources for what they reveal about childbirth and infancy in antiquity.

Jesus’ Words on Children There are two basic passages in the Gospels in which Jesus speaks about children with his disciples.34 In one passage Jesus speaks of welcoming children as found in Mark 9:33–37, 43–44 (Mt. 19:1–6, 10:42; Lk. 9:46–48, 17:1–2). In Mark 9:36, Matthew 18:2, and Luke 9:47, the word designating the child is paidion, the diminutive of the Greek pais (child). The second passage, in which people bring their children to Jesus, is in Mark 10:13–16 (Mt. 19:13–15, 18:3; Lk. 18:15–17). In the case of both Mark and Matthew, people are bringing little children (paidia) to Jesus in order that he would “touch” them (Mk 10:14–16) or “lay his hands” on them (Mt. 19:14–15). Luke has the people bring “even” infants (brephē) to Jesus in order that he “touch” them (18:15–16). These passages are well known but too often read in terms of modern conceptions of children and not allowed to clarify ancient views of childhood or used as tools to explore the presence of children in Jesus’ ministry. The language used to describe them, most commonly brephē and

33

34

Sharon Betsworth notes that the Gospel of Luke provides “more material about children than the other canonical Gospels” (Children in Early Christian Narratives [London: Bloomsbury/T&T Clark, 2015], 99). For a complete discussion, see Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 252–62.

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paidia, speaks of the presence of young children not just in the texts, but among the followers of Jesus, which again might indicate the young ages of the mothers themselves.

Jesus Heals Children Children are often recipients of Jesus’ healing ministry, even if Jesus heals most of them from a distance. Sharon Betsworth has concentrated on the “four daughters” who appear in Mark 5–7, what she calls “the daughter cycle of Mark.”35 These passages include Jairus’s daughter (Mk 5:21–43; Mt. 9:18–26; Lk. 8:40–56); the woman with a hemorrhage whom Jesus calls “daughter” (Mk 5:25–34; Mt. 9:20–22; Lk. 8:43–48); the daughter of Herodias (Mk 6:17–29; Mt. 14:1–12); and the Syro-Phoenician woman’s daughter (Mk 7:24–30; Mt. 15:21–28). The language of “daughter” (thygatēr) or “little daughter” (Mk 5:21: thygatrion) alerts us to the possibility of the ages of these girls, just as the use of huios (“son”) must whenever we encounter it in context. When one sees the children emerge, in this case three girls and one woman, new questions about their place and role emerge. For instance, Betsworth asks how we are to understand the daughter of Herodias in the Gospel of Matthew. An upper class girl, dancing in front of guests like a hetaera, who were usually assumed to be available for sex, “intimates that she is abused by her stepfather.”36 Paying attention to the language of daughters not just in a New Testament context, but widening the lens to think about the treatment of girls throughout the GrecoRoman world, opens new ways of seeing. These girls are not the only children healed by Jesus either. There is the epileptic child (Mk 9:14–29; Mt. 17:14–21; Lk. 9:37–42) and possibly even the paralytic “child” (Mk 2:1–10; Mt. 9:1–8; Lk. 5:17–26). While many would dispute that the paralytic is a child, Jesus calls him a teknon in Mark 2:5. Teknon need not indicate a young child or a child at all but it becomes a possibility in light of all the other healing accounts of children and the use of the language in the infancy narratives. The Gospel of John has fewer children than the other canonical Gospels, “marginal figures” as Betsworth says, but two boys who 35

36

Sharon Betsworth, The Reign of God is Such as These: A Socio–Literary Analysis of Daughters in the Gospel of Mark (London: T&T Clark, 2010) and Betsworth, Children in Early Christian Narratives, 47. Betsworth, Children in Early Christian Narratives, 87.

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appear in miracle stories tie portions of the Gospel together.37 The healing of the royal official’s son (Jn 4:46–54) points toward “the miracle of Elijah raising the widow’s son,” and the theme of resurrection in general, while the story of the little boy (paidarion) with the barley loaves (Jn 6:9) “anticipates” Jesus’ last meal with his disciples in John 21.38 It also reminds us that children were everywhere in Jesus’ ministry, since Matthew 14:21 also mentions that women and children (paidia) were present at the scene of Jesus’ multiplication of the loaves and fish. In addition, John 4:46–54 preserves a parallel to the healing accounts of a centurion’s slave in Matthew 8:5–13 and Luke 7:1–10 that also makes us be alert to potential children.39 Since John’s account of the miracle has a child healed (paidion in Jn 4:47 and pais in 4:51), was it originally a child in the synoptic accounts? Could the slave have been a child, a detail missing from the Synoptic Gospels except for the use of pais (Mt. 8:6, 8; Lk. 7:7)? While we might not be able to determine whether a child was present in the original Synoptic Gospel accounts, alertness to children allows children to emerge from the shadows, just by remembering that while pais can be translated as child or as slave, a slave can also be a child. For instance, when Peter denies Jesus in Mark 14:66–72, he is confronted by a paidiskē, a slave girl of the high priest (14:66, 69). The use of the diminutive might be an indication of a slave’s low status, but it might also indicate that she is indeed a girl not a woman. Marianne Bjelland Kartzow, by paying attention to the reality of slave children in Greco-Roman antiquity, allows these (potential) children to come into the light.40 She writes, “when I read about children, I ask, what role does gender or class play here? When I read about slaves, I ask, were there any children among them? And when I read about women, I ask, could slave women or girls be counted among them?”41 This intersectional lens is important for examining the lives of ancient children, as these questions aid us in not overlooking any of the children. Her work acknowledges that further research is needed in this area on slavery, gender, and the lives of children in antiquity. 37 38 39 40

41

Ibid., 141. Ibid., 140. Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 263–64. Marianne Bjelland Kartzow, “Slave Children in the First-Century Jesus Movement” in Childhood in History: Perceptions of Children in the Ancient and Medieval Worlds, ed. Reidar Aasgaard, Cornelia Horn, and Oana Maria Cojocaru (London: Routledge, 2017), 111–26. Bjelland Kartzow, “Slave Children in the First-Century Jesus Movement,” 115.

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She includes the suggestion that scholars begin to include “a closer scrutiny of inscriptions, personal letters, and archaeological remains.”42 This is an example of research which prods us in new directions, with new questions, to consider sometimes overlooked evidence.

Paul’s Letters and the Rest of the New Testament Paul and the Pauline tradition provide a wealth of details regarding children and the role of children, though there are few passages which feature children as such. One must be attentive to watching for their presence or possible presence in the texts. Paul’s epistles describe Jesus as “son” on numerous occasions (1 Thess. 1:10; 1 Cor. 1:9; 2 Cor. 1:19; Gal. 2:20; 4:4; Rom. 1:3, 4, 9; 5:10; 8:3, 32) in order to speak of Jesus’ relationship with God, the Father. Quite explicitly Paul links Jesus’ sonship to his disciples’ participation in the family of God in Romans 8:29 and Galatians 4:6, 7. In both of these passages, disciples who are understood to participate in the life and death of Jesus become a part of God’s family and are able to cry out to God as Father (Gal. 4:7). As a result, disciples become “members of the household” (oikeioi) or family of those who believe (Gal. 6:10). Paul had no hesitation to call the members of his churches “children” of God. In most cases he described them not as pais/paides, but as teknon/tekna, which can designate young children, older children, or offspring and descendants. Christians share in Christ’s suffering and will also share in his glory as children of God (Rom. 8:16, 17, and 21). Now that Christ was revealed, Christians were “sons” (huioi) of God and so had come into their inheritance (Gal. 3:25–29). Paul also regularly referred to the members of his churches as his children. On occasion he would speak as their father, urging and encouraging them (1 Thess. 2:11) or threatening discipline and punishment if need be (1 Cor. 4:14–21). Paul also could present himself as the mother of his churches, designating himself as the nurse who tenderly fed her own children in Thessalonica (1 Thess. 2:7) or as the mother who was bringing to birth once again her children in Galatia (Gal. 4:19).43 One of the tasks Paul saw for himself

42 43

Ibid., 123. Beverly Gaventa, Our Mother Saint Paul (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2007), 29–39.

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as a parent was to bring his children to maturity. In 1 Corinthians 14:20 he associated childhood with immaturity and asked the Corinthians to stop being “children” (paidia) in their thinking, but to “be infantile” (nēpiazete) in evil. In this case, the presence of children has moved from Jesus’ image of children as the model disciple to the model of the child as immature and incomplete, the common image in the ancient world. The same image had already appeared earlier in the letter when Paul addressed the Corinthians as “infants (nepioi)” (1 Cor. 3:1). For Paul, maturity was equal to always growing in Christ. But how to understand the language of metaphorical kinship and childhood in Paul is ongoing work and the more we attend to understanding this language in its social and cultural context, the more productive our reading of Paul’s childhood imagery promises to be. Actual children are also mentioned, for example in 1 Corinthians 7:1444 and 7:36–38, as I argue in this volume. Indeed, the language of parthenos throughout 1 Corinthians 7 should alert us to the possible presence of children given its use in Greek and Roman contexts and its social and cultural constructions. This sort of linguistic and social attentiveness is a key to locate children: are we alert to their presence where language or social situation might indicate them? This was the approach taken by Margaret Y. MacDonald in her examination of the Deutero-Pauline and Pastoral epistles and the possible presence of children in The Power of Children: The Construction of Christian Families in the GrecoRoman World.45 Her book focused on the household codes (Col. 3:18—4:1, Eph. 5:21—6:9, and 1 Tim. 2:8–15, 5:1–2, 6:1–2, and Tit. 2:1–10) to see what they might offer in understanding the place of children in an early Christian context. She hypothesizes about the presence and possible sexual abuse of slave children and how Christianity might have ameliorated such treatment in her study of Colossians 3:18—4:1. She also considers “pseudo-parenting” in Ephesians 5:21—6:4, which allows her to concentrate on “processes rather than structures,” processes that allowed a variety of people, slave and free, to function in the role of parent and so aid in the nurture, teaching, and discipline of

44

45

See Judith Gundry, “Children, Parents and God/Gods in Interreligious Roman Households and the Interpretation of 1 Corinthians 7:14,” in this volume. Margaret Y. MacDonald, The Power of Children: The Construction of Christian Families in the GrecoRoman World (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2015).

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children.46 Her focus on children encourages MacDonald to take what might be considered a proverbial idiom about Timothy’s knowledge of Scripture “from infancy” (apo brephous: 2 Tim. 3:15) to indicate an actual education through his grandmother Lois and mother Eunice (2 Tim. 1:5). Boys and girls were educated by mothers, grandmothers, nurses, and female slaves in a variety of ways, especially before the age of seven, and 2 Timothy 3:15 might indeed indicate a Jewish/Christian education.47

Early Christian Non-Canonical Sources Betsworth’s work Children in Early Christian Narratives also draws on early Christian non-canonical sources which are yet to be mined fully for all that they reveal about the lives of ancient children. She focuses on the Infancy Gospel of Thomas and the Protoevangelium of James, particularly on how “Mary and Jesus are depicted as children” and how Jesus “interacts with other children.”48 Other texts that demand attention include the Didache, the letters of Ignatius of Antioch, the Epistle of Barnabas, Shepherd of Hermas, 1 and 2 Clement, and the Martyrdom of Polycarp. For instance, the Martyrdom of Polycarp 6.1–2 and 7.1–2 describes how the Bishop Polycarp was taken to a hiding place in the country when a persecution broke out in Smyrna. The Roman officials took from his house two of his slave boys (paidaria, little children) and tortured them to make them confess where he was hidden. One of the slave boys confessed, so they took that boy (paidarion) to guide them to Polycarp’s hiding place. Torture was the common method Romans employed to gain information from slaves, yet this famous account of a celebrated Bishop’s martyrdom, reveals in plain sight his slave boys.49

46 47 48

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Ibid., 71. Ibid., 114–17. Betsworth, Children in Early Christian Narratives, 143. See also the index in Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” for the discussions on these texts (422). For a complete study see Reidar Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus: Decoding the Apocryphal Infancy Gospel of Thomas (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2009). For a discussion of children in other early Christian texts, see Tony Burke, “Traveling with Children: Flight Stories and Pilgrimage Routes in the Apocryphal Infancy Gospels,” and Anna Rebecca Solevåg, “Absence and Presence of Children in the Apocryphal Acts” in this volume.

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Jewish Sources The Jewish sources that scholars of the New Testament might consult are vast, even excluding the most significant group of texts in the Hebrew Bible that Garroway discusses. One has to keep in mind that Jewish children and childhoods took place not only in ancient Palestine, but throughout the Roman Empire and beyond. Important sources to examine include the Dead Sea Scrolls, the literature contained in the Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha, the rabbinic writings, even later texts such as the Babylonian and Jerusalem Talmuds, compiled long after the New Testament texts were written, Philo of Alexandria, and Josephus. Whether written in Hebrew or Greek, these texts, while not focused on children as such, contain numerous details about children and their lives which allow us to understand more fully the lives of children discussed in the New Testament.

Greek and Roman Textual and Inscriptional Sources If the Jewish sources are vast, the Greek and Roman sources are doubly vast. To understand ancient children and childhood, we might consult legal documents and texts (Digest), medical documents (Soranus and Galen), agricultural documents (Columella), philosophical documents (Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, Musonius Rufus, Epictetus), as well as numerous histories and literary sources written in Greek or Latin. While most of these texts do not focus exclusively, or even directly, on children, the children are present in varied and numerous ways which means that scholars of early Christianity must be aware of these sources depending upon what aspect of childhood they are exploring. For instance, if one is interested in marriage and girls, one must be familiar with the Digest of Justinian; in the same way if one is interested in the ages of work for children, a thorough acquaintance with De Rustica by Columella is essential. In addition, New Testament scholars must become thoroughly conversant with the secondary classical research on Greek and Roman children and family studies. This has become even easier to access today, though the body of literature continues to grow as Reidar Aasgaard’s chapter in this volume discusses.50 50

See Reidar Aasgaard, “History of Research on Children in the Bible and the Biblical World: Past Developments, Present State–and Future Potential,” in this volume.

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Inscriptional Evidence To this we must add the extensive amount of inscriptional evidence available from the Roman Empire at this time. The inscriptional evidence of the ancient Roman Empire continues to be compiled. Much of it is located in the collections of the CIL and similar Greek inscriptional sources. The CIL corpus of inscriptions is now available online,51 as is the equivalent Greek collection the IG.52 Whether the New Testament researcher on children becomes expert in the inscriptional sources, they must be conversant with the secondary sources which explore these issues, particularly as related to demography, such as can be gained from funerary inscriptions related to infant and maternal death, age of marriage for girls and boys, and life expectancy.

Papyri In addition, papyri that have been located mainly but not exclusively in Roman Egypt have much to offer regarding the daily lives of children, such as apprenticeship contracts, education, marriage contracts, and the behavior of children. Many of the known papyri are now available for searching online. The Duke Collaboratory for Classics Computing manages the online website papyri.info, with a number of partners,53 but the Duke Papyrus Archive contains mostly data from Roman Egypt online divided by categories, including those of “women and children” and “slaves.”54 Other papyri databases are available through Yale University,55 the University of Chicago,56 and the University of Michigan.57 The data contained in these papyri collections must continue to be mined by scholars of the New Testament as they continue to explore the lives of children.

51 52 53 54 55 56 57

http://cil.bbaw.de/cil_en/dateien/links.html http://ig.bbaw.de http://papyri.info/ https://library.duke.edu/rubenstein/scriptorium/papyrus/ http://beinecke.library.yale.edu/collections/highlights/papyrus-collection-database http://guides.lib.uchicago.edu/c.php?g=297602&p=1986211 https://www.lib.umich.edu/papyrology-collection/advanced-papyrological-information-system-apis

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Archaeology There is some archaeology that pertains to actual New Testament sites, such as those in Nazareth and Galilee more generally, that must continue to be studied with respect to children’s lives.58 Specific work on synagogues in the life of Judaism during this period must also be examined, especially as it pertains to the education of children, as must be the role of the synagogue in the life of Jesus.59 Apart from this, archaeological work on Hellenistic cities to which Paul especially was known to have traveled, such as Corinth, must continue to be researched.60 These specific studies must be augmented more generally by archaeological work done in regions and cities where Christianity was known to have been, even if the artifacts and items have no specific “Christian” meaning, such as baby bottles, toys, and dolls which children in general would have used.61 Though we cannot necessarily determine “Christian” dwelling sites or grave sites for the New Testament period, we need to be sensitive to archaeology which reveals data about children that might be useful in understanding the lives of children at this time. For instance, Sherry C. Fox offers data from grave sites and the skeletal remains found in Corinth which reveal that children died at a younger age in Corinth than in Paphos. Of the skeletal remains studied at Paphos and Corinth, a far greater percentage of children were found at Corinth (30.9%) as opposed to Paphos (20.4%), which indicates that more people survived childhood in Paphos than in Corinth.62 What this means for particular

58

59

60

61

62

David A. Fiensy and James Riley Strange, eds. Galilee in the Late Second Temple and Mishnaic Periods, Volume 1: Life, Culture, and Society (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2014) and Galilee in the Late Second Temple and Mishnaic Periods, Volume 2: The Archaeological Records from Cities, Towns, and Villages (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2015). Anders Runesson, “The Origins of the Synagogue in Past and Present Research—Some Comments on Definitions, Theories, and Sources,” ST 57 (2003): 60–67; Lee I. Levine, The Ancient Synagogue: The First Thousand Years (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000); Jordan Ryan, The Role of the Synagogue in the Aims of Jesus (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2017). James R. Harrison and L. L. Welborn, ed. The First Urban Churches 1: Methodological Foundations (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2015) and The First Urban Churches 2: Roman Corinth (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2016) The feeding bottles are located in the collection as Corinth Objects: C 1936 828, CP 309, Z 351, Z 277, and CP 122. There are over 125 terracotta dolls or pieces of dolls found at Corinth. These can be searched under “dolls” at the Corinthian excavation website: http://corinth.ascsa.net/research?v= list&q=&sort=&t=object. Sherry C. Fox, “Health in Hellenistic and Roman Times: The Case Studies of Paphos, Cyprus and Corinth, Greece,” in Health in Antiquity, ed. Helen King (London: Routledge, 2005), 59–82, see 78.

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studies of childhood texts in Paul’s letters to the Corinthians is unclear, but such data must not be overlooked.

Concluding Remarks When we consider the biology of children, there is not much difference between children from the Greco-Roman era and children today. However, cultural expectations, both from antiquity and today, alter who we might consider a child and the expectations we have of children. There is a general sense in the Greco-Roman period that prior to puberty, with some exceptions, especially with respect to slave children or the marriage of young girls, that we are dealing with children, who do not have the cultural expectations of adulthood thrust upon them. Yet, the transition to adulthood for girls pivots so sharply on puberty that it can be shocking for contemporary readers. What this means, though, is that when we encounter texts which discuss marriage in the New Testament, for instance, we must put aside our conceptions of when a woman should be married or else we can miss the girls who are most likely in view. In the same way, when we think of education for boys, we must remember that secondary or tertiary education, available for the very few, generally took place in the teenage years for Jewish, Greek, and Roman boys. Are we missing children when we consider Jesus’ disciples and apostles all as aged adults? Would it be more likely that they were teenagers prior to marriage, prior to establishing their own homes, and so able to follow an itinerant teacher? These questions, whether answered affirmatively or not, are the sorts of questions which will allow us finally to see the children, to find the children hiding in plain sight, because we are finally looking for them.

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Children Playing in the Marketplaces Sharon Betsworth

The Synoptic Gospels contain a variety of narratives about children.1 Some of these stories are common to all three Gospels, such as the raising of Jairus’s daughter, the boy with the unclean spirit, and a scene in which children are brought to Jesus for a blessing over the objections of his disciples. Other narratives are found only in one Gospel, such as the episode in Matthew 2 when Herod seeks the infant Jesus and subsequently kills all the children under the age of two in Bethlehem. Stories unique to Luke’s Gospel include the announcement and birth of both John the Baptist and Jesus. One passage shared by Matthew and Luke, but absent from Mark, is the parable of children in the marketplace found in Matthew 11:16–19 and Luke 7:31–35.2 In the discussions of these passages, biblical scholars often mention that the children Jesus references are playing a game with each other. Rarely, though, do scholars go on to discuss the nature of children’s play in the ancient world in relation to this parable; neither have they considered the relationship between the parable and other child-centered narratives in each Gospel. This essay will address both of these issues. The chapter will unfold as follows: First, I will begin with a literary analysis of the parable in each Gospel including some of the variations between Matthew and Luke’s versions of the parable. Second, I will examine how this image of children is situated in the first century CE discourse about children

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I would like to thank my colleagues Reidar Aasgaard and Kristine Henriksen Garroway, who read earlier versions of this chapter. Their comments have improved it significantly. The portions shared by Matthew and Luke are often considered to be from the Q source. See A. James Murphy, “The ‘Lost Boys’ (and Girls) of Q’s ‘Neverland’ ” in this volume for a discussion of children in Q.

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and the arena of children’s play. For the latter, I will draw upon modern play studies to evaluate the nature of the children’s activity that the parable describes. Third, the chapter will discuss common themes between the parable of the children in the marketplace and each Gospel’s other child narratives. My goal is not to reinterpret the passage per se, but rather to bring to the surface several issues regarding the metaphor of children in this passage and children in the Gospels more generally, heretofore left unexplored.

Children Sitting in the Marketplace(s) Midway through Jesus’ Galilean ministry in both Matthew and Luke, the discussion turns back to a figure first introduced at the beginning of each Gospel: John the Baptist, who is now in prison. He sends his disciple to Jesus asking about Jesus’ activities and who he thinks he is. But the passages are not only about Jesus’ self-identification. Matthew 11:2–19 and Luke 7:18–35 are concerned with the identities of and people’s responses to both Jesus and John the Baptist. Each passage is divided into three sections. The first section considers the question: “Who is Jesus?”3 John the Baptist inquires about Jesus’ identity, seeking to discover if he is the “one who is to come” (Mt. 11:2, Lk. 7:20). John has heard about Jesus’ activities, but as one who expected the Messiah to come in judgment and vanquish the wicked (Mt. 3:12; Lk. 3:17), Jesus did not completely fulfill John’s messianic expectations: The oppressors had not yet been judged, and liberation had not yet occurred.4 Jesus’ response to John’s query indicates that Jesus has a different understanding of the nature of the chosen one. Drawing upon images from Isaiah (26:19; 35:5–6; 42:7; 61:1), Jesus lists the activities that John should instead be using to evaluate Jesus’ identity: The blind see, the lame walk, the lepers are made well, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.5 3

4 5

Eugene Boring, “The Gospel of Matthew,” in NIB , ed. Leander Keck, (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995), 8: 269. Donald A. Hagner, Matthew 1–13, vol. 33A, WBC (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1993), 300. In Matthew, Jesus has already accomplished each of these acts. As Lisa M. Bowen points out, these deeds are significant to Matthew, and he wants to emphasize the deeds that John has heard about (“The Role of John the Baptist in Matthew’s Gospel,” WW 30, no. 3 [2010]: 315). In Luke, the only one on this list that Jesus has not yet accomplished is making the deaf hear, which does not occur until Lk. 11:14.

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The focus of the second section is, “Who is John the Baptist?”6 Jesus affirms John’s status as a prophet, but Jesus indicates that he is not just any ordinary prophet. Rather, according to the evangelists, John is Elijah, whom Malachi prophesied would return before the final judgment (Mal. 4:5).7 Jesus’ explanation of John’s identity suggests that the Gospel writers did indeed understand Jesus as the one coming to judge. The final section of the passage describes how the contemporaries of John and Jesus have received their respective messages. To illustrate these responses, Jesus tells a parable in which he characteristically compares two seemingly unlike things. Jesus begins the parable, “To what will I compare this generation?”8 Previously in both Gospels, genea, “generation” has appeared only in the context of the birth narratives: in the genealogy of Jesus in Matthew (1:17), and in Mary’s song of praise in Luke (1:48). In Matthew, genea refers to those from whom Jesus is descending, and in Luke, it refers to those who are yet to come. In both cases, it is used in a neutral sense.9 In the parable in Matthew 11:16 and Luke 7:31, however, the term takes on a decidedly negative tone, referring to those who do not respond favorably to Jesus and John. Each subsequent usage of genea in the Gospels will carry the same negative connotation about those who oppose Jesus.10 Both Gospels then compare this generation to two groups of children who are quarreling about what activity to engage in. Luke states that the children are sitting in the marketplace, en agora. It is a specific group of children in a particular place. In contrast, in Matthew the children are in the marketplaces, tais agorais. This parallels Matthew’s usage of “marketplaces” in 23:7, where Jesus denounces the scribes and Pharisees for a variety of practices including that they love to be greeted in the marketplaces. In both cases, it is not a specific

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Boring, “The Gospel of Matthew,” 269. Daniel J. Harrington states that “almost no Jewish evidence indicates that the idea of Elijah as the forerunner of the Messiah was widely known or commonly accepted in the first century” (The Gospel of Matthew, SP [Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1991], 161). The NRSV will be used throughout this chapter. The Matthean parables frequently use the word homoioō, “compare, like” in the introductory sentence (11:16; 13:24; 18:23; 22:2; 25:1). In contrast, Luke uses the word only three times (7:31; 13:18, 20), and Mark uses it once (4:30). However, Warren Carter asserts that in Mt. 1:17, “this generation” is pejorative since it is used “to sum up the largely unfaithful history of the people with God” (Matthew and the Margins: A Sociopolitical and Religious Reading [Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2000], 254). Mt. 12:39, 41, 42, 45; 16:4; 17:17; 23:36; 24:34; Lk. 11:29–32, 50–51; 16:8; 17:25; 21:32.

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marketplace to which Jesus is referring, but a general custom. It is a “common practice to be seen in every marketplace.”11 In view of the negative tone in the latter passage, however, the earlier use may also have critical overtones. Matthew and Luke agree on the wording of the parable until the last word, “We played the flute but you did not dance, we wailed but you did not . . .” (Mt. 11:17, Lk. 7:32). Matthew uses ekopsasthe from koptō to mean “mourning,” while Luke uses the term eklausate from klaiō, which means “weeping or crying.” Matthew’s use of koptō for “mourning” coupled with ōrchāsasthe, “dancing,” mirrors the wording in Ecclesiastes 3:4 in the Septuagint. The couplet also reflects the same mode of antithetical parallelism frequently found in Hebrew poetry, such as Ecclesiastes.12 These elements, then, link this parable to other references to wisdom literature throughout Matthew, a point I will return to shortly. Luke, on the other hand, uses klaiō, which creates as different set of connections to the rest of the Gospel. Olaf Linton suggests that Luke uses klaiō because weeping or crying is more descriptive of children than mourning, which is a possibility.13 However, klaiō is a word particularly favored by Luke, appearing eleven times in the Gospel.14 As such, it functions to connect this narrative both to Luke’s Sermon on the Plain and to other child narratives in the Gospel, which the final section of this chapter discusses in more detail. Scholars vary on how to interpret this parable. A common suggestion is that the parable depicts Jesus and John as the ones who are calling out, and those who are refusing to play are “this generation” (Mt. 11:16; Lk. 7:31).15 From this perspective, Jesus came joyfully, playing a flute, and those of this generation refused to dance along. John, on the other hand, came preaching repentance, singing a lament, and this generation refused to mourn with him. However, it is problematic to associate Jesus with the flute playing and dancing, and John

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Wendy J. Cotter, “The Parable of the Children in the Market-Place, Q (Lk) 7:31–35: An Examination of the Parable’s Image and Significance,” NovT 29, no. 4 (1987): 290. Cotter also provides a detailed analysis of the variations between the two versions of the parable in Matthew and Luke. I appreciate the insight of my colleague Lisa Wolfe on this point and the further connections with Ecclesiastes. Olof Linton, “Parable of the Children’s Game,” NTS 22, no. 2 (1976): 159–79. In contrast, Matthew uses the word only two times (2:18; 26:75), and Mark uses it only four times (5:38, 39; 14:72; 16:10). See Ulrich Luz for a discussion of this and the following interpretive possibilities for this parable (Matthew 8–20, trans. James E. Crouch, Hermeneia [Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001], 146–47).

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with the wailing and mourning. Since the parable’s opening makes it clear that “this generation” is being compared to the children who address “the others,” an interpretation that suggests John and Jesus are the ones who are calling is questionable.16 Rather, this generation are the ones who are compared to children calling out. The first part of each line is the actions of this generation and the latter part is their complaint about John and Jesus respectively: This generation played a flute, but John did not dance. Instead, the first prophet came preaching repentance, and he and his disciples fasted, which implies solemn behavior. This generation wailed, but Jesus did not mourn or cry. Instead he rejected fasting and mourning and compared himself to a bridegroom, implying the festivities and feasting of a wedding (Mt. 9:14–15; Lk. 5:33–34). Scholars debate if the image depicts one group of children calling out to a second group, first with a call to playing flutes, then with a call to singing a lament, or if one group calls out suggesting flute playing, and a second group calls back suggesting lament singing.17 It is unclear, however, whether these two options make a significant difference in the interpretation of the parable. The explanatory portion which follows the parable functions to clarify the parable. What the children call out parallels the reactions to John and Jesus: In the parable, 1) each party speaks of a musical performance (played a flute, sang a dirge); 2) each party receives a negative response to their offering. In the explanation: 1) “Both [John and Jesus] have particular eating habits; 2) and both receive a negative response.”18 There is also a correspondence between what the children (this generation) are “saying” (legousin), and what “they” are “saying” (legousin), about John and Jesus: The children “who speak their complaint” are like those who complain, “ ‘he has a demon,’ [and] ‘behold a glutton.’ ”19 Most commentators summarize the parable in a manner similar to Alan Culpepper’s conclusion:

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Melanie Johnson-DeBaufre, “Bridging the Gap to ‘This Generation’: A Feminist-Critical Reading of the Rhetoric of Q 7:31–35,” in Walk in the Ways of Wisdom: Essays in Honor of Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, ed. Shelly Matthews, Cynthia Briggs Kittredge, and Melanie Johnson-DeBaufre (London: Trinity Press International, 2003), 223. Luz, Matthew 8–20, 146. Johnson-DeBaufre, “Bridging the Gap to ‘This Generation,’ ” 223–24. W. D. Davies and Dale C. Allison, Matthew 8–27, vol. 2, ICC (London: T&T Clark, 1991), 262.

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The announcement of the kingdom by John and its dawning in the person of Jesus . . . did not fulfill the expectation that others had for the fulfillment of God’s promises. As a result, like children, they sat on the sidelines and refused to join in the game.20

Melanie Johnson-DeBaufre, however, utilizes a feminist-critical reading of the rhetoric of the parable and draws a different conclusion. She argues that the parable does not pronounce an irrevocable judgment on “this generation,” i.e. those who are opposed to the message of John and Jesus. The problem that the parable is addressing is not resistance to John and Jesus by their opponents; rather it is “the judgmental infighting of the people of ‘this generation,’ who play a divisive game when they judge each other on the basis of different eating practices.”21 The passage concludes with a proverb, which is meant to be the crux of the teaching. Again, Matthew and Luke are identical until the end of the proverb: “Wisdom is vindicated. . . .” (Mt. 11:19; Lk. 7:35) “by all her deeds (ergon),” according to Matthew, but “by all her children (teknōn),” according to Luke. Matthew uses ergon more frequently than either Mark or Luke,22 and each of those cases represents his own redaction.23 One of those cases is in Matthew 11:2, which forms an inclusio with 11:19; this is “designed to help the reader recall the preceding miracles and wonderful deeds of Jesus in Matthew 5–7; 8–9; 10.”24 Ergon coupled with sophia (wisdom) evokes the Psalms and wisdom literature where the pairing of words also appears, and thus connects Jesus and his deeds with divine Wisdom.25 Donald Senior writes, “For Matthew, Jesus’ messianic works are deeds of wisdom itself.” Indeed, just as Wisdom is justified by her deeds, Jesus’ deeds are a manifestation of his justice-seeking activities and a hallmark of the coming reign of God.26 Yet as the Gospel of Matthew continues to unfold, Jesus-Wisdom is God’s representative who is supposed to reveal God’s way but is rejected (Prov. 8–9; Sir. 24; 1 En. 42:2).27 20 21 22

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Alan R. Culpepper, “Luke,” in NIB , ed. Leander Keck (Nashville: Abingdon, 1995), 9: 167. Johnson-DeBaufre, “Bridging the Gap to ‘This Generation,’ ” 233. Ergon is used six times in Matthew (5:16; 11:2, 19; 23:3, 5; 26:10) compared with two times each in Mark (13:34; 14:6) and Luke (11:48; 24:19). Interestingly, the next use of ergon after the children in the marketplaces passage is found in Mt. 23:1–5, in which Jesus admonishes his disciples about the actions of Pharisees in marketplaces. This connects these two passages further. Cotter, “The Parable of the Children in the Market-Place, Q (Lk) 7:31–35,” 291. Ibid., 293. LXX Psalm 103:24 [104:24 NRSV], and Wis. 3:11, 9:9, 14:5; Carter, Matthew and the Margins, 255. Donald Senior, Matthew, ANTC (Nashville: Abingdon, 1998), 128. Carter, Matthew and the Margins, 255.

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Luke concludes the proverb differently, creating different results. While Luke uses the word ergon elsewhere in the Gospel (11:48; 24:19), he does not do so in 7:35.28 Instead, Luke’s parable ends with “wisdom is vindicated by all her children (teknōn).” This is notable because earlier in 7:32, the word for “children” is paidiois. Luke could have made a nice inclusio as Matthew did by using the same word in both places, either a form of paidion or teknon. However, the two groups of “children” are likely not the same. In the Synoptics, paidion refers to young, dependent children, while teknon usually carries the meaning of “descendants, or offspring,” and does not necessarily refer to a young person. Thus, while paidiois refers to young children in 7:32, in 7:35 teknōn does not, but rather it refers to the adults John and Jesus. They are the offspring or descendants of Wisdom. Eugene Boring states that they are “ ‘children’ of transcendent Wisdom, who vindicate the heavenly Wisdom by faithfully living out their prophetic mission and message.”29 As such, their role is depicted differently from the young children, paidion, about whom Jesus speaks in the parable. Yet they are also a part of God’s justice-seeking work manifest in Wisdom, as are all of God’s children according to Luke. In both Gospels, the pericope with its concluding parable and proverb functions to highlight and contrast the identities and actions of Jesus and John, while demonstrating that many who have also observed their behaviors view the two negatively. However, for the Gospel writers, John and Jesus, as well as their actions, are manifestations of God’s divine Wisdom working in the world.

“Thinking with Children” in the Roman World The parable’s critique of “this generation,” which uses a metaphor containing children, is decidedly negative. In this section, I will discuss the rhetoric Greek

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Ibid., 293. Boring, “The Gospel of Matthew,” 269. The majority of scholars agree that the wisdom spoken of here is divine Wisdom. See, for example, Walter T. Wilson, “Works of Wisdom (Matt 9, 9–17; 11, 16–19),” ZNW 106, no. 1 (2015): 1–20. Thomas Phillips, however, argues that the reference to wisdom is not from the OT tradition of divine Wisdom, but rather the Greco-Roman discourse around human wisdom: “According to the standards of the day, neither Jesus nor John was wise; that is, neither practiced the deeds that demonstrated wisdom” (“ ‘Will the Wise Person Get Drunk?’ The Background of the Human Wisdom in Luke 7:35 and Matthew 11:19,” JBL 127, no. 2 [2008]: 396).

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and Roman elite males often used, which similarly employs child images. At first glance, the image of children in this parable seems to be only a metaphor about adult activity. Both Wendy Cotter and Warren Carter assert that the language used to describe the children’s activity is the language of the court or a judgment scene: they are “seated” in the “marketplace” and “calling” to one another (Mt. 11:16; Lk. 7:31). Carter notes that the passage evokes the lawsuit language of Isaiah 40:18, 25, and God’s judgment against the people.30 Cotter examines each of the words, “seated,” “marketplace,” and “calling,” in detail. She first asks why the children are seated; usually when children play, they are running or moving about. She goes on to inquire if they are simply pouting because the other kids will not play. Cotter suggests that the reference to sitting is the behavior of “this generation.” “Sitting” was a term employed in the legal realm and was often used “of courts, councils, assemblies, etc.”31 Likewise, the “marketplace” was also frequently used in the Roman world in reference to the courts. Moreover, the word translated as “calling” also has a more formal meaning of “address,” or “give speech to,” such as might be used in a legal setting. Together, “sitting in the marketplace calling” is “a description of a court process, i.e. judgment.”32 Cotter concludes, “Understood this way, the parable does not draw us into the world of children, but into the world of adults, and in particular the centers of civic justice, the courts.” She goes on to say, “No matter how these ‘children’ adopt dignified behavior, it is plain from the content of their objections, that they are, after all, only shallow children.”33 While I agree that this is indeed legal language, Cotter’s conclusion needs some further clarification and nuance. To be sure, the courtroom language refers not only to the world of adults, but it can refer also to the world of children’s play. I will discuss play in the Roman world in the next section of the essay. At this point, though, I would like to flesh out her phrase “they are only shallow children.” I consider Cotter’s description of “shallow” to be derogatory toward children in our modern context; yet it is apt within the parable’s historical context. In the Roman world comparing adult men with children

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Carter, Matthew and the Margins, 253–54. Cotter, “The Parable of the Children in the Market-Place, Q (Lk) 7:31–35,” 299. Ibid., 302. Ibid.

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could be construed as an insult, which is likely one of the points of the parable’s child image. Elite Greek and Roman men frequently speak of children in unflattering and dismissive ways in their writing. The adult male citizen was at the center of the public sphere. All persons were defined in terms of their relationship to men and the qualities that were considered typical of the adult male citizen.34 O. M. Bakke states, “If we apply a model of center and periphery, where the free male urban citizen is the center of power and of interest, children are located on the periphery among the marginal actors of society, or indeed are excluded all together.”35 Men did not believe that the elderly, women, and slaves possessed qualities such as reason and considered them to be marginal in various ways. A few examples evince this view. Marcus Aurelius ponders at one point in his writing, Meditations, “And whose Soul anyhow have I got now? The Soul of a child? Of a youth? Of a woman? Of a tyrant? Of a domestic animal? Of a wild beast?”36 Presumably he considered all of these categories in some way as “less than” the ideal man he was striving to be. Similarly, Seneca presumes the child is unable to reason, but when a boy is older and possesses reason, he is something different than he was before: “A person, once a child, becomes a youth; his peculiar quality is transformed; for the child could not reason, but the youth possesses reason.”37 If a rhetorician wanted to insult an opponent, he called that person a child or a boy.38 To adapt a phrase from Daniel Boyarin, the ancient writers are engaging in “thinking with children”: they use language about children to say something about adults.39 Seneca was adept at this form of rhetoric. In “On Firmness” (De Constantia), he expounds upon the virtues of a wise man and contends that such a man is not disturbed by either the insults of children or “men whose

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O. M. Bakke, When Children Became People: The Birth of Childhood in Early Christianity (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 2005), 16–17. Ibid., 22. Marcus Aurelius, Med 5.11. [Haines, LCL]. Seneca Ep. 118.14 [Gummere, LCL]. Cicero Phil. 13.24 [Bailey, LCL]. Daniel Boyarin uses the phrase “thinking with women” to describe how the Rabbis often spoke about men’s sexuality and desires by means of a discussion about women (Carnal Israel: Reading Sex in Talmudic Culture, The New Historicism [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995], 145). See also Daniel Boyarin, “Thinking with Virgins: Engendering Judaeo-Christian Difference,” in A Feminist Companion of the New Testament Apocrypha, ed. Amy-Jill Levine with Maria Mayo Robbins (Cleveland: Pilgrim Press, 2006), 216–44.

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childhood endures even beyond middle age and the period of grey hairs.”40 He goes on to compare the games and pretend play of children to the follies of such men. Apropos of the parable under consideration, in the following example, Seneca uses children playing courtroom as one of his illustrations: For while children are greedy for knucklebones, nuts, and coppers, these [men] are greedy for gold and silver, and cities; while children play among themselves at being magistrates, and in make-believe have their bordered toga, lictors’ rods and tribunal, these [men] play in earnest at the same things in the Campus Martius and the forum and senate; while children rear their toy houses on the sea-shore with heaps of sand, these [men], as though engaged in a mighty enterprise, are busied in piling up stones and walls and roofs, and convert what was intended as a protection to the body into a menace.41

In a similar fashion, the parable of the children in the marketplace draws upon the rhetorical conventions of the day by “thinking with children.” It uses the image of children to remark upon the reactions of adults to John and Jesus. The parable shames Jesus’ and John’s opponents indicating that they are children who can not reason, because they are unable to recognize the identity of these two prophets. This is unfortunate because the image in the parable then denigrates children, whom Jesus lifts up elsewhere in the Gospels as the paradigmatic example of God’s reign (Mt. 18:1–5, 19:13–15; Lk. 9:46–48, 18:15–17). In this regard, the parable reflects a tension in the Gospels in their presentation of children and families. A. James Murphy has demonstrated well in his book Kids and Kingdom that although the Gospels depict Jesus as healing, hugging, and blessing children, some of the discourse of the Gospels expresses family disruption among those who follow Jesus; that family disruption likely would have included children.42 Moreover, the Gospel writers were not immune from the cultural association of children as those who lacked reason. Thus, the parable is a negative metaphor with children as the central image. It is no more palatable to those of us engaged in childist readings of the

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Seneca Constant.12.1–2. [Basore, LCL]. Ibid. A. James Murphy, Kids and Kingdom: The Precarious Presence of Children in the Synoptic Gospels (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2013).

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Bible than negative images of women are to those who engage in feminist readings of the Bible or reading from the perspective of any other marginalized and degraded group in the Bible.

Children Playing in the Marketplace Although the rhetoric of the parable draws upon the common literary conventions of the day, so too does the image of children in the marketplace reflect the everyday life of people in the first century CE. While most scholars say that the children are playing, François Bovon contests the point saying, “It is difficult to visualize the playing children, since this game is otherwise unattested.”43 John Nolland tries to conceive of a game the children might have been playing but fails rather miserably: The scene involves two groups of children playing a game that involves miming by the first group of something for which there is a natural response which is then to be mimed by the second group. It would appear that there was a standard ditty through which the initiating group could announce the failure of the second to construe and respond to their mime correctly. It is this ditty which Jesus reproduces.44

However, it is possible to determine what kind of children’s game(s) the parable might be describing by drawing upon modern play theory and studies of children’s lives in the ancient world. Play has been a subject of scholarly interest for over 100 years. It is a fundamental part of human (and animal) development and behavior. Play theorist David Elkind states that “the trilogy of play, love and work” are the “three basic drives that power human thought and actions, three drives essential to a full, happy, and productive life.”45 Of course, play can be fun, Elkind says, but it is also “the best kind of learning.” While most of us recognize

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François Bovon, Luke 1: A Commentary on the Gospel of Luke 1:1—9:50, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002), 286. John Nolland, Luke 1—9:20, vol. 35A, WBC (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1989), 347–48. David Elkind, “The Power of Play: Learning What Come Naturally,” American Journal of Play 1, no. 1 (2008): 2–3.

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play behavior when we see it (or engage in it ourselves!) play is not easily defined. It is often loosely referred to as “seemingly purposeless behavior that is enjoyable.”46 According to Jon-Paul Dyson, “Play is multifaceted, diverse, and complex. It resists easy definition and engages many disciplines.”47 Several types of play are evident in humans of all ages in the modern world, though some are more observable in children. These activities include object play; playful physical games, sometimes referred to as “rough and tumble” play; electronic or computer-based games; and pretend play, which may incorporate objects but also adds an element of “as if ” to the play. Pretend play that involves two or more children playing together is often referred to as social pretend play.48 Anthropologists have found that “pretend play, including role play, is found in all cultures.” The variations from culture to culture including the themes of the play, the frequency of play, and the parental interactions during the play.49 Jaipaul L. Roopnarine, who specializes in child development, has researched play in children across a variety of cultures. He has examined both European and European heritage cultures, where play is viewed as a significant aspect of children’s development, and non-European, traditional societies where this is not the case. Roopnarine asserts, “Play is culturally situated in the familial and social experiences of young children, often reflecting what is valued within cultural communities.”50 The many varieties of play, such as those listed above, likely have been shaped over time by myriad influences and the specific cultures in which children live. Forms of play have developed to serve a particular function within each cultural setting. As such, children’s play often includes elements of activities performed by adults, which focus both upon the traditions of the culture and the contemporary issues affecting the society.51 As a result, children learn culturally appropriate behaviors during play.52

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Gordon M. Burghardt, “Defining and Recognizing Play,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Development of Play, ed. Anthony D. Pellegrini, Oxford Library of Psychology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 10. Jon-Paul Dyson, “Editorial Policy,” American Journal of Play 1, no. 1 (2008): iv. Cited in Burghardt, 10. Robert D. Kavanaugh, “Origins and Consequences of Social Pretend Play,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Development of Play, ed. Pellegrini, 296. Kavanaugh, “Origins and Consequences of Social Pretend Play,” 299. Jaipaul L. Roopnarine, “Cultural Variations in Beliefs about Play, Parent-Child Play, and Children’s Play: Meaning for Childhood Development,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Development of Play, ed. Pellegrini, 20. Ibid., 20. Ibid., 31.

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Many of the findings regarding children’s play in the twenty-first century are also applicable to children’s play in the Roman world. For example, while Cotter deemed it unusual for children in the marketplace to be sitting if they were playing rather than running around, Roman family historian Ray Laurence points out that while modern day people associate children with constant, fast-paced (even non-stop) movement, in the ancient world the one who moved quickly was assumed to be a slave, busily engaged in the work of her or his master. A part of the socialization of becoming an adult citizen was to slow body movement in public spaces.53 A volume edited by Christian Laes and Ville Vuolanto, Children and Everyday Life in the Roman and Late Antique World, contains several chapters addressing children’s play and leisure time.54 In his chapter in the book, Jerry Toner discusses the concept of leisure (otium) in the Roman world, the “dignified free time” that a man (i.e. an elite adult male citizen) “was able to devote to morally valuable pursuits whether they were public service or academic interests.”55 By this definition, it is not difficult to recognize the leisure of the elite contrasted with the working lives of the non-elite. Toner asserts that if it is appropriate to apply “leisure” to children, then children’s leisure time would have been affected by their gender and status. Children from lower social status, for example, would often begin working at between five and ten years of age, and thus have a limited amount of free time. Nevertheless, “leisure” for children in the ancient world is most readily defined by play (in contrast to adult activities of “public service or academic interests”).56 The parable may thus presume children among the middle to upper class of society, since lower class children would have less opportunity to be leisurely sitting in the marketplace.

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Ray Laurence, “ ‘Children and the Urban Environment: Agency in Pompeii,’ ” in Children and Everyday Life in the Roman and Late Antique World, ed. Christian Laes and Ville Vuolanto (London: Routledge, 2016), 28. Christian Laes and Ville Vuolanto, eds., Children and Everyday Life in the Roman and Late Antique World (London: Routledge, 2016). In addition to the specific chapters cited, from the volume, see also Fanny Dolansky, “Roman Girls and Boys at Play: Realities and Representations,” in Children and Everyday Life, ed. Laes and Vuolanto, 116–36. Jerry Toner, “Leisure as a Site of Child Socialisation, Agency and Resistance in the Roman Empire,” in Children and Everyday Life, ed. Laes and Vuolanto, 99. Ibid., 100.

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The forms of play, toys, and games in which children engaged in the ancient world readily fit into the categories of play from the modern era. Children frequently played with objects such as tops, hoops, and dolls; they played games with nuts and knucklebones, which improved dexterity and mathematical calculations similar to some computer games today; they engaged in rough and tumble play, including games with balls; and children engaged in a variety of social pretend play situations: gladiators, charioteers, acting as a senator, judge, or general,57 and among Christian children there are even accounts of them playing bishop and exorcism!58 Although Cotter suggests that the parable reflects the world of adults rather than the world of children because of the courtroom language, children did seem to play courtroom in the Roman world. In addition to the example above from Seneca, Historia Augusta recounts how Emperor Septimius Severus would play courtroom as a child: While still a child, even before he had been drilled in the Latin and Greek literatures (with which he was very well acquainted), he would engage in no game with the other children except playing judge, and on such occasions, he would have the rods and axes borne before him, and, surrounded by the throng of children, he would take his seat and thus give judgements.59

Similarly, the game that children in the parable are depicted as playing is a form of social pretend play, which as mentioned consists of two or more children making up a scenario and role-playing their parts. Social pretend play, like other forms of play, provides ways that children reinforce the social behaviors of their culture. While “courtroom” may be one form of social pretend play, another form of make-believe that children in the ancient world likely engaged in was playing both wedding and funeral, since these were activities of their everyday lives. In the Roman Empire, children had special roles in weddings, and their participation was thought to bring the couple good luck, cast out evil spirits, and ensure fertility. During the celebration, children might wash the bride’s feet; shout obscenities, which were intended to cast out evil spirits; and gather nuts that the groom threw to them. Boys and

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Ibid., 100–03. Ibid., 110. Hist. Aug.: Sev. 1.4 [Magie, LCL].

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girls walked in the wedding procession accompanying the bride to her new home and carrying the torch for the new hearth.60 The children sang songs antiphonally as they processed, with the boys and girls answering each other.61 The parable Jesus tells evokes this kind of call and response singing. Children in the Roman world also participated in funerals: girls assisted with the preparation of the body and learned the rituals of lamentations, while boys were introduced to the proper sacrifices to offer for the dead. Children walked with other family members in funeral processions as well.62 The metaphor in the parable of children playing reflects these realities of children’s lives in the first century CE. The pipes and dancing in the first line of the parable evoke the scene of a wedding or other festive occasion, while the lament and wailing in the second line is descriptive of a funeral in the ancient world.63 The image in the parable then could describe either an active group of children who suggest playing wedding and then playing funeral, but a second passive group of children rejects both ideas. Alternatively, two groups of children could be arguing with each other: one group wants to play wedding and the other refused. Then the refusing group suggests playing funeral and the first group rejects that idea. Both options would draw upon experiences in children’s lives in the ancient world and would likely be games children would play. The parables of Jesus drew upon metaphors and images from common, everyday life.64 According to the Gospels, children surrounded Jesus during his Galilean ministry. The children in the marketplace parable reflects this reality, as the common, everyday actions of children playing become the center of the parable’s image.

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Ville Vuolanto, “Faith and Religion,” in A Cultural History of Childhood and Family in Antiquity, ed. Mary Harlow and Ray Laurence (New York: Berg Publishers, 2010), 138. Beryl Rawson, Children and Childhood in Roman Italy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 213–14. Vuolanto, “Faith and Religion,” 138; Rawson, Children and Childhood in Roman Italy, 333, 337. Joachim Jeremias suggested that the wedding game would have been played by boys and the funeral game by girls since “the round dance at a wedding is the men’s dance” and “the mourner’s dirge is the women’s business” (The Parables of Jesus, 2nd ed. [New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1972], 161.) Bovon critiques Jeremias, but on the basis of how adults danced and not upon children’s activities in the ancient world (Luke 1, 286). C. H. Dodd, Parables of the Kingdom, rev. ed. (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1961), 16; See also Luise Schottroff, The Parables of Jesus (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 2006).

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Children Playing in the Marketplace among Children in the Gospels This final section will discuss the relationship between the parable and the narratives about children in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke. In the Gospel of Matthew, the parable both recalls the ruler’s daughter whom Jesus raises from the dead (9:18–26) and foreshadows the dancing daughter of Herodias (14:1–12).65 Matthew redacts Mark’s much longer and more descriptive story of the raising of Jairus’ daughter and the woman from the crowd. One variation is the description of the mourners who gather at the ruler’s home. In Mark’s Gospel, when Jesus arrives at the house of Jairus, there is a commotion, and he sees that the mourners are already present. People are crying (klaiontas) and wailing (alalazontas). In Matthew, there is still a commotion, but the people are not crying and wailing; rather, it is the presence of flute players that signifies the mourning. Jesus commands the crowd to depart because he says, “the girl is not dead but sleeping” (9:24). Then Jesus brings the girl back to life. The child-raising miracle is one of Jesus’ deeds of wisdom about which the parable speaks. The only other time flute playing is mentioned in the Gospel of Matthew is in the parable of the children in the marketplaces. There the flute playing is not a sign of mourning, but celebration. “This generation” is encouraging John the Baptist to dance and thereby to forsake his call for repentance. They try to turn the tables on Jesus as well: whereas Jesus tells the mourning crowd at the ruler’s house to depart and to no longer engage in their lament,“this generation” is encouraging Jesus to sing a lament and to mourn. The raising of the ruler’s daughter illustrates why Jesus does not mourn when this generation calls for a lament: he has power over death.66 Unfortunately for John the Baptist, the parable of the children in the marketplace is not the only Gospel scene in which he and the act of dancing are thrown side-by-side. The evils of “this generation” are illustrated in the next child narrative and the consequences are mortal for John. Matthew 14:1–12 is

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For a fuller treatment of these passages, see Sharon Betsworth, Children in Early Christian Narratives (London: Bloomsbury/T&T Clark, 2016), 84–88. This nicely illustrates Eccl. 3:4 “a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.”

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a flashback describing the events leading Herod to kill John, which culminate with Herod’s birthday party. There the daughter of Herodias dances, and on a whim, Herod promises the girl whatever she wants. Prompted by her mother, she asks for the head of John the Baptist. And thus, the one who would not dance when this generation played the flute is killed because his adversaries skillfully took advantage of a child’s dance.67 To summarize, in the Gospel of Matthew, the parable of the children in the marketplaces serves to summarize Jesus’ deeds of wisdom, which include the healing of a child. It also foreshadows the next child narrative in the Gospel, which further illustrates the evils of “this generation,” highlighted by the death of John the Baptist. Thus, Matthew juxtaposes the justice-seeking deeds of Jesus-Wisdom with the evil deeds, and hence the non-wisdom, of this generation. From there, the Gospel moves toward Jesus’ final conflict with this generation. Luke’s version of the children in the marketplace parable is also closely connected to the Gospel’s narratives about children, primarily through the motif of “not mourning.” Luke is specifically concerned that those who have experienced, or are about to experience, the life-giving power of Jesus “do not weep.” In the Sermon on the Plain (Lk. 6:17–49), Jesus declares that among those who are blessed are those who weep, for they will laugh (6:21). The reversals continue when Jesus proclaims that those who laugh, will mourn and weep (6:25). The phrase, “do not weep,” reprises three more times, each time related to the motif of children. First, Jesus tells the widow of Nain, who is walking in her son’s funeral procession to his burial, “do not weep” (7:13); then he touches the bier and commands the young man to rise. Then, in Luke’s narrative of the ruler of the synagogue and his dying daughter, Jesus admonishes the girl’s parents, “do not weep” (8:52) just before he raises her from the dead.68 Thus twice, Jesus directs parents of deceased children not to weep. Between these two commands, Luke reprises the “do not weep” motif, when Jesus compares his opponents to children who are calling on him to lament, but he 67

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Though Jesus is not present in this passage, it is thick with allusion to infancy narrative. This is only the second episode in the Gospel in which a member of the Herodian family is mentioned. The other is Mt. 2, when Herod the Great seeks to kill the infant Jesus. In both cases, a Herodian is a wheeler of death and a child is involved in the action. For a fuller treatment of these passages see Betsworth, Children in Early Christian Narratives, 112–26.

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will not weep (7:32). These first two child healings illustrate Jesus’ teaching in the Sermon on the Plain, while the marketplace parable reinforces this teaching that Jesus is indeed the one who brings laughter out of mourning. The third child healing in Luke also echoes the parable and its related wisdom proverb. In the story of the boy with the spirit (9:37–43), Jesus lashes out at this “faithless and perverse generation” (v. 41) when he learns that his disciples were unable to heal the boy. The whole crowd including the disciples gets swept into Jesus’ lament, echoing the introduction to the parable “to what shall I compare the people of generation.” Not only do these people reject the activities of John and Jesus, their lack of belief inhibits a faithful response to God. Indeed, Jesus gave the disciples the power to heal (9:2), but when they encounter the boy and his father they cannot. Jesus-Wisdom, however, is able to heal the child. In one last child-centered episode, which follows immediately after the healing of the boy, Jesus takes a child and places the child by his side.69 He declares “the least among all of you is the greatest” (9:48), challenging his disciples—who have been included among the “faithless and preserve generation”—to contemplate where they fit in this equation. The saying also illuminates the enigmatic statement found in 7:28, “among those born of women no one is greater than John; yet the least in the kingdom of God is greater than he.” Even as great a prophet as John the Baptist was, whom Luke holds in very high esteem, the smallest child is even greater in the reign of God. Thus, Luke tightly weaves together each child-centered narrative and references to children in his Gospel. The parable further illuminates the teachings in the Sermon on the Plain just as the child healing do.

Conclusion The parable of the children in the marketplace is situated in the world of adults as Jesus’ rebukes “this generation,” those who do not understand either his actions or those of John the Baptist. It advances both Gospels’ depiction of

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Jesus as God’s justice-seeking Wisdom, bringing forth God’s reign in the world. Like all of Jesus’ parables, it draws upon real life and everyday images such as the marketplace and legal procedures. Yet the parable also draws upon the imaginative world of children who are playing wedding or funeral or courtroom. Exploring this parable as an image of children’s play is important for two reasons. First, readers of the Gospels frequently do not notice the children in the text. Then as now, children are often relegated to the margins, and their needs are left unattended by the society at large. Finding images of children in biblical texts is an important way to bring them out of the shadows of the Bible. Second, this image of children playing and acting out the scenes of their everyday life is important because many of the children with whom Jesus interacts are in need of healing, are dying, or are already dead. The parable instead depicts children who are active and playing. As such, the parable then balances the image of children in the Gospels creating a more realistic depiction of children in the world of Jesus.

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“Theirs is the Kingdom”: Children as Proprietors of the Kingdom of God in Luke 18:15–17 Amy Lindeman Allen

One of the first words each of my children learned was “Mine!” This basic sense of ownership helps children to navigate their world. These early experiments in what we do and do not have control over or influence upon lay the groundwork for later navigation of the more complex system of economics that governs much engagement in our contemporary world. Over the course of a lifetime most people transition from solely managing their place and affairs in the household to also managing, to a greater or lesser extent, their place and affairs in the larger society. Aristotle describes this economy of influence, wherein the adult male householder achieves the peak of influence, in his Oeconomica, which literally translated means “household management.” Luke’s Gospel account simultaneously recognizes this traditional system of economy, or household management, while turning it on its head by identifying small children rather than powerful adults among the proprietors of the kingdom of God.1 Children were present among those who followed Jesus from Galilee in Luke’s Gospel account. Those children who heard the word of God proclaimed by Jesus and sought to live according to that same word, for example by answering Jesus’ call to come to him in Luke 18:16, can thus be counted as among Jesus’ disciples according to Luke’s own definition in 8:21 and 11:28.2 1

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While it is unlikely that either the Lukan author or the historical Jesus had read Aristotle’s Oeconomica, the principles that it espouses were commonplace in the Greco-Roman world in which Jesus lived and the Gospel was written. As a result, reference to Aristotle’s work as foundational to this worldview is useful in understanding the societal reversal that Luke’s Jesus enacts. Amy Lindeman Allen, “For Theirs is the Kingdom: (Re)membering Young Children in the Gospel of Luke” (PhD diss., Vanderbilt University, Nashville, 2016), 221–71.

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As a result, children were also present within the new Christian households formed among these disciples and those who joined them after the Pentecost gift of the Spirit, breaking bread together at home (oikos; Acts  2:44–47, 4:32–37).3 A childist reading of Luke 18:15–17, moreover, suggests that children were not merely a part of these new households, but actually at the head of them as proprietors of the entire kingdom of God that such household expressions make manifest.4 While the Acts church acknowledges a variety of heads and leaders of their household expressions, Luke’s Jesus assigns the unique role of proprietors of the kingdom of God solely to young children (paideia, Lk. 18:16) and the disenfranchised (ptōchoi, Lk. 6:20). This is a reversal of traditional arrangements of household and societal power in which children and the disenfranchised hold the least power and influence. This childist reading therefore examines the impact of such a reversal, concluding that the consequence of a kingdom owned by those previously most dependent upon the care of others is a socialization for all its parties (young and old, disenfranchised and enfranchised) in an ethic of interdependence, service, and care.

Proprietors of the Kingdom Toddlers screaming “Mine!” rarely care about the rightful ownership of the object in question. Their view seems appropriately described by the adage, “Possession is nine-tenths of the law.” If a toddler possesses what they want in their hands and thus has control over it, they will typically not let go without a fight—no matter who the rightful owner may be. In contrast to this human desire to hold on, God demonstrates a persistent desire to let go throughout the unfolding narrative of the Christian Scriptures. At creation God entrusts the world and all that is in it to the care of humankind (Gen. 1:28–29) and with Jesus God entrusts the kingdom of God itself to humanity (Lk. 6:20; 18:15–17). In the latter case, not only does Jesus proclaim an expansive welcome into the kingdom for all people, parallel to the broad mandate of creation in Genesis, 3 4

Ibid., 221–71. By childist, I mean a reading that approaches Luke’s text with the intention of learning what it has to say to and for children first, before considering its implications for adults. Such a reading by necessity begins with identifying the role(s) of children both explicit and implicit in the text.

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Jesus goes one step further to entrust ownership to a more specific group of people—young children and those who are disenfranchised. The relation between these two groups is not coincidental. Both sit at the margins of society; both possess little or nothing themselves, even their rights are not really their own. With regard to the disenfranchised, Herman Hendrickx notes that proprietorship of God’s kingdom for the disenfranchised (ptōchoi) stands in stark contrast to the propertylessness that characterizes the ptōchoi in society itself.5 The word ptōchoi is distinct from the more common noun penēs (poor) in the sense that while the poor have limited resources, but may still exist within the bounds of society, the ptōchoi must rely on others to provide for their basic needs and are thus disenfranchised from society as such.6 The classification of ptōchoi as a social category thus spanned the generations, including both children and adults. While there are few direct sources about disenfranchised children in large part due to the fact that, by the ancient literary standard of the literate patriarchal society in which they were enmeshed, “they simply weren’t interesting enough,” brief glimpses of their lives do exist.7 In addition to the children among the disenfranchised, however, Jesus extends ownership of the kingdom of God to all children, including the youngest infants (brephē) in Luke 18:15–17. Within the structure of Greco-Roman society, even children from the wealthiest and most socially connected households were, in a sense, disenfranchised from the larger world until they reached adulthood. At its most extreme, John Dominic Crossan describes this experience of childhood in first-century Palestine: “To be a child was to be a nobody, with the possibility of becoming a somebody absolutely dependent on parental discretion and parental standing in the community.”8 While Crossan is correct about the 5

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Herman Hendrickx, The Third Gospel for the Third World, Vol 2A (Collegeville, MN : Liturgical Press, 1996); see also Herman Hendrickx, The Third Gospel for the Third World, Vol 3C (Collegeville, MN : Liturgical Press, 1996). BDAG, s.v. πτωχός; LSJ , s.v. πτωχός. Hanne Sigismund-Nielsen, “Slave and Lower-Class Roman Children” in The Oxford Handbook of Childhood and Education in the Classical World, ed. Judith Evans Grubbs and Tim Parkin with Roslynne Bell (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 289. John Dominic Crossan, The Historical Jesus: The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant (New York: HarperCollins, 1991), 269. It is worth noting that Margaret MacDonald’s recent critique of monolithic descriptions of the Roman household structure has done much to open up space to see children as important and even central contributors at the various intersections of household and social life; however, for the purpose of understanding their status and Luke’s subsequent reversal as such, my emphasis in this reading is on the lack of official status, power, and property ownership afforded to children. See Margaret MacDonald, The Power of Children: Construction of Christian Families in the Greco-Roman World (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2014).

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state of extreme dependence that is natural to childhood both in the first century and today, he is no more correct about the correlation between this dependency and personal value attributed to children in the biblical context than he would be to describe twenty-first-century children as “nobodies” today. Warren Carter and others have demonstrated that to say a child was a “nobody” at any stage in history is overstating the case with regard to both their practical and emotional value in their households and communities.9 While not yet capable of being self-sufficient, young children in the first century contributed to the overall functioning of their households practically as co-workers both within and beyond their house and emotionally as valued offspring both loved for who they were and who they were developing to be and prized as descendants to carry on the household into a new generation. Yet despite his overstatement, Crossan is on point with regard to a child’s non-existent (or near non-existent) social status within the larger Greco-Roman world. It is not surprising, therefore, that the Greek word pais can refer to both slaves and young children. In either case the word refers to “one who is committed in total obedience to another”—the paterfamilias, or head of the household.10 It is in this context that Jesus enacts a reversal of the societal disenfranchisement of young children and the ptōchoi, putting them at the center of an existence that emanates from God—the kingdom of God itself.

Children in the Kingdom Children always have been and always will be a part of God’s kingdom. Their presence is assumed throughout the long line of genealogies in both Jewish and Christian Scriptures that rehearse God’s blessings, particularly upon the descendants of Abraham, Jacob, and David, with special reference in Luke’s account to the household (oikos) of Jacob (Exod. 19:3–6; Lk. 1:32–33). Similarly, children are included in the outpouring of God’s Spirit on “all flesh”

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Warren Carter, Households and Discipleship: A Study of Matthew 19–20 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), 112–13. See also Lindeman Allen, “For Theirs is the Kingdom,” 98; Julie Faith Parker, Valuable and Vulnerable: Children in the Hebrew Bible, Especially the Elijah Cycle (Providence, RI: Brown Judaic Studies, 2013). BDAG, s.v. πάις.

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in Acts 2:17 and “the promise of salvation that comes via the gift of the Spirit” in Acts 2:38–39.11 The episode recounted in Luke 18:15–17 (Mk 10:13–15; Mt. 19:13–15) wherein Jesus calls a group of young children to himself serves in the first place as a concrete experience of this inclusion, as Jesus extends his welcome to these young children (paideia). Jesus’ act of welcoming these little ones into his presence in this moment anticipates their larger welcome into the kingdom of God. However, Luke’s replacement of the more general term paidion (“small child”) used in the other synoptics with the more helpless brephē (infant) indicates the lack of human involvement in determining one’s place in God’s kingdom. Luke Timothy Johnson asserts, “The kingdom proclaimed by Jesus is entirely about the power of God at work to heal and liberate and empower, not about humans accomplishing things for themselves.”12 All children of every age, including the very youngest, are included in the expansive welcome of God. The Lukan author goes even further than a mere toleration or acknowledgment of the place of children in God’s kingdom by signaling their explicit welcome through Jesus’ unambiguous call (proskaleto) that they come (erchesthai) to him (Lk. 18:16). Jesus’ call overrides the power of the disciples (or even the children and their parents) to decide who is welcome in his presence and, correspondingly, in the kingdom of God. That determination rests solely on Jesus, who clearly and definitively chooses to call these children to himself (proskaleomai, v. 16) and thus into the divine presence. Such a welcome in response to other adults around Jesus, who are seeking to prevent the children’s approach, makes it clear that “no human authority can or must regulate access to Jesus or God.”13 God is in control. Children are not included in the kingdom of God because of the actions of their parents or any other adults, or even because they have traditionally been included. Rather, in v. 16, Luke’s Jesus makes clear that God decides to whom to grant access to the kingdom—and God not only chooses to welcome and include these young children, God through Jesus hands over the keys to them.

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Joel Green, “ ‘Tell Me a Story’: Perspectives on Children from the Acts of the Apostles,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Marcia J. Bunge, Terence E. Fretheim, and Beverly Roberts Gaventa (Grand Rapids: Eerdmanns, 2008), 224. Luke Timothy Johnson, The Gospel of Luke, SP (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1991), 281. François Bovon, Luke 2, trans. Donald S. Deer, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2013), 558.

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Whose Kingdom Is It? Even more than a welcome, Jesus’ declaration that “the kingdom of God belongs to such as these” (Lk. 18:16b) extends a special place in God’s kingdom for these young children. Children are welcome in the kingdom of God; and they are the proprietors of it. Judith Gundry makes this ownership explicit in her analysis of Mark 10:14, the language of which Luke carries over verbatim in Luke 18:16: The Greek construction, tōn toioutōn estin hē basileia tou Theou (literally, “belonging to such as these is the kingdom of God”) uses a genitive of possession (tōn toioutōn) to describe the relation between the kingdom of God and little children such as those brought to Jesus: the kingdom is theirs.14

This expression parallels the use of estin in Luke’s collection of beatitudes, in which Jesus clearly contrasts the lack of possessions of the disenfranchised poor (ptōchoi) with the reversal of their condition in the kingdom, in which humetera estin hē basieleia tou theou (“yours is the kingdom of God,” Lk. 6:20). The literal possession of the kingdom in this case follows the pattern of Jesus directly reversing the fortunes of each group addressed in the beatitudes, for example with the hungry being filled and those who weep laughing while those who are full are told they will be hungry and those who laugh that they will weep (see Lk. 6:20–25). In this context, nothing but a literal reversal with respect to possession would make sense. The declaration that young children and the disenfranchised poor, or indeed anyone other than God the Creator, or perhaps God’s Son, Jesus, might be the proprietor of the kingdom of God—the one who holds it as their property—may seem radical at first. After all, the most common translation of the Greek genitive is possessive, such that the term basileia tou theou, while frequently translated as “the kingdom of God” or “God’s kingdom” is generally assumed to mean more specifically “the kingdom which belongs to God.” Likewise, Gabriel prophesies of Jesus, “He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his

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Judith Gundry, “Children in the Gospel of Mark, with Special Attention to Jesus’ Blessing of the Children (Mark 10:13–16) and the Purpose of Mark,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., 151.

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ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob, and of his kingdom there will be no end” (Lk. 1:32–33, emphasis added). Here again, the genitive is used to describe Jesus’ relationship to the kingdom over which he is to reign on the throne of his ancestor David. Moreover, Jesus later assigns this same relationship to the kingdom to his disciples in his farewell address to them, saying: “I confer on you, just as my Father has conferred on me, a kingdom, so that you may eat and drink at my table in my kingdom, and you will sit on thrones judging the twelve tribes of Israel” (Lk. 22:28–30). Jesus and his disciples thus seem likely candidates for proprietors of the kingdom. Nevertheless, in both Luke 6:20 and 18:16 clear possessors of the kingdom are named—and they are neither God nor Jesus.15 Beckoning the youngest of children to come to him, Luke’s Jesus tells us that the kingdom “is for such as these” (toioutōn estin, 18:16). These children and their similarly disenfranchised adult counterparts are the ones for whom the kingdom of God is intended. Since proprietorship is thus established in Luke 6:20 and 18:16, a translation of tou theou (and autou in the case of Lk. 1:33) other than the commonly assumed genitive of possession is in order. A number of options exist, the most plausible including: descriptive (e.g. characterized by God); simple apposition (e.g. that is God); material (made of God); production (which was made by God); relational (e.g. the place from which God comes); location (e.g. which is in God); and source (e.g. out of, derived from, or dependent on God). Most of these options are not mutually exclusive in one’s view of how God relates to the kingdom and in my opinion, together, add depth to one’s understanding of the concept of basileia tou theou (kingdom of God) by clarifying God’s relation to the kingdom. Moreover, readers and interpreters typically infer the genitive of location in Matthew’s parallel account of this same pericope (Mt. 19:14). When Jesus declares that it is to such as these children that the kingdom of heaven (basileia tōn ouranōn) belongs, most readers know that the kingdom does not actually belong to the heavens. Instead, the generic genitive kingdom of heaven is retained, but the assumed interpretation typically reflects a locative use of the genitive case (e.g. the kingdom which is located in the heavens) or a genitive 15

Indeed, is it not so surprising that God does not hold onto the kingdom of God for God’s self. The God of the Jewish and Christian scriptures is not self-interested. In Genesis 2:18–23, the creation of every living being is described as God’s pursuit of a companion for the human creature. In Luke 1:46–55, Mary celebrates the conception of Jesus as God’s great gift to her and her people. God acts and creates for the benefit of God’s people.

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of apposition (the kingdom which is heaven). Following this pattern, I retain the shorthand use of “kingdom of God” with the understanding that this term reflects one or more of these above mentioned uses of the genitive case, not the commonly assumed genitive of possession. The genitive of source is especially appealing as a translation for “kingdom of God” (e.g. the kingdom that comes from/emanates from God) within the Lukan corpus. This translation provides hermeneutically rich possibilities for understanding such a kingdom as present in our midst (and the midst of the Lukan community). In Matthew’s perspective, the kingdom is located far away in the heavens. The kingdom is brought closer by the coming of Jesus, but still not present in and among the discipleship community here on earth (Mt. 3:2; 4:17; 10:7). In contrast, toward the end of Jesus’ ministry in Luke’s Gospel, Jesus proclaims to the crowds and Pharisees, “the kingdom of God is among you” (17:21). Through Jesus’ ministry, Luke’s Gospel presents a kingdom that comes from God and has already begun its advent here on earth (4:43; 10:8–11; 11:20; 17:20–21). Within this context, the image of Jesus and the apostles sitting upon thrones in God’s kingdom calls to mind the function of “the judges who formerly led the nation.”16 The judges (sopet) in the Hebrew Bible stood in contrast to hereditary rulers of a kingdom. Divinely appointed, the judges were ad hoc rulers appointed “to maintain harmonious relations among the Israelites.”17 Jesus and the apostles thus serve as stewards, or servants, of the kingdom, rather than proprietors as such.18 Both by heralding the kingdom’s coming and living into its purposes through healings and table

16 17

18

François Bovon, Luke 3, trans. James Crouch, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2012), 176. Temba L. J. Mafico, “Judge, Judging,” in ABD Vol 3, ed. David Noel Freedman (New York: Doubleday, 1992), 1105. Although commentators often draw connections between Lk. 12:32 and 22:28–30 (see Bovon above), the group whom Jesus addresses in the earlier passage is likely to have been a broader, mixed-age group of those who had been following Jesus from Galilee, not solely the twelve who would become Jesus’s apostles and ultimately (with the exception of Judas) lead the church in Acts. As such, it is difficult to speculate to whom Luke intended Jesus to have been directly speaking in Lk. 12:32. Moreover, the use of the diminutive mikros (little) in relation to the flock may even suggest that Jesus had in mind the “least of these” or the youngest of his disciples. This theme recurs in Lk. 22:26 when Jesus encourages the greatest among those gathered to be like the youngest. In the context of a mixed-age group of disciples likely to have included children as argued above, this giving of the kingdom may even have been intended for the children, thus prefiguring the longer encounter in Lk. 18:15–17. Absent a clear directive that the apostles are Jesus’ intended audience, I thus rely on their connection to the kingdom more clearly defined in Lk. 22:28–30 and assume that if they are (or are part of) the intended audience of Lk. 12:32 it is within this context of judges or stewards that Jesus entrusts the kingdom to the twelve apostles and not as a literal possession.

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fellowship, Jesus and the apostles live into their shared role as stewards of the kingdom throughout Luke’s Gospel account and the book of Acts respectively. While adult religious leaders and others continue to watch for a sign of the kingdom’s future coming (11:16; 17:20, 21:7; 23:8), Jesus has already granted its deed to young children and the disenfranchised poor. In fact, it seems to be no mistake that the first sign that God gives to people in Luke’s Gospel is that of a small child himself—the same child whom Gabriel proclaims will be the first to sit on the throne of David (1:32–33; 2:12, 34). By explicitly entrusting young children with the kingdom, Jesus is thus bringing to fruition that which God has already announced.

Children in Possession of the Kingdom In Luke 18:16 children join the disenfranchised as those to whom the kingdom has already been promised (Lk. 6:20). They are both co-owners or proprietors of the kingdom of God. The Lukan Jesus has set them at the helm of the inbreaking presence of God in this world and the world to come. The tremendous significance of this divine gift, however, has often been overshadowed by scholarly concern about interpretation of the following verse: “Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a young child will never enter it” (Lk. 18:17). Most modern interpreters skip over the role of and impact on the child altogether, moving instead immediately to a metaphorical interpretation of the child either as a model for discipleship,19 or as a model for the kingdom of God.20 One early exception to this practice has been the use of

19

20

Hans-Ruedi Weber, Jesus and the Children: Biblical Resources for Study and Preaching (Atlanta: John Knox, 1979); Joseph Fitzmyer, The Gospel According to Luke X–XXIV AB (New York: Doubleday, 1983); Vernon Robbins, “Pronouncement Stories and Jesus’ Blessing of the Children: A Rhetorical Approach,” Semeia 29 (1983), 97–102; Jerome Kodell, “Luke and the Children: The Beginning and End of the ‘Great Interpolation’ (Luke 9:46–56, 19.9–23),” CBQ 49, no. 3 (1987), 415–30; Frederick Danker, Jesus and the New Age: A Commentary on St. Luke’s Gospel (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1988); Fred Craddock, Luke (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1990); John Nolland, Luke 9:21—18:34 (Dallas: Thomas Nelson, 1993); John Carroll, “What Then Will This Child Become? Perspectives on Children in the Gospel of Luke,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al. See Lester Bradner, “The Kingdom and the Child,” in AThR 3, no. 1 (May 1920), 59–65; Frederick Schilling, “What Means the Saying about Receiving the Kingdom of God as a Little Child,” Exp Tim 77 no. 2 (1965), 56–58; Daniel Patte, “Jesus’ Pronouncement about Entering the Kingdom Like a Child: A Structural Exegesis,” Semeia 29 (1983), 3–42; and Ronald Clark, “Kingdoms, Kids, and Kindness: A New Context for Luke 18:15–17,” SCJ 5 (2002), 235–48.

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Luke 18:15–17 and its synoptic parallels in the infant baptism debate.21 These scholars, while still focusing on the meaning of v. 17 in their interpretation of the text, favored an interpretation that took seriously the real child addressed in the text. As such, they suggested that Jesus’ insistence that one must enter the kingdom of God “as a young child” is an argument for the place, and indeed, priority of infant baptism as one’s entry into the kingdom. Taking v. 17 quite literally, they suggested that admission into the kingdom of God or, more accurately, the kingdom of heaven in the otherworldly Matthean sense, required that one enter it, by means of baptism, at an early age. Thus an argument was made that one’s eternal life with God or, more theologically, salvation, hinged on being received into the church through baptism as a young child. Although the connection between this text and the rite of baptism has a long history in liturgical practice, these scholars brought attention to it, employing historical critical methods that allowed them to envision an (albeit faint) baptismal vestige. Their claims, however, were too ambitious in scope and have largely been dismissed. Given the preponderance of evidence for adult conversion and believer’s baptism in both the early church and the synoptic traditions respectively, even alongside of the baptisms of entire households that may have included children, it is unlikely that such a exclusivist understanding of baptism as valid for young children alone is in line with the Gospel writer’s original intent (see especially Acts 2:38–41; 8:12, 36–38; 9:17– 19; 16:15, 33; 18:8). With regard to one’s entry into the kingdom, Luke both renders the advent of God’s kingdom as a present reality (at least in part) and any associated salvation likewise as experienced in the present tense through one’s encounter with Jesus the Christ. Thus Zechariah celebrates his newborn son John, “And you, child, will be called prophet of the Most High; for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways, to give knowledge of salvation to his people by the forgiveness of their sins” (Lk. 1:76–77). Indeed, while the term soterion (salvation) never appears in relation to Jesus’ encounter with the children, it is used here and elsewhere in Luke to express the experience of 21

Joachim Jeremias, Infant Baptism in the First Four Centuries, trans. David Cairns (London: SCM Press, 1960), 48–55; Oscar Cullmann, Baptism in the New Testament, trans. J. K. S. Reid (London: SCM Press, 1950), 71–80; David Wright, “Out, In, Out: Jesus’ Blessing of the Children and Infant Baptism” in Dimensions of Baptism: Biblical and Theological Studies ed. Stanley E. Porter and Anthony R. Cross (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002), 193.

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salvation in the present tense (see Simeon’s encounter with Jesus in Luke 2:30 and Jesus’ encounter with Zacchaeus in Lk. 19:9). Moreover, apart from the experience of salvation, Luke’s Jesus makes clears that others besides children, not the least of whom the disenfranchised poor themselves (Lk. 6:20), have a place in the kingdom of God.22 This broad inclusion in the present advent of God’s kingdom, despite the fact that everyone during the period of Jesus’ ministry would have been unbaptized in a Christian sense (see Acts 19:3–5), makes clear that the the Lukan author did not have eternal salvation through baptism in mind. Nevertheless, while a reservation of eternal salvation for those who are baptized as young children seems untenable based on my reading of Luke 18:17, attention to the practice of infant baptism opens the door for a broader understanding of the place of the real child in God’s kingdom based on the entire pericope. Kurt Aland, also interested in the practice of the early church with regard to baptism, does not see the same connections between Luke 18:17 and baptism as Joachim Jeremias and Oscar Cullman do. He does, however, allow that the church’s application of the larger pericope to baptism can provide a hermeneutical model. Aland suggests that in their application of this text to baptism the early church from the second century, the Roman Catholic, Eastern Orthodox, and many protestant churches to this day have taken children’s possession of the kingdom for granted. Citing such churches’ use of Luke 18:15-17 and its parallels as supporting texts for infant baptism, Aland writes, “The fact that the baptism of children [or even sucklings] is testified or presupposed here is by no means merely indicated. The Church, which later used this baptism, found it here legitimized.”23 Infant baptism may not be the only way, or in Luke’s community even the primary way, to enter into the kingdom of God; however, by citing Jesus’ declaration of the children’s possession of the kingdom in v. 16 as a reason not to deny children the kingdom (as experienced through baptism), Aland and the churches he cites affirm (likely quite by accident) the young child’s rightful possession of the kingdom of God. 22 23

See also Lk. 9:27, 62; 10:9; 11:20; 13:28–29; 17:21; and 18:24–30. “Daß hier die kinder (oder sogar die Säuglings) taufe bezeugt oder vorausgesetzt sei, ist durch nichts auch nur angedeutet. Eine Kirche, welche später diese Taufe übte, hat sie hier legitimiert gefunden” (my translation) (Kurt Aland, Die Stellung der Kinder in den frühen christlichen Gemeinden—und ihre Taufe [München: Kaiser, 1967], 12).

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In his equivocation between possession of the kingdom of God and eternal salvation through baptism, unfortunately, Aland, like his contemporaries, falls short. Aland fails to consider the ramifications of such an equivocation for the larger Lukan audience. Specifically, Luke’s Jesus grants possession of the kingdom of God to only two groups—young children and the disenfranchised poor. However, Jesus and his disciples proclaim the same kingdom of God to many more groups of people in all of their diversity of age, wealth, and status. Luke’s Jesus does warn of difficulty for the wealthy in entering the kingdom of God (Lk. 18:24); however, he never explicitly excludes them. Indeed, by way of explanation of this same warning Jesus declares, “What is impossible for mortals is possible for God” (Lk. 18:27). In addition, while God’s kingdom as a living out of God’s purpose on earth remains a work in progress for all people throughout Luke and Acts, the salvation of God is fulfilled in the person of Jesus when he is still a babe in arms (Lk. 2:30, see also John and Zechariah’s prophecies mentioned above). Therefore while it seems logical that those who possess the kingdom of God will also experience eternal salvation in it, it is not apparent from Luke’s Gospel account that it is only those who are granted ownership of the kingdom who will gain entry into or salvation through it. Nor is it clear that eternal salvation or entry into a kingdom beyond the present life is a primary concern of the Lukan Gospel writer at all.

Economics (oikonomika) of the Kingdom The trajectory of the Lukan author both in the Gospel and in Acts seems to point toward a present experience of God’s kingdom. Thus the angel Gabriel proclaims to the shepherds, “To you is born this day, in the city of David, a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord” (Lk. 2:11, emphasis added), and upon closing the scroll of Isaiah, Jesus declares to the congregation at Nazareth, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing” (Lk. 4:21). The orienting question of Luke’s Gospel account is thus not how one might live in the company of God in the next life, but rather, how one might live in the company of God in the present life while anticipating the life to come. Within the present realm, then, one’s relationship with God, while not limited to, is often expressed within the structures of relationship predominant in the first-century Greco-

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Roman contexts of the Gospel and Epistle writers. To this end, the language of household (oikos) is common throughout many of the Christian writings that have come to make up the New Testament. This language can also be seen in the arrangements of the early Christian communities around households and in deference to the father, or paterfamilias, described by the Lukan author in both the Gospel and Acts.24 Nevertheless, it is significant that Jesus does not promise the “household of God” to the young children and disenfranchised, but rather promises to them the entirety of the kingdom of God. The first-century household model that places ownership/control at the top of its hierarchical pyramid presupposes the presence of others at lower rungs of the ladder both to support and to be supported by the household. Such households, in turn, support the existence of the kingdom, or nation state. Aristotle’s distinction “between Housecraft (the art of governing a Household or Home) and Statecraft (the art of governing a Nation)” provides a helpful corollary here.25 Predating the Gospels by more than half a millennium, Aristotle’s writings remained authoritative in the Greco-Roman world of the first century. Even when not read directly, they can be seen through correlation to have provided the basis upon which the patriarchal household and government structures of Luke’s time were based. In particular, Aristotle distinguishes between these two different (though equally hierarchical) structures by way of the kinds of communities that they oversee and the manner by which they are overseen. Aristotle writes, “whereas the government of a nation is in many hands, a household has but a single ruler.”26 The singular ruler of the household assumed throughout most of the New Testament corpus is the father, or paterfamilias. Similarly Jesus refers to God both as his father and as the father of those who follow him, the head of the household in which Jesus participates, and through the community of his disciples, expands.27 However, when it comes to the governance of the entire kingdom of God, made up, as it were, of many individual households, proprietorship rests not solely with one figurehead—even God—but rather, with whole groups of people: young children and the disenfranchised poor. This corporate inclusion 24 25 26 27

See Lk. 1:62; 9:42, 59; 12:51–53; Lk. 15:12; 16:27–28; 18:20; Acts 10:2; 11:14; 16:15, 31–34; 18:8. Aristotle, Oec I.1.1 [Armstrong and Tredenneck, LCL]. Ibid., I.1.5. See Lk. 2:49; 6:36; 9:26; 10:21–22; 11:2, 13; 12:30–32; 22:29, 42; 23:34, 46; 24:49; See also Lk. 9:35.

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stands in contrast to particular healings that Jesus performs for individuals who had personally been disenfranchised and to the single child whom Jesus places in the midst of his disciples. By moving beyond an individual moment of compassion or attention to addressing those most dependent in society as entire groups, Jesus does not diminish their individualism, but rather strikes at the heart of the structures that sought to diminish and dismiss the voices of these groups in civic life.28 As a result, it would be inaccurate to state that these groups now take the place of a single head of household (paterfamilias). Rather, they take their place over the heads of household—those disciples and apostles carrying out the daily work and functioning of the nascent Christian communities in Acts—as the heads of state of the kingdom of God that these houses represent. Aristotle explains the relationship between this larger entity, which he calls “nation,” and Luke addresses in terms of “kingdom”: “By Nation we mean an assemblage of houses, lands, and property sufficient to enable the inhabitants to live a civilized life.”29 However, to the extent that Caesar Augustus co-opted the role of paterfamilias to describe his patronage of the whole Roman Empire as one consolidated family, a new conception of a paideia familias might better describe the relationship between young children and the Christian households at a macro level, thus reclaiming this civilized plurality of governance from Caesar’s autocratic reign. In this sense the household relationships (Oeconomica) that Jesus models comes closer to the Greco-Roman ideal than the civic government of his day. In enacting these structures within the kingdom of God the purposes of which stretch beyond human governance, however, a group of households, the koinonia of Acts, assemble together for the common purpose not of civilized living but, rather, of living into Jesus’ command to “hear the Word of God and do it” (Lk. 8:21; 11:28). This mandate is the first act of Jesus’ disciples following the advent of the Holy Spirit (Acts 4:31) and occupies the central mission of the apostles in the remainder of the Acts narrative. Within this model it is clear that adult apostles take on these leadership positions in the newly formed churches or households (Acts 6:2) and that many of these, like Paul, come from well-off families, such that young children and the disenfranchised continue to remain all but invisible in Luke’s description of the early church. 28 29

See Lk 6:20; 9:46–50; 18:16. Aristotle, Oec I.1.10.

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In fact, when the Lukan author employs the language and imagery of household it is with a new kind of organization in mind, no longer bound by exclusive human ties (cf. Lk. 14:26). In this new household, the structure of human control itself is denied, just as Jesus later denies the adult disciples’ control over who can approach him (Lk. 18:15). In its place are redefined communities based on the proclamation and service of the word of God. Moreover, in as much as individual apostles or householders exercise some type of control over particular pockets of these communal manifestations of the in-breaking kingdom of God, their roles and service need not undermine the position that Jesus has granted the young children and the disenfranchised over the entire kingdom of God united for this common purpose of proclamation and service.

The Great Reversal In Aristotle’s Oeconomica and all other descriptions of the arrangement of households and communities in the Greco-Roman world, a clear hierarchy is maintained, even if sometimes breached, for example with intersections between the roles of the husband and wife within the home. Such hierarchies, in their ideal, always place a freeborn adult male at the top. So “natural” is this truth to Aristotle that he does not even address it directly. Rather, when addressing “the human part of the household,” he suggests “it is the woman who makes the first claim on it,” because by his estimation, “nothing is more natural than the tie between female and male.”30 The adult male as head of the household, married to a woman, is thus assumed in Aristotle’s assessment; moreover, before moving to this human component of the household, Aristotle describes this ideal man’s accumulation of property so that he can provide for his wife—the disenfranchised poor are just as excluded from the equation as are the young. Similarly in matters of state, with regard to inherited wealth and power, minor children in the Greco-Roman world were considered wards under the protection of so-called tutors or curators who served as guardians until the child reached adulthood. In such arrangements, “In principle, the tutor enjoyed the status of an owner of the property in question, and his authorization was 30

Ibid., I.3.1.

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required for the ward to become obligated on a contract or to alienate property.”31 Thus, while youth and on rare occasions even young children inherited or otherwise acquired positions of power in the Greco-Roman world, such power was not their own. Young children, particularly the very young, remained disenfranchised from the direct dealings of society—even with regard to their own power or property when such existed—until they reached the culturally recognized age of adulthood. It is within this context that the role of young children and the disenfranchised as proprietors of the kingdom of God begins to take shape as one of many societal reversals in Luke’s Gospel. This theme first arises in the bold proclamations of Mary’s song (Lk. 1:46–55).32 John York contends that Luke’s Gospel is characterized by a succession of reversals that set up a divine value system in opposition to that experienced in the secular world. It is a divine system in which the poor and disabled (shamed or shameless) are honored and those who seek selfaggrandizement are put to shame.33 John Carroll explains, “Children, like the poor and others on the social margins, participate in God’s grand reversal of present circumstance: the inversion of power, privilege, and status that marks the realm of God.”34 Such reversals stretch across all categories of Roman honor in the Gospel narrative, including not only the economic status of one’s household, but also the individual status one bears within a group. This is seen most clearly in Luke’s depiction of the disciples’ dispute about who is the greatest within their group. In contrast to the Roman practice of benefaction, Luke’s Jesus commands his disciples, “the greatest among you must become like the youngest, and the leader like the one who serves” (Lk. 22:26). Not only does Jesus’ rebuke implicitly affirm the presence of the young among those following Jesus, but it affirms the presence of older disciples (who have previously thought themselves greater) as servants in the new order inaugurated with the kingdom of God. In the kingdom all are welcome, however, there remains a hierarchy of status and that hierarchy is reversed. 31

32 33

34

See Thomas A. J. McGinn, “Roman Children and the Law,” in The Oxford Handbook of Childhood and Education in the Classical World ed. Grubbs et al., 354. Carroll, “What Then Will This Child Become,” 182, 189. John York, The Last Shall Be First: The Rhetoric of Reversal in Luke, JSNTSup 46 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1991). Carroll, “What Then Will This Child Become,” 187.

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The beatitude of the ptōchoi in 6:20 stands as one of Luke’s greatest reversals—in which those who are disenfranchised in this world move from the possession of literally nothing to the possession of the most treasured kingdom of God itself.35 Similarly, Hendrickx argues that this same magnitude of reversal occurs in Luke 18:16.36 Children, whose very lives are in service of their household and paterfamilias, even when brought up in welloff households, can claim no possession of their own. Out of this disenfranchisement, Jesus re-enfranchises young children and the propertyless poor by not only welcoming them into the kingdom of God, but also establishing them as co-owners and active contributors to it.

Management of the Kingdom When Luke’s Jesus tells the Pharisees that the kingdom of God is “among you” (Lk. 17:20) he is referring to the in-breaking of God’s presence in each instance that Jesus or his disciples did the will of God. This is the meaning of Jesus’ previous rebuke to the crowds: “But if it is by the finger of God that I cast out the demons, then the kingdom of God has come to you” (Lk. 11:20). Such a community in which the word of God is heard and done is the kind of community commended by the Lukan author as the ideal discipleship community in Acts  2:42–47. It promotes a household model of communal care, proclaiming and acting on the word of God. This is the type of community promoted in each of Paul’s travels throughout the latter half of the book of Acts. This string of communities, however, models not only a new kind of Christian household, founded on equality and fidelity to the word of God, but also a new kind of collection of households—the kingdom of God on earth, bound together for the promotion of these same purposes.37

35 36 37

Hendrickx, The Third Gospel for the Third World, 273. Hendrickx, The Third Gospel for the Third World, Vol 3C. Peter Lampe, “The Language of Equality in Early Christian House Churches: A Constructivist Approach,” in Early Christian Families in Context: An Interdisciplinary Dialogue, ed. David Balch (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 73–83; Eva Marie Lassen,“The Roman Family: Ideal and Metaphor” in Constructing Early Christian Families: Family as Social Reality and Metaphor, ed. Halvor Moxnes (London: Routledge, 1997), 103–20.

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Within these new households of God, children provide an ideal model for the kind of cooperation and interdependence that the Lukan author envisions replacing the strict obedience of the existing Roman model. Carroll puts it eloquently: If you want to know what God’s reign is like, how God’s household is constituted, then you need look no further than these children! Indeed, any who wish to have a place in God’s realm should look to these vulnerable, low-status children as the model to be emulated.38

Young children and the disenfranchised necessarily depend upon the care and protection of others, even when they contribute to the well-being of these same or different members of their households and communities in turn. As a result, they provide an ideal model for the interdependence upon which the community of common goods described in Acts is predicated. In this regard, within an individual household in the kingdom of God, the playing field seems to have been leveled; young children and the disenfranchised take their place among everyone else. The reversal is thus only fully complete when we consider the role of these young children and ptōchoi in the larger kingdom. In order to see this, it is helpful to consider the place of such children in the larger city state, or polis, of Luke’s Greco-Roman community before a reversal. Ray Laurence describes both their invisibility, but more importantly, their education within such a society: The preconceptions in our sources—which view a city as made up of an adult male group (citizens) and constructed from houses and households in which these adult males act as head of the household—cause freeborn women as well as freeborn children (let alone slaves and foreigners) to disappear from the relevant literature. Yet the polis, with its focus on its own internal logic as a political community . . . was accompanied by the training of the sons of the leading men.39

The presupposition of the Roman nation state was that children, both those of freeborn citizens and of slaves, needed to be socialized or trained up into the

38 39

Carroll, “What Then Will This Child Become?” 190. Ray Laurence, “Community,” in A Cultural History of Childhood and Family in Antiquity, ed. Mary Harlow and Ray Laurence (London: Bloomsbury, 2010), 56.

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roles they would later take in society.40 In a complete reversal, then, the responsibility of young children and the disenfranchised in their role as proprietors of the kingdom of God seems logically to be to socialize enfranchised adults into their new roles in this in-breaking kingdom. Janette McWilliam defines such socialization as “the ways in which children were able to negotiate and define a place for themselves in the world in which they lived.” It was an active process of self-discovery that was influenced greatly by their experience of the world around them as well as by their adult parents and caregivers.41 As proprietors of the kingdom of God, children and the disenfranchised no longer need to negotiate a place for themselves in the world around them in quite the same way. Instead, they participate in defining the world around them, modeling for their otherwise enfranchised adult counterparts the ways in which to live and be in this new kingdom. Such socialization is of particular importance for those enfranchised adults who, like the disciples in Luke 9:46, retain pretensions of greatness, and thus, must find for themselves a different way in the kingdom of God as Luke’s Jesus defines it. In this way, interpreters who have read the children in Luke 18:15–17 primarily as a metaphor for adult discipleship are implicitly engaged in this sort of re-socialization. Such scholars seek in Luke’s account a model or instructions for how best to live in the kingdom of God in light of what they know about or attribute to the character of children. Yet, by failing to take account of the real children from which they source their models or the role of such children in the kingdom of God, such metaphorical explanations continue to fall short. Cornelia Horn and John Martens call to the forefront this tension by emphasizing the significance of the real children represented in Luke 18:15–17 while at the same time maintaining, “This teaching, with all its possible connotations, is both concrete and symbolic.”42 They explain: It seems that in Jesus’ initial teaching children, as children, became the model for other disciples. Adults had to imitate not simply their humility,

40

41 42

Janette McWilliam, “The Socialization of Roman Children,” in The Oxford Handbook of Childhood and Education in the Classical World, ed. Grubbs et al., 264–85. McWilliam, The Socialization of Roman Children, 264. Cornelia Horn and John Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me”: Childhood and Children in Early Christianity (Washington DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2009), 260.

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vulnerability, or weakness. Rather, children themselves, as actual members of the community, were the models for how the community had to receive God and the kingdom. One cannot limit the expected understanding only to one or another aspect of childhood.43

This is precisely the kind of socialization that the role of children and the disenfranchised as proprietors of the kingdom of God calls for. Adults are called to observe and respond to the presence of children and the disenfranchised as real people in their midst. The result of Luke’s radical reversal of the structures of power is thus that Christ-followers are charged to orient themselves around the needs and character of children and the disenfranchised—in all their diversity and multiplicity—rather than, as was traditionally the case, to demand that their needs and characters adapt to the adult structures and powers. Only through such a drastic reorientation of priorities can the baptized, members of the multiple households of God begun in Acts, begin to negotiate their place within the kingdom that rightly belongs to young children and the disenfranchised. To put it more simply, when I enter into the home of a neighbor, I observe certain customs and ways of being—such as whether or not shoes are to be left at the door. Sometimes I may even ask (or be instructed) directly about such things. Then, whether or not it is my custom to leave my shoes at the door of my own home, I follow according to the norms of their home—because that home belongs to them. Similarly, disciples within the community(ies) to which Luke is addressed who were likely predominately enfranchised adults are called to reset their customs and the ways in which they order their mode of being. In the households of baptized believers that represent the in-breaking of the kingdom of God, adults are charged to no longer ask children and the disenfranchised poor—those on the “outside”—to adapt to them. Instead, all in God’s household(s) are called to adopt an interdependent mode of being, with adults and those of more self-sufficient means adapting their privileged modes of operation to the needs and ways of being of those who in various forms depend upon the grace and support of others. So Jesus instructs his disciples: “The kings of the Gentiles lord it over them; and those in authority over them are called benefactors. But not so with you; 43

Ibid., 261.

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rather the greatest among you must become like the youngest; and the leader like one who serves” (Lk. 22:25–26). The kingdom of God belongs to those who depend most upon such service and all others are but guests in their domain. This radical relationship of hospitality and interdependence is attributed to the first Christian communities (koinonia) described in Acts and can be seen in the life and ministry of Jesus himself throughout Luke’s Gospel account.44

The Hospitality of Jesus The radical welcome and acceptance for which such a reorientation of power calls can be seen most clearly by a comparison of Jesus’ initial welcome of the young children with the first-century principle of hospitality. Hospitality was a central societal expectation in antiquity, which was generally extended to those of one’s own cultural group or kin, but could occasionally be extended to strangers as well. Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce describe this expectation: In the time of Jesus there was a widespread cultural mechanism for providing hospitality in houses. It was normal for travelers to find hospitality (in the houses) along the way, despite the existence of taverns or inns (cf. 2:7; 10:34) or perhaps also synagogues with inns (Levine 1981; White 1996; Destro and Pesce 2000:73–74). This custom was not just Judean or characteristic of the Land of Israel, but was typical of the contemporary Roman world.45

Hospitality was generally conceived of as welcoming another individual into one’s home—a cultural expectation on which Jesus and his apostles relied. However, for Jesus who claims no home (Lk. 9:58), hospitality is symbolically extended in the presence of his very person. Inviting another person or group of people to oneself thus becomes an extension of hospitality. In this way, Jesus not only permits children to enter his presence in a parallel form to that with which he prohibits the adult disciples from preventing them, but Jesus, in fact, extends to them the warmth of hospitality. Joel Green explains,

44 45

See Acts 2:44–47 and 4:32–37. Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce,“Fathers and Householders in the Jesus Movement: The Perspective of the Gospel of Luke,” BibInt (2003), 228.

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“Receiving little children” is tantamount to granting them hospitality, performing for them actions (washing of feet, kiss of greeting, and anointing of head—7:44–46) normally reserved for those of equal or higher status. That is, Jesus is asking his disciples to embrace a topsy-turvy system of values and to extend respectful service to that social group most often overlooked.46

By extending hospitality to children and inviting them to approach him, Jesus welcomes them not only into an eschatological kingdom to come, but also into an immediate experience of the in-breaking kingdom of God personified by his acceptance and blessing of them in the flesh. This is significant because the children whom Jesus welcomes, particularly the infants, cannot be expected to return Jesus’ hospitality with any sort of reciprocal response—a hallmark that Jesus makes central to welcome in the kingdom of God (Lk. 14:15–24).47 The welcome that God extends to children through Jesus is not simply a rhetorical or eschatological sense of belonging, but rather a physical and embodied inclusion experienced within and thereby reorienting their cultural frame of reference within the system of households in service of the kingdom of God in the here and now. Luke’s Gospel account thus calls Christ-followers to live into this inbreaking kingdom of God as a new way of defining household relationships— the way in which believers relate to one another and their world. Taking seriously children and the otherwise disenfranchised poor as the proprietors of this new kingdom, the nascent Church described in Acts enacts an interdependent reality in which everyone needs one another so that “the whole group of those who believed were of one heart and soul, and no one claimed private ownership of any possessions, but everything was held in common” (Acts  4:32). While the significance of this community of common goods is often noted from a material perspective, the leveling force of a community that holds “everything belonging to them” (autois hapanta) in common stretches far beyond the material realm. Such community takes seriously an extreme hospitality that puts those to whom little or nothing has ever belonged at the center, devaluing ownership altogether in favor of community. It is in this

46 47

Joel Green, Gospel of Luke NICNT (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 651. Cf. Destro and Pesce, 229.

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spirit that Acts describes those within this community distributing what they had “as any had need” (2:45). Re-centered with the paideia familias in mind, the Christian households become interdependent communities in which socially as well as practically and emotionally, children and the disenfranchised poor take on a needed and valued role. Living into a kingdom held by young children and the disenfranchised poor means no longer offering charity or well-intentioned advice as stewards of what has been given to a privileged few; rather, it means acknowledging that all in the koinonia are stewards of what is in fact the possession of such children and disenfranchised poor to begin with. It means reversing our understanding of whose world and whose kingdom it is and seeking to meet the needs of those who retain the kingdom of God as of first importance. Living together in the kingdom of God in full awareness of its true proprietors, privileged adults are thus called to reconfigure their relationships with their world and one another—the content of which may well lie behind Luke’s unique series of woes (Lk. 6:24–26) that follow in short order after he grants possession of God’s kingdom to the ptōchoi. When faced with the threat that his own ministry of proclamation of and service to God’s word might put his own interests in danger, Jesus cried out: Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing! See, your house is left to you. Lk. 13:34–35a

The communities described in Acts are more likely ideal depictions than actualized realities.48 A new vision for community is described but, in the end, the shape that house will take is left to the Lukan audience—both past and present. Perhaps to the chagrin of some of his disciples, Jesus did not change the Roman political order.49 However, both the challenge and the good news of the in-breaking of the kingdom of God to which both Luke and Acts point is that possibility of individual households living life differently—orienting

48

49

See Doyne Dawson, “The Ghosts of Utopia,” in Cities of the Gods: Communist Utopias in Greek Thought (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 263. See Lk. 22:49

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themselves to the paideia familias rather than the paterfamilias and in so doing, restructuring the ways in which they relate to not only “everything that belongs to them” but also to the One and the ones to whom they ultimately belong. And it is that One, the God of the kingdom Luke’s Jesus proclaims, who entrusts everything to little children.

Conclusion A childist reading of Luke 18:15–17, by awakening in readers an awareness of and sensitivity toward children as proprietors of the kingdom of God, necessitates a change in the ways in which the community interacts, learns, receives God’s word, and expresses praise. Such a reading returns children to the center of attention, where Jesus catapulted them with a single child in Luke 9:47. This teaching reorients the vision and mission of the kingdom in light of children’s needs rather than the too typical orientation that makes the needs of the children and disenfranchised subservient to the needs, and even whims, of adults. By returning children to their rightful place as co-owners of the kingdom of God, a childist reading of Luke 18:15–17 makes room for a dialogical and enthusiastic reception of the kingdom of God that similarly moves privileged adults from faith paralyzing intellectualization to an active and exuberant response to the word of God. Such a response is what occurs when a new household of God, under the head of the paideia familias, lives into Jesus’ command to “hear the Word of God and do it” (Lk. 8:21; 11:28). When relationships are forged in interdependence, individuals look out for one another as depicted in the Acts koinonia. Indeed, Luke’s reversal of social expectations in terms of proprietary control makes clear the dependence that all people have on one another. Gundry captures this well in answering her own question, “Why does the kingdom of God belong to little children? Apparently just because they need it.”50 And so, I would add, we all need them. The Oeconomica, or household management, of the households of God depicted in the Luke-Acts communities depends upon the radical hospitality of Jesus that invites the little children to come unto him. In so doing, it invites 50

Gundry, “Children in the Gospel of Mark,” 151.

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all who would seek to live under Jesus to structure their lives under the umbrella of interdependence and care that places young children and the disenfranchised poor at the center of existence. Salvation is thus not a question of one’s place in eternal life, but rather, of one’s place in community—a community in which the lives of all its citizens not only matter, but are celebrated and valued.

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The “Lost Boys” (and Girls) of Q’s “Neverland” A. James Murphy

Q (from the German Quelle = source) is the designation used for material common to both the Gospels of Matthew and Luke but not Mark, sometimes called double tradition material. Many scholars hypothesize this material evidences a lost source document, and it is possible to reconstruct much of it from this shared material. Like other Jewish and early Christian writings, Q contains both figurative and literal presentations of children, and while literal children may be young (Q 11:13), or almost certainly adults (Q 9:59–60), there are few clear references to actual non-adult children in Q.1 Several scholars have commented tangentially on the presence of children in Q. Yet, to my knowledge, my 2019 work is the first examination of Q focused solely on children. Therein, I examine Q in a study asking two simple questions: first, does Q contain references to non-adult children? and, second, were there nonadult children among Q’s in-group(s)? The study affirms the first question and, 1

By non-adult children, I refer to children below marriageable age, particularly those still dependent on the adult world around them. See my discussion in A. James Murphy, Kids and Kingdom: The Precarious Presence of Children in the Synoptic Gospels (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2013), 6–7. With few exceptions, I will follow the reconstructed translation of Q in James M. Robinson, Paul Hoffman, and John S. Kloppenborg, eds., The Critical Edition of Q: Synopsis including the Gospels of Matthew and Luke, Mark and Thomas with English, German, and French Translations of Q and Thomas, Hermeneia (Leuven: Peeters, 2000). Exceptions will be noted and will follow John S. Kloppenborg, Q, the Earliest Gospel: An Introduction to the Original Stories and Sayings of Jesus (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008). For beginning Q studies, see Thomas W. Manson, The Sayings of Jesus (London: SCM Press, 1949); Siegfried Schulz, Q: Die Spruchquelle der Evangelisten (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag, 1972); Migaku Sato, Q und Prophetie: Studien zur Gattungs- und Traditions-geschichte der Quelle Q, WUND 2/29 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1988); Burton Mack, The Lost Gospel: The Book of Q and Christian Origins (San Francisco: Harper, 1993); Ronald A. Piper, ed., The Gospel Behind the Gospels: Current Studies on Q (Leiden: Brill, 1994); Christopher M. Tuckett, Q and the History of Early Christianity (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers, 1996); Dale C. Allison, The Jesus Tradition in Q (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1997); John S. Kloppenborg Verbin, Excavating Q: The History and Setting of the Sayings Gospel (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2000); William Arnal, Jesus and the Village Scribes (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2001).

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meagerly so, the second.2 Nevertheless, I increasingly felt interrupted, as though a child was pulling at my pant-leg, insistently trying to gain my attention: “Dad. Dad. Dad!” My attention was drawn back to a piece by William Arnal on gendered couplets in Q. While refining the thesis that Q originated among Galilean scribal bureaucrats, Arnal contributed a substantive article on a rhetorical pattern in Q that Luise Schottroff had once called “gendered couplets.” Regarding several places where women are mentioned in Q, rather than evidencing an interest in inclusiveness, Arnal argues instead that Q simply utilizes gendered couplets as a stylistic feature comparable to similar contemporary legal formulations elsewhere. Sufficiently gaining my attention, his thesis now seems of great significance for my study of children in Q.3 The aim of this chapter is twofold. First, I shall share with readers the findings of my recent examination of children in Q, providing a few examples of my analysis. Second, I shall press these findings further in light of Arnal’s article on “gendered couplets.” This chapter addresses these issues by bringing together insights from feminist readings of Q as well as socio-historical analyses of the context of Q to serve a child-centered reading. By exploring and isolating passages that reference or allude to literal children within Q and examining where such references intersect with Q’s use of “gendered couplets,” we shall see that there is little evidence for finding non-adult children in Q that is not attributable to the stylistic language of gendered couplets. Q’s world is largely devoid of literal children.

2

3

See A. James Murphy, “Children and the Sayings Source Q—What the Double Tradition Reveals about Q’s Attitude toward Children: Q 11:19–20; 12:53; 14:26; and 17:1–2,” BibInt: 27, no. 1 (2019). Of course, any discussion of the double-tradition material in Matthew and Luke under the guise of “Q” still necessitates the qualification that the Sayings Source is a hypothesis. Some readers will recognize the rigorous challenges to the Q hypothesis by Austin Farrar, Michael Goulder, Mark Goodacre, Francis Watson, and others in recent decades that attempt to show Lukan dependence on Mark and Matthew. At present, a complete paradigm shift rejecting the posited Sayings Source has not occurred, as defenders of the two-source theory have arguably countered with varying success. As variously reconstructed, Q continues to provide a veritable means in which to explore and illuminate a segment of earliest Christianity in my estimation. From these four challengers, see Austin Farrar, “On Dispensing with Q,” in Studies in the Gospels: Essays in Memory of R. H. Lightfoot, ed. D. E. Nineham (Oxford: Blackwell, 1957), 55–88; Michael Goulder, “Is Q a Juggernaut?” JBL 115 (1996), 667–81; Mark Goodacre, The Case Against Q (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2002); Francis Watson, Gospel Writing: A Canonical Perspective (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2013). William Arnal, “Gendered Couplets in Q and Legal Formulations: From Rhetoric to Social History,” JBL 116 (1997), 75–94; Luise Schottroff, “Itinerant Prophetesses: A Feminist Analysis of the Sayings Source Q,” in The Gospel Behind the Gospels: Current Studies on Q, ed. Ronald A. Piper (Leiden: Brill, 1994), 347–60.

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The Impact of Women in Biblical Scholarship Gendered approaches such as feminist and womanist scholarship have supplied important models of inquiry that demonstrate what it means to read for women, to “center” female figures, and how to de-center other characters. Using these approaches, scholars have illuminated the ubiquitous presence and effects of patriarchy within narratives, within history, and at the levels of reader and interpreter. Some have also shown how such interpretive readings can be used to effect positive change for present-day women in the academy and in faith traditions.4 Childist or child-centered studies are indebted to this strand of scholarship. Much of what we do begins with locating and centering children within texts under examination. Since the essays in Part One of this volume focus their discussion on method, I shall minimize my own discussion to a few examples from feminist scholarship on Q, particularly with an eye toward how they anticipate the current work on children in Q. Feminist scholarship on the socio-historical background behind Q emerged in the 1980s and proliferated in the 1990s. Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza drew upon Q for her argument that the Jesus movement consisted of a radical “discipleship of equals” and promoted a liberationist agenda from dominant patriarchal structures on behalf of the marginalized, including women.5 The earliest source material within Mark and Q attests to the proclamation of a great reversal of social norms. Jesus proclaimed the kingdom for “the destitute,” “the sick and crippled,” and “tax collectors, sinners, and prostitutes.” Schüssler Fiorenza points to several passages that indicate the prevalence of women within these ranks.6 God’s graciousness applies to all equally; it is “all-inclusive” and “calls forth human equality and solidarity.”7 Using in part various “anti-familial” passages from Q, she argues that the Jesus movement denounced the traditional patriarchal

4

5

6

7

The literature is vast, with so many exceptional essays, but a few places to begin include Carol A. Newsom, Sharon H. Ringe, and Jacqueline E. Lapsley, eds. Women’s Bible Commentary, 3rd edition revised and updated (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2012); The Bible and Culture Collective, The Postmodern Bible (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995), 225–71. Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, In Memory of Her: A Feminist Theological Reconstruction of Christian Origins, Tenth Anniversary Edition (New York: Crossroad, 1994), 110–54. Interestingly, at this point Schüssler Fiorenza only cites examples from triple tradition material, not Q (ibid., 122–30). Ibid., 132.

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household structure among its ranks, formulating instead a discipleship among equals. The movement fostered an “a-familial ethos” (citing Q 14:26, minus the Lukan addition of “wife”; Q 15:53; Lk. 11:27–28, which she attributes either to Q or to special Luke).8 “[This] new ‘family’ of Jesus has no room for ‘fathers,’ it implicitly rejects their power and status and thus claims that in the messianic community all patriarchal structures are abolished.”9 Therefore, women participate equally as disciples in the emerging Jesus movement according to Schüssler Fiorenza, and Q provides one of our earliest witnesses for this status. Publications on women in Q in the 1990s were much more circumspect, and some focused instead on the possibility of women among Q’s implied audience, while others argued for the potential of women as contributors to the Q tradition.10 In a 1990 essay, Amy-Jill Levine entered the discussion over the presence, place, and role of women in Q current among many scholars, and determined that women are much less apparent in Q1 than in Q2, and that the paraenetic material of Q1 never fully addresses them.11 In her words, “The Q1 community is, in modern terms, a counter-cultural social experiment . . . [but its rhetoric] remains masculine, and focused on the masculine.” In other words, on many pressing matters of its time, Q is silent.12 Women were clearly part of Q’s community as Q2 notes (12:51–53), but “we cannot determine whether the Q1 group fully incorporated women as either mendicant or supporter, or as both, or as neither.”13 For Levine, women only fully become present in Q2.14 Similarly, Schottroff likewise found that women are still entirely subordinate within what she termed “minimal Q.” She notes, for example, that women are

8 9 10

11

12 13 14

Ibid., 145–47. Ibid., 147. Alicia Batten, “More Queries for Q: Women and Christian Origins,” BTB 24, no. 2 (1994), 44–51; Kathleen Corley, “Jesus, Egalitarian Meals and Q” (paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the SBL, San Francisco, November 1992); Amy-Jill Levine, “Who’s Catering the Q Affair? Feminist Observations on Q Paraenesis,” Semeia 50 (1990), 145–61; Schottroff, “Itinerant Prophetesses”; also “The Sayings Source Q,” in Searching the Scriptures, vol. 2, A Feminist Commentary, ed. Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza (New York: Crossroad, 1994), 510–34. Levine, “Who’s Catering?” 156. Although not all scholars do so, many (including feminist scholars) assume, accept, or accept with various revisions arguments for essentially three strata to Q, most significantly earlier sapiential material (Q1), overlaid by more apocalyptically-minded material informed by the Deuteronomistic tradition (Q2), and rounded out by a small amount of material largely on the Baptist and the Temptation narratives. Ibid., 151. Ibid., 152. Ibid., 156.

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“never depicted as independently operative outside of the home.”15 Q offers a strong critique of the patriarchal household, but it does so from the perspective of men who oppose domination. Androcentric language still pervades Q, where in her words, “believers are sons of God” (Q 6:35).16 Contra Schüssler Fiorenza, Schottroff argues that “minimal Q” (11:11–13; Q1?) takes a predominantly woman’s role, providing food, and expropriates it for the male, and that Q consistently refuses to acknowledge women’s labor outside of the household.17 A few years later, Levine re-addressed the place of women among the social world of Q communit(ies).18 Her assessment remains unchanged. Women appear fully only among Q’s second and third stratum where “the majority of group members appear to be members of a settled, fictive kinship group” and are portrayed using traditional gender roles.19 Among the earlier material on itinerant missions, Q displays no women. They could have been among the itinerant missionaries, but “if they were, the composers of Q do not notice them,” and Q fails to depict them “independently operative outside of the home.”20 I have limited our examples of feminist readings of Q to brief and salient summaries; hopefully the reader will see how interpretive approaches centered on women in Q provide guidance and insight in our search for children and foster a child-centered reading. In 1990, one of Levine’s conclusions was that Q1’s subversive paraenesis is better characterized as employing “a rhetoric of weakness rather than gender,” and in a serendipitous foreshadowing of our quest, she noted that this rhetoric finds its greatest symbol in the form of a child: members of the community are identified as children (Q 10:21; 11:11–13), and the status of Q’s audience is reversed from adult males, via this rhetoric of weakness, to children, even babies, “both metaphorically and literally.”21

15

16 17 18

19 20 21

By “minimal Q,” Schottroff means all overlapping sayings of Matthew and Luke lacking in Mark. This necessarily combines material from common Q1, Q2, Q3 stratifications. See Schottroff, “Itinerant Prophetesses,” 347. Ibid., 350. Ibid., 351. Amy-Jill Levine, “Women in the Q Communit(ies) and Traditions,” in Women and Christian Origins, ed. Ross Kraemer and Mary D’Angelo (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 150–70. Ibid., 155–56, 162–63. Ibid., 164, 157. Levine, “Who’s Catering?” 154.

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Children in Q/Children among Q In-groups As with feminist approaches, child-centered approaches to ancient texts involve processes of centering child characters while decentering more traditional characters of focus and exposing hierarchies of power and privilege. Depending on the interpreter, the latter can involve drawing attention to hierarchies within the text or in earlier scholarship on the text. The present volume has already provided the reader with several examples, so we shall turn directly to our search for children in Q, to be followed by a subjection of those passages to examination against Arnal’s identification of gendered couplets in Q. Children have but a meager presence in Q when we set aside metaphorical designations.22 Yet there are places where Q, at least initially, may be taken to indicate actual children, and for a point of clarification, we shall begin by including passages that might signify both adult and non-adult children, and then distinguish younger children from the former wherever possible (Table 14.1). In a recent two-part project, I examine each of these passages, asking: Are adult or non-adult children implied here? Does the passage suggest children among Q, or is it a reference to children of outsiders? The latter question is the

Table 14.1 Passages that Indicate Actual Children in Q Q 7:1–?10? Q 7:31–32 Q 9:59–60 Q 9:?61–62? Q 11:11–13 Q 11:19 Q 12:49–53 Q 14:26 Q 17:1–2

22

23

The Centurion’s Son/Slave Children in the Marketplace Dead Bury their Dead Leave Household Behind Gifts to Your Children Sons Exorcising Demons Not Peace, but Division Hating Family Little Ones to Stumble

= Luke 7:1–10 || Matthew 8:5–13 = Luke 7:31–32 || Matthew 11:16–17 = Luke 9:59–60 || Matthew 8:21–22 = Luke 9:?61–62? || no parallel23 = Luke 11:11–13 || Matthew 7:9–11 = Luke 11:19 || Matthew 12:27 = Luke 12:49–53 || Matthew 10:34–36 = Luke 14:26 || Matthew 10:37 = Luke 17:1–2 || Matthew 18:6

For metaphorical examples, see Q || Lk. 3:8; 3:21–22; 4:3, 9; 6:27–28, 35c-d; 7:35; 10:21–22; 11:2b–4; and 13:34–35. According to the Critical Edition of Q (CE), in the description of sigla, question marks are used to surround verses where there is “serious uncertainty” among editorial members whether the passage(s) were part of Q. See Robinson et  al., CE, lxxxiii, 154–57; Kloppenborg, Q, the Earliest Gospel, 130, 163, n.4.

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principal aim of that examination.24 In the present essay, we shall recount the basics of that study, but this time with some attention to strata (Q1, Q2). Working primarily from John S. Kloppenborg’s stratification, the passages found among Q1 include Q 9:59–60; 9:?61–62?; 11:11–13; 14:26; and 17:1–2.25 Meanwhile, passages attributed to the second stratum, Q2, include Q 7:1–?10?; 7:31–32; 11:19; and 12:49–53.26 Portions of the Q1 material include some disagreement among Q scholars. For instance, attestation in Luke and Matthew provides for the inclusion of 9:59–60 in Q, yet vv. 61–62 appear only in Luke. The Critical Edition of Q (CE) more cautiously attributed these verses to Luke alone. Kloppenborg, however, attributes them to Q, but surrounds them with question marks (?61–62?).27 Meanwhile, there is significant disagreement over attributing 17:1–2 to Q. For instance, the CE, Kloppenborg, Burton Mack, Dale Allison, and Arnal consider it Q, whereas Thomas Manson, Siegfried Schulz, Frans Neirynck, and Christopher Tuckett appear not to.28 There is not sufficient space here to examine each passage.29 Thus, I shall simply restate which passages reveal the presence of non-adult or adult children in the language of probability, or whether it remains indeterminable, and I shall limit lengthier discussion to just four such passages: Q 9:59–60, Let the Dead Bury Their Dead (Q1); 9:?61–62?, Leave Household Behind (Q1);

24

25

26

27

28

29

Work on Q 7:31–32; 9:59–60; 9:?61–62?; and 11:11–13 is in review. For my work in the latter four, see Murphy, “Children and the Sayings Source Q.” On stratification, John S. Kloppenborg, “The Formation of Q and Antique Instructional Genres,” JBL 105 (1986): 443–62. Significantly, passages widely ascribed to a post-Q2 recension (often designated Q3) contain no references to actual children with the exception of Jesus as son of Israel’s god, such as found in the temptation narrative. As elsewhere, I prefer not to use the capitalized nominative form “God,” which continues to privilege the Judeo-Christian concept among scholars. To underscore this privilege, I shall use the lower-case adjectival formulation “Israel’s god” or “god of Israel.” With no Matthean parallel, Q 9:61–62 presents a difficult case. In its current form, it is not clear who the figure is that addresses Jesus other than that he likely is male, based upon Q || Lk. 9:57. Jesus rebukes the figure in v.61 for requesting time to say goodbye to his household, yet Q || Lk. does not specify whether this would-be follower is a father, a son, a slave, or other. Joseph Fitzmyer also considers vv. 61–62 either “L” material or original to Luke (The Gospel According to Luke I–IX AB [Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1970], 833. Regarding 17:1–2, Kloppenborg assigned these verses to Q2 in 1986, but includes them among Q1 material in 2000 and 2008. Burton Mack locates them in Q2. Arnal incorporates Kloppenborg’s transition via quotations, without comment. Meanwhile, Franz Neirynck provides a cogent argument that Q did not contain 17:1–2. See Robinson et al., CE, 472–77; Kloppenborg, Q Parallels, 182; Mack, The Lost Gospel; Arnal, Jesus and the Village Scribes, 7, 171; Manson, Sayings of Jesus; Schulz, Q; Allison, Jesus Tradition in Q, 28–29; Neirynck, “The Minor Agreements in Q,” in The Gospel Behind the Gospels: Current Studies on Q, ed. Ronald A. Piper (Leiden: Brill, 1994), 57–59; Tuckett, Q. For my detailed analysis of select passages, see Murphy, “Children and the Sayings Source Q.”

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11:11–13, Gifts to Your Children (Q1); and Q 7:1–?10?, The Centurion’s Son/ Slave (Q2). I have chosen the first two because they demonstrate the need to discern between adult and non-adult children, and I will briefly show the process by which I do so. They also provide examples from the Q1 stratum. The third choice is our best evidence for non-adult children among Q insiders. It is also attributed to Q1. The fourth choice further exemplifies the difficulties and process of identifying child characters, it is attributed to Q2, and it was omitted from my earlier studies due to length constraints. After briefly discussing each through a childist lens, I will read these occurrences of children through the additional lens of Arnal’s work on gendered couplets. Are there indeed children in Q, or are such references better explained as part of a stylistic literary trope?

Let the Dead Bury Their Dead and Leave Household Behind: Q 9:59–60, ?61–62? 59

But another said to him: Master, permit me first to go and bury my father. But he said to him: Follow me, and leave the dead to bury their own dead. 61 ‹‹Another said: I will follow you, Lord; but let me first say farewell to those at my home.›› 62‹‹Jesus said to him: No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.››30 60

These verses are part of the larger introductory call narrative within Q1, which begins with the “foxes have holes” passage in vv. 57–58. A series of three wouldbe followers are confronted with the cost of following Jesus, followed by the mission charge (Q || Lk. 10:2–16). The audience in Q has shifted from the crowds to the more limited core insiders.31 Centering children involves close attention to the relationships within a text. With respect to the two passages here, the first depicts a child desirous to follow Jesus. The text only says that he is a child because of his desire/obligation to bury his just deceased father. The passage provides no word for child; the person is merely referred to as hetero(s) (another, 9:59). Yet, as one who is seemingly responsible for burying his father, or at least attending the burial,

30

31

Kloppenborg disagrees with the CE position on vv. 61–62 (see n. 26 above). As a result, here the wording of 9:61–62 follows Kloppenborg, Q, the Earliest Gospel, 130. See Tuckett, Q, 288; Allison, Jesus Tradition in Q, 13; Ulrich Luz, Matthew 8–20 Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001), 19–20.

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and who assumes to have the autonomy necessary to leave household to follow Jesus, Q probably envisions an adult child.32 With respect to the third would-be follower in 9:?61–62?, Q discloses nothing except that he is male and part of a household, the primary locus for children. Yet this passage evidences that at least part of Q’s audience involved people within households, and references to household illuminate the possibility that there were non-adult children among Q’s network. In other words, 9:59–60 references an adult child within Q, not a young child, whereas the age of the person in v.61 is indeterminable, but the reference to household in ?61–62? provides the possibility with no evidence.

Gifts to Your Children: Q 11:11–13 11

What person of you, whose child (huios) asks for bread, will give him a stone? 12Or again when he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? 13So if you, though evil, know how to give good gifts to your children (teknōn), by how much more will the Father from heaven give good things to those who ask him!33

Here, the audience in Q1 remains core insiders and 11:11–13 is part of a larger section (Q 10:21–24; 11:2b–4; and 11:9–13) linked by the theme of prayer as well as relational terms centered on father/children or father/son(s).34 They are householders receptive to the message of Q, familiar with debts (holding and owing them), possibly with lacking provisions, and have non-adult children. Although a rhetorical question, the inquiry “What person of you, whose child asks . . .” presumes an audience of parents with children, specifically sons (huioi). Jesus / Q does not address these sons directly, but rather their fathers.

32 33

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On the general lack of autonomy among non-adult children, see Murphy, Kids and Kingdom, 36–67. Robinson et al., CE, 218–21. For comparison, the Lukan text from NA27 begins tina de ex hymōn ton patera aitēsei ho huios (“What father among you, whose son asks . . . ”). The critical notes in NA27 indicate numerous insignificant textual variants in Luke 11:11a. Here, just after “What father among you, whose son asks,” some Lukan witnesses include arton mē lithon epidōsei auto with minor variations (‫ א‬A C [ ̾ D] L W Θ Ψ ƒ1.13 33 ᑧ lat syc.p.hbo), contra the NA27/ UBS4 committee. Thus, Codex Sinaiticus and others read, “What father among you, whose son asks for bread, will give him a stone?” The above shorter reading from Luke is attested in P45 (P75) B and 1241 among others. Matthew pairs bread/stone and fish/snake, whereas Luke pairs fish/snake and egg/scorpion as he also does in 10:19. See Robinson et  al., CE, 218–19; Barbara Aland et  al., Novum Testamentum Graece, 27th ed. (Stuttgart: United Bible Societies, 1993); The Greek New Testament, 4th rev. ed. (Stuttgart: United Bible Societies, 1993). The father/son terminology persists into 11:19–20. On Q’s audience here, see Allison, The Jesus Tradition in Q, 11–14.

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These sons do not get to speak; they may not even be present. Yet the passage assumes they want and need provision, food—gifts, in the language of the text. Try as we may to center the children, we are prompted to center Jesus or these fathers, insiders who presumably would want to give their sons only what is best. Nevertheless, with fair probability we can interpret “sons” here as a reference to non-adult children among Q insiders. In the rural household economies of the ancient eastern Mediterranean, late adolescent or adult children more often worked under the auspices of their father or grandfather, working to sustain or better the family’s subsistence.35 This evokes the question, “Would an adult son still ask his father to provide him the basic staples of existence?” As worded, Jesus’ rhetorical question seems to assume children that are still dependent upon their fathers, which correlates to the overall point in prayer, that the one who prays is dependent upon Israel’s god as “Father.” This passage, in particular, suggests the assumed existence of younger, non-adult children among at least some of Q’s audience. Q draws a distinct correlation between the analogy of God as father and Q insiders as children and the relationship between these Q insiders and their own children. This is all contingent upon the further analogy of dependence for provisions. In the process, the passage also suggests for some scholars the continued presence of households among the Q people despite the seemingly anti-familial passages found elsewhere. Arnal writes: “Q [indicates] the continuation of a sedentary, village-based life, with . . . continuing family relations (11:11–13; see also 9:59–62; 14:26, which function rhetorically on the supposition that family relations continue to be meaningful).”36 There are children among these insiders, and they have fathers who care for them.

The Centurion’s Son/Slave: Q 7:1–?10? Turning to the recension generally designated Q2 based upon Kloppenborg’s stratification, the following passages suggest the presence of children: Q 7:1–?10?;

35

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See Samuel L. Adams, Social and Economic Life in Second Temple Judea (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2014), 62–63; Naomi Steinberg, The World of the Child in the Hebrew Bible (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2013), 56–57; Kristine Henriksen Garroway, Children in the Ancient Near Eastern Household, EANEC 3 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2014), 159. Arnal, Jesus and the Village Scribes, 94.

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7:31–32; and 12:53. In this section, I will focus upon the use of pais/doulos in Q 7:1–10. 1

[[And it came to pass when]] he . . . ended these sayings, he entered Capernaum. 3There came to him a centurion exhorting him [[and saying: My]] boy [[‹is› doing badly. And he said to him: Am I]], by coming, to heal him? 6b-cAnd in reply the centurion said: Master, I am not worthy for you to come under my roof; 7but say a word, and [[let]] my boy [[be]] healed. 8For I too am a person under authority, with soldiers under me, and I say to one: Go, and he goes, and to another: Come, and he comes, and to my slave: Do this, and he does «it». 9But Jesus, on hearing, was amazed, and said to those who followed: I tell you, not even in Israel have I found such faith. ?10? ‹. . .›37

The implied audience seems to be “the crowds” (see 3:7; 7:24), likely outsiders for Q, with its brief biographical sketches and polemic against them.38 Specific to the pericope, the use of both pais and doulos for the afflicted person in Matthew and Luke has presented interpretive problems. Lukan manuscripts generally read in the following sequence: doulos (v.2), ton doulon autou (v.3), ho pais mou (v.7c), toi douloi mou (v.8d), and ton doulon (v.10b). However, the first hand of Codex Bezae reads pais in place of doulos in verse 2, and apparently replaces doulon with douloi in v.10.39 By contrast, the parallel tradition in Matthew 8 reads ho pais mou (v.6), ho pais mou (v.8c), toi douloi mou (v.9d), ho pais [autou] (v.13c).40 Thus, Matthew consistently uses pais throughout in direct reference to the afflicted person. Yet, where the centurion explains his own social status and role in relation to others, he uses doulos (Mt. 8:9d; cf. Lk. 7:8d). Fitzmyer asserts that Luke was probably responsible for changing what had been pais in Q to doulos, although he is uncertain why.41

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Robinson et al., CE, 102–17. See also Steven R. Johnson, Q 7:1–10: The Centurion’s Faith in Jesus’ Word Documenta Q (Leuven: Peeters, 2002), 401. Concerning verse 10, Kloppenborg notes that there is little confidence in the wording of Q here, since Matthew and Luke display almost no verbal agreement (Kloppenborg, Q, the Earliest Gospel, 163, n.3). Allison, The Jesus Tradition in Q, 9, 33, 42; Tuckett, Q, 283–323. See Kurt Aland, ed. Synopsis of the Four Gospels: Greek-English Edition of the Synopsis Quattuor Evangeliorum. 14th ed. (Stuttgart: German Bible Society, 2009), 73. Also Codex Bezae in the Cambridge Digital Library, folios 210v–211v Quire_27, 2v–3v Luke 7. http://cudl.lib.cam.ac.uk/ view/MS-NN-00002-00041/403. Regarding the Matthean text at 8:8c, f 1 k sa mae and bomss all omit the phrase ho pais mou (Aland, Synopsis, 73). As for 8:13c, witnesses C L W Θ 0233 f 13 ᑧ sy and sa attest “his slave,” whereas ‫א‬B 0250 f 1 33 pc latt bo and mae read simply “the slave.” Fitzmyer, Luke I–IX, 651.

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The CE chose Matthew’s pais as the most likely form of Q at 7:7c but retained doulos in v.8d, thus giving us a slave, boy, boy, slave, and slave sequence. In any case, the contents of v.10 are conjectural. Generally, scholars have accepted Matthew’s wording of this pericope as more original to Q. In Matthew, the centurion comes directly to Jesus with the problem. Jesus says he shall come to the centurion’s house.42 The centurion replies he is not worthy of Jesus’ visit, only say the word and his pais shall be healed. By contrast, Luke begins by stating that this doulon was “valuable” or “precious” (entimos) to the centurion.43 Then Luke says the centurion sent two separate delegations to Jesus, the first (Jewish elders) to tell him to come, the second (friends) not to come. The Jewish delegation tells Jesus the centurion is worthy; the friends, in the voice of the centurion, say he is not worthy. Furthermore, Luke’s retention of the first-person voice of the centurion in 7:6c–8 coheres best with Matthew’s account where the centurion directly addresses Jesus. Therefore, the delegations appear to be Lukan additions.44 The probability that Luke has altered an earlier story here, and the fact that Matthew consistently uses ho pais mou suggests Matthew offers the earlier form of the pericope and is thus preferred for Q studies.45 If Q 7:1–?10? was a story about a centurion approaching Jesus to heal his pais, was this his boy or slave? While most English translations of the Bible present “servant” or “slave” as the proper translation in both Luke 7 and Matthew 8, the CE and some commentators opt for “child” or “boy” as the best translation of Matthew 8 (and thus, Q).46 Theodore Jennings and Tat-Siong Benny Liew persuasively show Matthew’s penchant for using doulos for a slave, as opposed to pais.47 Thus, child or son is how Matthew tends to interpret pais. 42

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44 45 46

47

Or does Jesus ask whether he should come? See M. Eugene Boring, “The Gospel of Matthew,” NIB (Nashville: Abingdon, 1995), 8:226. For discussion of the meanings of entimos, see Donald Madar, “The Entimos Pais of Matthew 8:5–13 and Luke 7:1–10,” in Homosexuality and Religion and Philosophy, ed. Wayne Dynes and Stephen Donaldson (New York: Garland Publishing, 1992), 229. See Johnson, Q 7:1–10, 75–78, particularly Robinson’s discussion, 76–78. For discussions of this comparison, see Madar, “Entimos Pais,” 223–26. E.g., see Robinson et al., CE, 104–10; Boring, “Gospel of Matthew,” 226; Luz, Matthew 8–20, 8–10. Contra the translation “boy” or “child,” Daniel J. Harrington notes the term’s ambiguity but does not explain his choice of “servant” for the translation (Matthew, SP no. 1 [Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1991], 112–13). More confusedly, Charles H. Talbert first designates pais as “slave/child,” then “servant/child” twice thereafter (Matthew, Paideia Commentary Series [Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2010], 113–14). Theodore W. Jennings, Jr. and Tat-Siong Benny Liew, “Mistaken Identities but Model Faith: Rereading the Centurion, the Chap, and the Christ in Matthew 8:5–13,” JBL 123, no. 3 (2004): 470.

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In addition, Donald Madar, as well as Jennings and Liew, have taken the conclusions of Dover and others that pais could refer to the passive member of a pederastic relationship, and they have examined the pericope in light of this meaning. Although D. B. Saddington critiques these interpretations, we cannot rule out this meaning of the term as used in Matthew.48 Thus, the pais in Q 7:1–?10? was either the centurion’s child, or his boy-love, and likely not his slave. What is the relevance of the centurion’s pais for our search for children in the Q community? This figure could possibly have been an adult child or slave but was more likely a youth. He seems of central focus within the story. First, the centurion cares for him and is concerned enough for his health to seek help among those to whom he probably represents the footprint of imperial control. Second, the sense of the narrative is that Jesus is concerned to heal the boy, even if the wording of v.10 is conjectural. The boy is the entire reason the centurion visits Jesus. Despite these positive notes, unlike most characters in the wider Gospel literature, Q does not present the boy himself before Jesus. His requested healing is not an avenue for transitioning from outsider/rejecter to insider/follower. He has no voice of his own. In a sense, he is both central and peripheral. However, the story is a restoration narrative, which, although more developed in the Synoptic Gospels than in Q, is used to evidence Jesus as God’s agent and the dawning kingdom of God.49 Nevertheless, the inclusion of the pais or his acceptance by Jesus does not appear to be the point for Q. In Tuckett’s view, it is a polemic against lack of faith in light of the coming kingdom of God. A Roman outsider has more faith than the Q community insiders.50 Nevertheless, it is by no means certain that the pais or centurion transition to become Q insiders.

48

49

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Madar, “Entimos Pais,” 227–30; Jennings and Liew, “Mistaken Identities,” 473–78; Kenneth Dover, Greek Homosexuality (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1978); see also the criticisms of Jennings/Liew by D.B. Saddington (“The Centurion in Matthew 8:5-13: Consideration of the Proposal of Theodore W. Jennings, Jr. and Tat-Siong Benny Liew,” JBL 125, no. 1 [2006]: 140–2). Although most notable beginning with Mark’s Gospel, Q hints at such restoration activities and what they signal here in 7:1–10, in 7:22 (“Go and tell John what you hear and see: The blind see and the lame walk, lepers are made clean and the deaf hear, and the dead are raised, and the poor are given good news.”), in 10:8–9 (“[And whenever you enter a town .] Heal [the] sick [among them] and say [to them], The kingdom of God has come near to you.”), perhaps an allusion in 10:24 (“many prophets and kings desired to see what you see and did not see it”), and in the demon cast out and the resulting controversy in 11:14–20. See Murphy, Kids and Kingdom, 71–92. Tuckett, Q, 285.

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A Summary of Q Passages Related to Children Drawing the threads together from the analyses here and elsewhere, let me restate my conclusions of the presence of children in Q thus far. First, Table 14.2 ranks in descending order of probability passages that imply non-adult children in Q. Table  14.3 lists passages that imply children among Q insiders (adult or non-adult), again in descending order of probability. Extracting from these lists we found that passages that evidence the strongest possibility of non-adult children among Q insiders in descending order include Q 11:11–13 (highly probable) and 12:49–53 (possible, if unmarried daughters). Q 14:26 likely evidences insider teaching that assumes children among its audience, but it is doubtful whether we should assume non-adult children in our estimation. Meanwhile, it seems unreasonable to determine with any certainty whether the person exhorted to leave household Table 14.2 Passages that Imply Non-Adult Children in Q Q 7:31–32 Q 11:11–13 Q 7:1–?10? Q 12:49–53

(Q2) Children in the Marketplace (Q1) Gifts to your Children (Q2) The Centurion’s Son / Slave (Q2) Not Peace, but Division

Q 14:26 Q 9:?61–62? Q 17:1–2 Q 9:59–60 Q 11:19

(Q1) Hating Family (Q1) Leave Household Behind (???) Little Ones to Stumble (Q1) Dead Bury their Dead (Q2) Sons Exorcising Demons

(highly probable) (highly probable) (probable) (possible, if allusion to unmarried daughters) (possible, but doubtful) (indeterminable) (indeterminable) (negative) (negative)

Table 14.3 Passages that Imply Children among Q Insiders Q 11:11–13 Q 14:26 Q 12:49–53 Q 9:59–60 Q 9:?61–62? Q 17:1–2 Q 7:1–?10? Q 7:31–32 Q 11:19

(Q1) Gifts to your Children (Q1) Hating Family (Q2) Not Peace, but Division (Q1) Dead Bury their Dead (Q1) Leave Household Behind (???) Little Ones to Stumble (Q2) The Centurion’s Son / Slave (Q2) Children in the Marketplace (Q2) Sons Exorcising Demons

(highly probable) (highly probable) (probable) (probable) (possible) (indeterminable) (negative) (negative) (negative)

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behind in 9:?61–62? does so, much less the relative age of the person. Couple this with the fact that these verses appear only in Luke, any use of the passage to indicate the slightest possibility of a young Q insider would necessitate a critical note. Furthermore, briefly attending to stratification, Q1 material provides more solid evidence of young, non-adult children among Q insiders (11:11–13, and possible but doubtful 14:26). The sole reference to children, and possibly nonadult children among Q insiders, in Q2 material is 12:49–53. It is a complex verse where the reference to sons and daughters-in-law should cautiously be taken to indicate adult, or nearly adult (late adolescent) children. The reference to daughters can possibly be interpreted as younger, as yet unmarried daughters, but can just as well point to older daughters. Moreover, the fact that this verse is clearly an adaption of Micah 7:6 presents another note of caution against placing too much weight on this passage.51

Gendered Couplets and Understanding the Presence of Women in Q As alluded to in the introduction, Arnal’s 1997 article is significant for analyzing the presence of children in Q. At the time, he highlighted that the “gendered couplets” rhetorical pattern critiques and sheds light on the presence of women and household language in Q.52 As he defines them, gendered couplets are “repetitious examples, statements, or arguments, paired by gender: one male, one female (usually in that order).”53 To Arnal, Q appears to merely use them stylistically, similar to several roughly contemporary legal formulations, rather than to serve an interest in gender inclusivity. He cites such rhetorical forms in 51 52

53

Murphy, “Children and the Sayings Source Q”. Notable contributors in the development of this thesis include John S. Kloppenborg, The Formation of Q: Trajectories in Ancient Wisdom Collections (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1987), 171–245, 342– 45; Burton Mack, “The Kingdom that Didn’t Come: A Social History of the Q Tradents,” Society of Biblical Literature 1988 Seminar Papers (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 627; John S. Kloppenborg, “Literary Convention, Self-Evidence, and the Social History of the Q People,” Semeia 55 (1991), 85–86; “The Sayings Gospel Q: Recent Opinion on the People Behind the Document,” CRBS 1 (1993), 25–26; and Ronald A. Piper, “The Language of Violence and the Aphoristic Sayings in Q: A Study of Q 6:27–36,” in Conflict and Invention: Literary, Rhetorical, and Social Studies on the Sayings Gospel Q, ed. John S. Kloppenborg (Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International, 1995), 63–66. Arnal also lists occurrences of non-gendered couplets (“Gendered Couplets,” 77).

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material from Plato and Aristotle to Paul (1 Cor. 7:1–16); his quotation from Aristotle and subsequent comment are worth repeating here: For just as man and wife are part of a household, it is clear that the state also is divided nearly in half into its male and female population, so that in all constitutions in which the position of women is badly regulated one half of the state must be deemed to have been neglected in framing the law.54

“Aristotle’s point is by no means that women are equal in dignity or capacity to men, but rather that, as objects of political control, they, as much as men, require legislation.”55 Yet his survey of more direct gendered coupling found among various political, legal, and contractual pieces surviving from Hellenistic and Roman Egypt seems most significant for understanding references to women in Q.56 Take for instance the following document, which utilizes the rhetoric of gendered pairing: If a male slave or a female slave . . . does any of these things [i.e., assault] to a freeman or a freewoman . . . they shall receive not less than a hundred stripes . . . if a freeman or freewoman . . ., making an unjust attack, strikes a freeman or freewoman, they shall forfeit a hundred drachmae without assessment, if they are defeated in the suit.57

He quotes an additional excerpt from a code on registering property with a local record office, directed at “all owners” and then to “wives also,” and points the reader to numerous other examples that speak to one gender and then the other.58 In other words, such gendered couplets are reflective of relatively standard legal terminology of the period. More recently, Giovanni Bazzana has substantiated the likelihood that the texts are dealing with bureaucratic language within parts of Q through a thorough examination of the extant Egyptian papyri, although gendered couplets are not a specific focus.59 It is this 54

55 56

57

58 59

Aristotle, Pol. II.vi.5/1269.b.15–19 (134/135) [Rackman, LCL], quoted in Arnal, “Gendered Couplets,” 87. Ibid. Arnal notes the following samples: Plato, The Republic [Emlyn-Jones and Preddy, LCL]; Aristotle, Pol. See also Select Papyri [Hunt and Edgar, LCL]. Hunt and Edgar, Select Papyri, #202 (vol. 2, 6/7–8/9: “Penalties for Assault in Alexandrian Law”), quoted in part from Arnal, “Gendered Couplets,” 89. Arnal, “Gendered Couplets,” 89, n. 63. Giovanni Bazzana, Kingdom of Bureaucracy: The Political Theology of Village Scribes in the Sayings Gospel Q (Leuven: Peeters, 2015).

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identification of bureaucratic legal formulations that permits these scholars to identify the Q tradents as scribal village administrators.60 Turning to Q, Arnal notes Batten’s earlier identification of several gendered couplets: Q 11:31–32 (Queen of the South and men of Nineveh); 13:18–21 (parables of mustard seed and leaven); 15:4–10 (parables of lost sheep and lost coin); 17:27 (marrying and being married); and 17:34–35 (two men on one couch and two women grinding), and 12:51–53 (father against son, mother against daughter).61 He further adds 7:29–30; 7:34; and 14:26–27. In each, he notes that “the author(s) and/or redactor(s) of Q has deliberately juxtaposed female with male examples.” Further, the females therein do not represent real females, but rather “are argumentative and metaphoric examples composed in the service of other points.” Such points may not indicate the presence of actual women, but perhaps evidence some “deliberateness” in attempting to include women.62 He then examines four parables: the mustard seed (Q 13:18–19), the leaven (13:20–21), the lost sheep (15:4–5a, 7), and the lost coin (15:8–10). With the first two, each begins with a rhetorical question about the kingdom of God along the theme of growth. Then the first parable presents an image of a man scattering seeds while the second depicts a woman working yeast into dough. Both present a person engaging in production that will incur growth; one is male, the other female. The next two parables use the same method of presenting a male and then a female who temporarily leave aside that which they already have to search and find a single item of value that was lost.63 By juxtaposing gendered couplets from Q with similar rhetorical formulations elsewhere in earlier Near Eastern law codes down to GrecoRoman Egypt, Arnal demonstrates how widespread this rhetorical style was, and lends weight to the argument that the couplets in Q are simply “patterned after legal or quasi-legal formulas.”64 The importance of Arnal’s article for this examination of children in Q lies in the strong likelihood that most of Q’s references to women fall under the rhetorical category of gendered couplets 60 61 62 63

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Arnal, “Gendered Couplets,” 90, 92; Bazzana, Kingdom of Bureaucracy, esp. 85–117. Batten, “More Queries,” 47–49. Arnal, “Gendered Couplets,” 82. Other gendered couplets include Q 11:31–32; 12:53; 17:34–35, yet there are also couplets in Q not associated with gender, such as in the days of Noah (17:26–30). Arnal, “Gendered Couplets,” 90–91.

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rather than purposeful presentations of egalitarianism among Q people. This potentially affects how we should approach “household” and familial language, the loci in which one might naturally search for children within these texts.

Implications of Arnal’s work for child-centered studies of Q My preliminary conclusions on children in Q indicated that passages that evidence the strongest possibility of non-adult children among Q insiders, in descending order from “high probability” to “indeterminable” included 11:11–13; 12:49–53; 14:26; and 9:?61–62?. However, it seems reasonable that Arnal’s work on couplets provides significant points to bear on them. What person of you, whose child (literally, son) asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or again when he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? So if you, though evil, know how to give good gifts to your children (teknōn), by how much more will the Father from heaven give good things to those who ask him! Q || Lk. 11:11–13 || Mt. 7:9–11 For I have come to divide son against father, [[and]] daughter against her mother, [[and]] daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law. Q || Lk. 12:53 || Mt. 10:35 [[‹The one who›]] does not hate father and mother ‹can›not ‹be› my ‹disciple›; and [[‹the one who›]] ‹does not hate› son and daughter cannot be my disciple. Q || Lk. 14:26 || Mt. 10:3765 ‹‹Another said: I will follow you, Lord; but let me first say farewell to those at my home.›› Q || Lk. 9:61, no Mt. par.66

First, only two of the passages contain gendered pairs (12:51–53 and 14:26), while only one approximates what he calls a “forensic” language (i.e., a roughly legal argumentation style, in this case involving God’s judgment; 12:51–53). Yet each of the four falls within his definition of couplets based upon 1) “repetitious examples . . . or arguments” using, and 2) pairs of figures.67 65 66 67

Robinson et al., CE, 218, 220, 386, and 452. Following Kloppenborg, Q, the Earliest Gospel, 130. Arnal, “Gendered Couplets,” 77.

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Although non-gendered, the heteros and his household in 9:?61–62? is the third in a list of paired examples that includes “someone” and “son of man” (9:57) and “another” and “my (dead) father” (9:59). Q 14:26 and 12:51–53 present multiple levels of repetition and pairing. Gendered couplet Q 14:26 pairs father/mother and son/daughter, while Q 12:53 pairs father/mother/ mother-in-law and son/daughter/daughter-in-law on one level and father/ son, mother/daughter, and mother-in-law/daughter-in-law on another. Furthermore, 12:53 is stylistically legal language asserting portents of divine judgment. As such, Arnal asserts the passage should not be taken as indicative of real women, and I might add real children; it simply presents argumentative examples.68 Finally, Q 11:11–13 presents a repetition of non-gendered pairings of fathers/sons as well as Q insiders/their “heavenly Father.” The argument is that essentially these passages are more formulaic in style than descriptive (or prescriptive) of actual social situations or contexts.

Conclusion Are there any little children in Q depicted among its insiders? Q 7:1–10 and 17:1–2 likely do not depict children among the people of Q, or they are just indeterminable. Q 7:31–32 and 11:19 are those in which non-adult children appear implied, but it is indeterminable or unlikely that they indicate children among the Q people. Meanwhile, Q 9:59–60; 11:11–13; 12:49–53; and 14:26 are passages possibly or likely alluding to adult or non-adult children among Q’s social realm, but if this reading of the implications of gendered (and nongendered) couplets is correct, we cannot at all affirm that Q provides any evidence of actual children. Still, I find it difficult but not impossible to believe that Q’s near silence on actual young children indicates a marked decline in bearing and raising them among some or many Q insiders. Despite the recognition that some of Q’s foundational phrases used in support of the imagery of household echo an essentially bureaucratic literary style, even Arnal subsequently marshals some of these very passages in support of the belief that households continued to 68

Ibid., 82; see also 84–85.

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serve its insiders.69 Moreover, I remind the reader that Levine has persuasively argued that Q limits representations of women to the “social context of a settled community,” and in “traditional arrangements.”70 Ordinarily, one simply cannot speak of households in antiquity without assuming that some number of children are born and raised in the vast majority therein. Nevertheless, examples of celibacy, or at least highly regulated sexuality and procreation, chronologically, geographically, and literarily surround Q and its presumed area of provenance, Galilee, from documented descriptions of Essenes and limited references among the Dead Sea Scrolls, to presumably the Baptist, Jesus, Paul, and many others within emerging Christianity.71 And as Levine notes, Q is rather uninterested in biological relationships: “Traditional marriages, and so procreation, are not Q desiderata. . . . For Q, procreation and children function figuratively, but not literally or practically. [Rather], images of children are illustrations of adult behavior.”72 In Q, we are left with a document that is instead wholly consumed with the adult world, and with the metaphorical language in which adults are the children, awaiting the fruition of the kingdom of Israel’s god.

69

70 71

72

“Q offers several indications that it takes for granted the continuation of a sedentary, village-based life, with family connections and ordinary life proceeding largely as usual”; Arnal cites 11:11–13; 9:59–62; and 14:26 on the continuance of family relations (Jesus and the Village Scribes, 94). Levine, “Women in the Q Communit(ies),” 162. On the Essenes, see Pliny, Nat. 5.73 [Rackham, LCL]; Philo, Hypoth. 11.14 [Colson, LCL]; Josephus, Ant. 18.1.5 [Thackeray, LCL]; JW 2.8.2 [Thackeray, LCL]. Among prohibitions, regulations, and anticipations of sex and procreation in the Dead Sea Scrolls, see various Zadokite Fragments, esp. instances in 4Q266 and 4Q270, and within the Community Rule, see 4Q258 and 4Q259. Levine, “Women in the Q Communit(ies),” 161.

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Children, Parents, and God/Gods in Interreligious Roman Households and the Interpretation of 1 Corinthians 7:14 Judith M. Gundry

Paul baptized “the household of Stephanus,” sent greetings to families – “those of Aristobulus” and “those of Narcissus” – and to “their [Prisca’s and Aquila’s] household church” and to “your [Philemon’s] household church,” referring to the extended family as a Christ-group (Rom. 16:3, 10b; 1 Cor. 1:16; 16:19; Phlm. 2; cf. Col. 4:15).1 Paul could thus assume that young children and infants were present in the assemblies where his letters were read. Yet he refers only once to these children in his undisputed letters, namely, in 1 Corinthians 7:14:2 “For the unbelieving3 husband hēgiastai en his wife, and the unbelieving wife hēgiastai en the brother, since otherwise your children (ta tekna4 hymōn)

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Paul uses the expression tē kat oikon autōn ekklēsia in 1 Cor. 16:19 and tē kat oikon sou ekklēsia in Phlm. 2; see the discussion in Wayne A. Meeks, The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), 29–30, 75–76. Elsewhere Paul refers to adult children (Rom. 16:13; 1 Cor. 5:1–5); himself in the womb (Gal. 1:16); Jesus as “born of a woman” (Gal. 4:4) and David’s descendant (Rom. 9:5); children in Israel’s past (Gal 4:22; Rom. 9:6–13; Gal. 4:28); the Israelites as “sons/daughters” (2 Cor. 3:7, 13); the narrator as a child (1 Cor. 13:11). The paucity of Pauline references to children, whether young or old, has been explained in terms of Paul’s eschatological expectations (cf. 1 Cor. 7:25, 29–31) and lack of anticipation of a church age before the Parousia, which eliminated the need for instructions on childrearing, etc. One need not assume an indifferent or even negative attitude toward children on Paul’s part, pace O. Larry Yarbrough’s “[children] were not of great concern” to Paul (“Parents and Children in the Letters of Paul,” in The Social World of the First Christians: Essays in Honor of Wayne A. Meeks, ed. L. Michael White and O. Larry Yarbrough [Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995], 129–30). Apistos here means “unbelieving,” not “unfaithful” in a sexual sense. Teknon can denote a child of any age (see BDAG, s.v. τέκνον 1). The fact that in 1 Cor. 7:12–16 Paul describes “your children” as neither “believing” nor “unbelieving” can be taken to suggest they were too young to have accepted or rejected the gospel message as did their believing or unbelieving parents. The relative lack of rigidity in age demarcation in first-century CE Roman society, however, should be kept in mind; see Beryl Rawson, Children and Childhood in Roman Italy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006).

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would be unclean (akatharta), but as it is, they are hagia” (1 Cor. 7:14).5 This text has stymied interpreters for decades. What is the meaning of the untranslated Greek words, which are used here to describe children and unbelievers, but elsewhere to describe Christ-believers?6 The suggestion that Paul is referring to baptized infants or children has long been laid to rest as without convincing support. But there is no clear alternative, scholarly attempts to provide one notwithstanding. So also, scholars disagree on how to interpret the parallel statement about the unbelieving spouse. A variety of possible reconstructions of the Corinthians’ stance which explains Paul’s comments in 1 Corinthians 7:14 have been proffered, without resulting in a scholarly consensus. In short, 1 Corinthians 7:14 is a hornets’ nest. Any attempt to sort out these difficulties will have to take into account the immediate context. In 1 Corinthians 7:10–11 Paul gives instructions on divorce to “the married” (tois gegamēkosin), i.e., those married to a fellow Christbeliever. In 7:12–16 he gives instructions on divorce to “the rest” (tois loipois), i.e., those with an unbelieving spouse, presumably a polytheist. Paul actually divides these latter instructions into two parts: first he addresses those with an unbelieving husband or wife who wants to live together (vv. 12–14); then he addresses those with an unbelieving husband or wife who wants to divorce (vv. 15–16).7 The children are mentioned only in the instructions to those with an amenable unbelieving spouse, and they play no role in Paul’s argument to those with an unbelieving spouse who desires to divorce. Further, Paul mentions the children’s status—they are hagia—only as a proof (7:14b) for the main argument that the amenable unbelieving husband or wife hēgiastai (7:14a) and thus, should not be divorced (7:12–13). Paul does not mention the children when he argues that if the unbeliever wants to divorce, the Christbeliever should allow it (vv. 15–16), which makes it difficult to draw any conclusions about the negative impact on the children of divorce, in Paul’s view (see further below). 5

6 7

A number of possible translations are listed in Anthony C. Thiselton, The First Epistle to the Corinthians: A Commentary on the Greek Text, NIGTC (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 528. Cf. 1 Cor. 1:2; 6:11; 1 Thess. 5:23. The right of Roman women to divorce is assumed here. In 1 Cor. 7:15–16 Paul writes: “If the unbeliever wants to divorce, let him or her divorce, for the brother or the sister is not bound to such ones (en tois toioutois; or: in such cases). For God has called you to peace. For how do you know, wife, whether you will save your husband? Or how do you know, husband, whether you will save your wife?”

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But what was a proof for the Corinthians is a puzzle to us. And the only help we get from the immediate context in deciphering this proof is its relationship to the main argument, which is likewise a puzzle. The most that scholars have managed to agree upon—with one exception8—is that whatever Paul is saying about the unbelieving spouse he is also saying about the children; that is, the expressions hēgiastai and hagia estin are equivalent in meaning.9 Disagreement and confusion about the correct interpretation of verse 14 has led to its being marginalized or ignored in the scholarly literature on children in the Bible and the biblical world.10 In 1995, O. Larry Yarbrough averred in an article entitled, “Parents and Children in the Letters of Paul”: “It is difficult to determine precisely what he [Paul] means by this cryptic statement [1 Cor. 7:14].”11 More than a decade later, Beverly Roberts Gaventa echoed this sentiment in her 2008 article, “Finding a Place for Children in the Letters of Paul”: “What exactly Paul means by this assertion [in 1 Cor. 7:14] is

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The exception is David G. Horrell, “Ethnicisation, Marriage and Early Christian Identity: Critical Reflections on 1 Corinthians 7, 1 Peter 3 and Modern New Testament Scholarship,” NTS 62 (2016), 439–60; see further below. Andreas Lindemann, Der erste Korintherbrief, HNT 9/1 (Tübingen, 2000), 166; George BeasleyMurray, Baptism in the New Testament (London/New York: Macmillan/St. Martin’s Press, 1962), 193. There Beasley-Murray in his argument against taking 1 Cor. 7:14 as a proof-text for infant baptism in early Christianity stated: “Above all it is to be recognized that the holiness of the child is commensurate with that of the unbelieving parent; a valid explanation of the former must account also for the latter . . . it is impermissible to draw a distinction between two conceptions of holiness here, on the ground that the parent is said to be only ἡγίασται whereas the child is ἅγιος.” Contrast Joachim Jeremias, who appealed to 1 Cor. 7:14 for the early Christian practice of infant baptism in the light of Jewish proselyte baptism (Infant Baptism in the First Four Centuries [London: SCM Press, 1960], 37–40, 44–48). His view was criticized and later abandoned by Jeremias himself. Cf. also Otfried Hofius, “Glaube und Taufe nach dem Zeugnis des Neuen Testaments,” in Neutestamentliche Studien, WUNT I/132 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 253–75. See the brief discussions in Peter Balla, The Child-Parent Relationship in the New Testament and its Environment, WUNT I/155 (Tübingen: Mohr/Siebeck, 2003); Reidar Aasgaard, “Paul as a Child: Children and Childhood in the Letters of the Apostle,” JBL 126 (2007): 129–59; Margaret Y. MacDonald, “A Place of Belonging: Perspectives on Children from Colossians and Ephesians,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Marcia L. Bunge, Terence E. Fretheim, and Beverly Roberts Gaventa (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 278–304; Cornelia B. Horn and John W. Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me”: Childhood and Children in Early Christianity (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2009). Paul’s more numerous references to metaphorical children and parents (e.g., Rom. 16:5, 10; 1 Cor. 3:1–2; 4:14–21; 2 Cor. 6:11f.; 12:14b–15a; Gal. 4:19; Phil. 2:22; 1 Thess. 2:7, 11) have elicited far more scholarly treatments; see especially Reidar Aasgaard, “My Beloved Brothers and Sisters!” Christian Siblingship in Paul, JSNTSup 265 (London: T&T Clark, 2004); Aasgaard, “Like a Child: Paul’s Rhetorical Uses of Childhood,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., 249–77; Christine Gerber, Paulus und seine “Kinder”: Studien zur Beziehungsmetaphorik der paulinischen Briefe, BZNW 136 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2005); Beverly Roberts Gaventa, Our Mother Saint Paul (Philadelphia: Westminster/John Knox, 2007). Yarbrough, “Parents and Children,” 129.

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unclear.”12 In 2014, Margaret Y. MacDonald, in The Power of Children: The Construction of Christian Families in the Greco-Roman World—an entire monograph devoted to this topic, preceded by her scholarly article co-authored with Leif Vaage in 2011—concluded: “The meaning of the reference to children in 1 Corinthians 7:14 remains unresolved.”13 This conclusion is common, notwithstanding a rather impressive number of scholarly studies devoted to cracking the code of 1 Corinthians 7:14.14 Gaventa is thus understandably skeptical about the merits of devoting more attention to Pauline texts that refer directly or indirectly to children, including 1 Corinthians 7:14. Granted, she is aiming to inform and enrich the contemporary conversation about children, not simply to further scientific study of Paul’s letters. Thus, she states that Paul’s letters simply “will not yield 12

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Beverly Roberts Gaventa, “Finding a Place for Children in the Letters of Paul,” in The Child in the Bible, ed. Bunge et al., 236. After a brief discussion of 1 Cor. 7:14, Gaventa concludes that Paul is probably referring to the children’s “holiness” in terms of their “location in the body of Christ through God’s calling of their household” and not to their faith or achievement (ibid.). Gaventa appeals to other Pauline texts on “holiness” to argue that Paul has in mind God’s actions toward children, instead of, as I argued in my earlier article, children’s “consecration to God” “through their familial or genealogical relationship to believers” (Judith M. Gundry-Volf, “The Least and the Greatest: Children in the New Testament,” in The Child in Christian Thought, ed. Marcia L. Bunge (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001), 51. Here I refine and develop my argument further by appealing to the implied parallel with the unbelieving spouse—hēgiastai en his wife . . . hēgiastai en the brother; but I abandon the suggestion that 1 Cor. 7:14 may refer to consecration to God through a genealogical relationship to a Christ-believer. Margaret Y. MacDonald, The Power of Children: The Construction of Christian Families in the GrecoRoman World (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2014), 24; cf. her earlier discussions in Early Christian Women and Pagan Opinion: The Power of the Hysterical Woman (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 189–95; Margaret Y. MacDonald and Leife E. Vaage, “Unclean but Holy Children: Paul’s Everyday Quandary in 1 Corinthians 7:14,” CBQ 73 (2011), 526–46. In addition to the above, see Gerhard Delling, “Nun aber sind sie heilig,” in Gott und die Götter: Festgabe für Erich Fascher zum 60. Geburtstag (Berlin: Evangelische Verlangsanstalt, 1958), 84–93; J. Massyngberde Ford, “‘Has Thou Tithed Thy Meal” and “Is Thy Child Kosher?’ ” JTS 17 (1966), 71–79; Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, “Works Without Faith in 1 Corinthians 7:14,” RB 84 (1977), 349–61; John C. O’Neil, “I Corinthians 7.14 and Infant Baptism,” in “L’Apôtre Paul: Personnalité, Style, et Conception du Ministère, ed. Albert Vanhoye, BETL 73 (Leuven: Leuven University Press, Peeters, 1986), 358–59; Ernest Best, “1 Corinthians 7:14 and Children in the Church,” IBS 12 (1990), 158–66; Peter Tomson, Paul and the Jewish Law (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), 103–24; Raymond F. Collins, Divorce in the New Testament (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1992), 40–64; J. Ayodeji Adewuya, Holiness and Community in 2 Cor 6:14—7:1: Paul’s View of Communal Holiness in the Corinthian Correspondence, StBibLit 40 (New York: Peter Lang, 2001), 139–146; Peter Müller, In der Mitte der Gemeinde: Kinder im Neuen Testament (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1992), 356–64; Yonder Moynihan Gillihan, “Jewish Laws on Illicit Marriage, the Defilement of Offspring, and the Holiness of the Temple: A New Halakhic Interpretation of 1 Corinthians 7:14,” JBL 121 (2002), 711–44. Recent works on the early Christian household/family in its wider social context devote relatively little discussion to 1 Cor. 7:14; see Halvor Moxnes, ed., Constructing Early Christian Families: Family as Social Reality and Metaphor (London: Routledge, 1997); Carolyn Osiek and David L. Balch, Families in the New Testament World: Households and House Churches, Family, Religion and Culture (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1997); Carolyn Osiek and Margaret Y. MacDonald with Janet H. Tulloch, A Woman’s Place: House Churches in Earliest Christianity (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006).

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direct answers” to the questions that contemporary readers might have, for example, “about the value to be assigned to children and their contributions.” Hence, “it is essential to move beyond the individual passages that refer directly and indirectly to children”15 and to explore “Paul’s theology and the implications of that theology for an understanding of children and our obligations to them.” Gaventa then proceeds to offer an insightful reading of various Pauline texts which contributes impressively to this worthy goal.16 And while I agree that it is high time for this sort of project, I am doubtful that it should displace efforts to arrive at a better understanding of 1 Corinthians 7:14, the only substantive comment about the children of Paul’s communities in his undisputed letters. Furthermore, when compared with the references to children in the disputed Pauline letters (Colossians, Ephesians, and the Pastoral Epistles),17 the verse is distinctive in its perspective. For both of these reasons, then, it is important, in my view, to continue the work of interpreting this key Pauline text directly on children, which can provide a crucial lens, if not a hermeneutical key, for reading Paul’s texts in general as having implications for the contemporary conversation on children. To this end, the present article puts a laser focus on 1 Corinthians 7:14.18 This chapter will proceed as follows: In Part I, I will review and critique previous scholarship on the verse, focusing on the use of the disputed terms hagia and hēgiastai and hypothetical reconstructions that account for their use. In Part II, I will argue for their transferred cultic sense here—“consecrated to God” and “is consecrated to God,” respectively—along the lines suggested by Gordon Fee and others. Developing the parallel in Romans 11:16 which Fee and others have suggested, I will argue that in 1 Corinthians 7:14 Paul employs the notion of the extension of a consecrated status from the first part to the

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Gaventa, “Finding a Place for Children,” 240. See ibid., 240–48. In Colossians, Ephesians, and the Pastoral Epistles we find injunctions to children or about children, and statements about the significance for adults of giving birth to children and raising children (Col. 3:19–21; Eph. 6:1–4; 1 Tim. 3:4, 12; 5:4, 8; 2 Tim. 1:5; Tit. 1:6; 2:4). Suffice it to say that the distinctive perspective on children in 1 Cor. 7 is only one of the ways in which this chapter diverges from the household-code tradition in Colossians and Ephesians—which differences are often papered over in discussions of 1 Cor. 7; see, further, my monograph, “Male and Female” Matters: Paul’s Contrarian Advice on Celibacy, Sex, and Procreation in I Corithians 7, WUNT 1 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, forthcoming). It is impossible within the confines of the present article to provide a full discussion of other Pauline or deutero-Pauline material on children and to compare it with 1 Cor. 7:14.

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rest: Not only the first part which was literally consecrated to God in sacrifice is “consecrated,” but also the rest is “consecrated” to God by extension, rather than merely belonging to the profane sphere. Unbelievers (the profane) may thus be “consecrated” to God and God’s use by means of the extension of Christ-believers’ consecration to God, according to Paul. In 1 Corinthians 7:14 the expressions hagia and hēgiastai are used atypically for children and unbelievers “consecrated” to God by extension. Conversely, here Paul does not use these expressions to refer to inheriting Christian identity, being morally sanctified by imitating the “saints,” or ritually pure through countercontamination by the pure, or “licit” by apostolic fiat. In Part III, I will suggest a new reconstruction of the occasion for Paul’s statements in 1 Corinthians 7:14 as interpreted here.19 Building on Raymond F. Collins’s and Caroline Johnson Hodge’s arguments that verses 12–16 are to be read in the light of the norm of endogamy and, particularly, religious conformity in the household,20 I will argue that Paul depicts certain interreligious households as bound together by a common consecration to God, thus supporting his prohibition of divorce for those married to an unbeliever willing to remain married to one who had abandoned the worship of the household gods and now worshipped only the one true God, and had thus introduced diversity of religious practice into the Roman household.21

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I am reversing the usual method of interpreting this text, which is to reconstruct the situation in Corinth and in the light of that hypothetical reconstruction to interpret 1 Cor. 7:12–16—resulting in many speculative and competing interpretations. See Raymond F. Collins, First Corinthians, SP 7 (Collegeville, MN: The Liturgical Press, 1999), 265– 66; Caroline Johnson Hodge, “Married to an Unbeliever: Households, Hierarchies, and Holiness in 1 Corinthians 7:12–16,” HTR 103 (2010), 1–25. These scholars note that in addition to household conversions in early Christianity (cf. 1 Cor. 1:16), some New Testament texts such as 1 Cor. 7:14 and 1 Pet. 3 presuppose individual conversions, resulting in religious diversity in once religiously uniform (or “endogamous”) households. The inevitable question, for Christ-believer and polytheist alike, was thus whether to divorce. Paul’s argument in 1 Cor. 7:14 is an acknowledgement that a simple appeal to the Lord’s command against divorce, which is cited in 1 Cor. 7:10–11—“to the married I command, not I, but the Lord, let the wife not separate (mē chōristhēnai) from her husband . . . and let the husband not divorce (mē aphienai) his wife”—will not do for the Corinthians’ marriages to unbelievers. Jesus’ teaching on divorce was formulated for a Jewish audience that practiced endogamy, not for interreligious marriages. Yet Paul here offers an analogous reason not to divorce, for just as the Matthean Jesus appealed to God’s unifying the spouses as a reason not to divorce (Mt. 19:6: “What God has joined together [synezeuxen], let no human separate”), Paul appeals to the common consecration to God of the Christ-believer and the unbeliever willing to live together.

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Part I: The Interpretation of 1 Corinthians 7:14b in Recent Scholarship Three of the most recent investigations of 1 Corinthians 7:14 take Paul’s statement about “your children” in a “maximalist” sense, that is, as depicting the children as bona fide members of the Christ-believing community in Corinth. I will examine these interpretations first before proceeding to discuss the more common interpretations of “your children” as unbelieving nonmembers of the ekklēsia in Corinth.

Children’s Inheritance of Christian Identity from a Parent In “Ethnicisation, Marriage and Early Christian Identity: Critical Reflections on 1 Corinthians 7, 1 Peter 3 and Modern New Testament Scholarship,” David G. Horrell argues that the statement “your children are hagia” means that they are members of the assemblies. Horrell appeals to Paul’s use of hagios elsewhere for a “member of the assemblies” (Rom. 1:7; 1 Cor. 1:2). The Corinthians’ children “already belong within the Christian community,” Paul says, because “Christian identity . . . can be passed on by either parent . . . through the family, and specifically through the rearing of children.”22 Paul “is in effect establishing” a “principle of heredity” in 1 Corinthians 7:14, which is picked up and developed in the later Pauline tradition (Colossians, Ephesians, and the Pastoral Epistles) and 1 Peter 3.23 Horrell’s interpretation, however, depends on distinguishing between the expressions hagia estin and hēgiastai. He claims: “Notable here is the difference in Paul’s description of the unbelieving spouse and the children: the former is ‘sanctified’ (ἡγίασται) by the believer, despite remaining ἄπιστος . . . Only the children are emphatically and unambiguously described as ἅγιος.”24 But this is not a convincing argument for taking the cognate terms in 1 Corinthians 7:14 in different senses rather than as mere stylistic variants, as is the case for example in 1 Corinthians 1:2: hēgiasmenois en Christō Iēsou,

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Horrell, “Ethnicisation,” 451–52. Ibid., 452–60. Ibid., 450–51.

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klētois hagiois (“to the ones consecrated in Christ Jesus, called as consecrated ones”). Nor does Horrell provide any alternative explanation of the function of 7:14a and 7:14b in the argument of 7:12–16, which as noted above depends on the parallelism of the statements about the children and the unbelieving spouse, according to the scholarly majority. It is hard to see what purpose 7:14 would serve in relation to Paul’s prohibition on divorcing the unbelieving spouse in 7:12–13, on Horrell’s interpretation. In short, Horrell appears to have interpreted the text to suit his hypothesis of “ethnicization” in early Christianity, rather than arriving at this hypothesis through his exegesis. Furthermore, Horrell’s appeal to Pauline usage of hagios for a member of the early Christian community can be challenged in the light of the anarthrousness of hagia in 7:14. Most of the Pauline uses of hagios to denote “saint” are arthrous.25 The anarthrous hagia in 7:14 is thus more likely a predicate adjective denoting a quality (see below for the translations “licit,” “holy,” or “consecrated”). Finally, Horrell does not discuss the significance of the parallel in Romans 11:16, where Paul also uses the same anarthrous predicate adjective: “If the firstfruits [is] consecrated (hagia) to God, so also [is] the lump, and if the root [is] consecrated (hagia) to God, so also [are] the branches.” I discuss this parallel below. Suffice it to say here that James D. G. Dunn rules out Paul’s teaching “a doctrine of transmission of holiness in strict genetic terms” in Romans 11:16 as well as in 1 Corinthians 7:14. For, as Dunn notes, “the promise . . . comes to expression through grace (Rom. 11:5–6)” (my emphasis).26 Horrell seems to have fallen into the very trap that Dunn cautions us to avoid.

Both “Impure” and “Holy” Children Margaret Y. MacDonald and Leife Vaage propose a new translation of 7:14b: “Since then,27 your children are impure, but now they are holy.”28 According to

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See ho hagios in Rom. 1:7; 12:13; 15:25, 31; 16:2, 15; 1 Cor. 6:1–2; 14:33; 16:1, 15; 2 Cor. 1:1; 8:4; 9:1, 12; Phil. 1:1; 1 Thess. 3:13; 2 Thess. 1:10; cf. Phil. 4:21: panta hagion; 1 Cor. 1:2: klētois hagiois; Rom. 8:27: hyper hagiōn. James D. G. Dunn, Romans 9–16, WBC 38a (Dallas: Word Books, 1988), 660. Ernst Käsemann rejects the view that Paul is referring to “the inheriting of religious qualities (contra Dodd), nor does he speak of natural holiness (contra Jülicher)” (Commentary on Romans, trans. and ed. Geoffrey W. Bromiley [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1980], 308). This translation substitutes for the standard translation of epei ara, “since otherwise.” MacDonald and Vaage, “Unclean but Holy Children,” 535f.; cf. MacDonald, The Power of Children, 24.

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these scholars, contradictory claims are made here about the children of those married to unbelievers in the light of the “complex social reality” and “curious circumstances of children with one parent who is a believer and another who belongs to the nonbelieving (unclean) world.”29 The Corinthians thought, and Paul agreed, that their children “belonged to ‘us’,” that is, were members of the Christgroup, but at the same time were“impure,” or nonmembers; they had an“ambiguous social identity and paradoxical (including irregular) presence.”30 MacDonald and Vaage argue that Paul portrays the unbelieving spouse also as having this dual status: “unbelieving” and someone whom the Christ-believer may “save” (7:16), yet also one who “is made holy” in the sense of “saved.”31 Paul’s double-speak however is construed as a “strikingly generous expression of early Christian inclusiveness.”32 Furthermore, Paul’s “logical jumble” serves the rhetorical purpose of supporting his opposite instructions on divorce in 7:12–13 and 7:15–16. There is no compelling reason however to accept the translation which MacDonald and Vaage propose as the basis of their interpretation of 7:14b. The phrase epei ara should rather be taken in the well attested sense “since otherwise” (introducing an “unreal” indicative).33 Verse 14 should be translated, “for otherwise your children would be akatharta, but as it is they are hagia.” Neither is there any reason to see a contradiction between Paul’s injunctions in verses 12–13 and 15–16. In the former, Paul commands the Corinthians not to divorce if the unbeliever is willing to remain married, and in the latter, Paul commands the Corinthians not to resist divorce if the unbeliever wants to divorce. That is, Paul’s prohibition of divorce based on the Lord’s command (cf. 7:10–11), which he gives to those married to fellow-Christ-believers, is relevant only to some who are married to unbelievers, not all. Verses 12–16 are carefully crafted halakhic material, not a “logical jumble.” Although Paul’s 29

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MacDonald and Vaage, “Unclean but Holy Children,” 533, 537, 546. The authors speculate that slave children in the church could have been used sexually by masters and thus have had “ambiguous social identities,” both “unclean” and “holy.” But MacDonald states in a later publication: “Such children serve as argumentative proof for the necessity of preserving mixed marriage if at all possible” by illustrating “the transformative power of a believing life (they are holy)” (The Power of Children, 24f.). This statement seems to be in tension with her argument in “Unclean but Holy Children.” MacDonald and Vaage, “Unclean but Holy Children,” 531. Ibid., 536–37; similarly, Margaret M. Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation: An Exegetical Investigation of the Language and Composition of 1 Corinthians, HUT 28 (Tübingen: Mohr, 1991), 123 n. 352: “If an unbeliever becomes ‘sanctified’ [hagiazesthai], this means that they join the community. . . . Their contact with ‘the body of Christ’ through their spouse may bring sanctification.” MacDonald and Vaage, “Unclean but Holy Children,” 539–40. BDF §456 [3]; cf. BDAG s.v. ἐπεί.

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entire discussion in chapter 7 poses many interpretive puzzles and challenges, MacDonald and Vaage exaggerate when they describe it as full of contradictions, in support of their view that verse 14 is self-contradictory. Further, a “complex social identity,” which MacDonald and Vaage convincingly postulate the Corinthians and perhaps also their unbelieving spouses and children had, should not be confused with a complex ecclesial identity. For Paul draws quite sharp lines between one’s identity in Christ and one’s identity apart from Christ. He insists on a temporal divide between the Corinthians’ past and present ecclesial identities: “Some of you were (ēte) such [sexually immoral, idolaters, adulterers, etc.], but you were washed, but you were sanctified, but you were justified” (1 Cor. 6:11). He excludes the immoral/ unbeliever from among those who “will inherit the reign of God” (1 Cor. 6:9–10) and from being a member of Christ’s body, as are the Corinthians (1 Cor. 6:15). He distinguishes between “the church (ekklēsia)” which “gathers together in one place” and “the uninitiated or the unbelievers (idiōtai ē apistoi)” who “may enter (eiselthōsin)” (1 Cor. 14:23). He describes such people as inhabiting a discrete “social space”: “the one who fills the place of the uninitiated” (ho anaplērōn ton topon tou idiōtou; 1 Cor. 14:16). Thus the “unbelieving” or “uninitiated,” who were perhaps the spouses and children or other household members of the hosts of household churches in view in 7:12–16 and had access to the Corinthians’ assemblies, were not for that reason to be seen as part of the ekklēsia. Further, Paul details precisely when the unbeliever/uninitiated person became a part of the ekklēsia: “When . . . some unbeliever or uninitiated person enters, is convicted by all, is examined by all, and the secrets of his/her heart are revealed, and in this way, after falling down on his/her face, he/she worships God, proclaiming, ‘God is truly in your midst’” (1 Cor. 14: 23–25). MacDonald’s and Vaage’s interpretation thus runs afoul of Paul’s careful distinctions between the Christ-believer and the sympathetic outsider, no matter how much sense it makes from a sociological perspective to refer to a “complex social identity.” Their interpretation is thus based on a heavily scholarly construct without sufficient exegetical support.

Licit Rather Than Morally Defiling Children (Mamzerim) In Yonder Moynihan Gillihan’s view, the children of the Corinthians’ interreligious marriages are declared to have a “holy status,” for they “come and

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go and interact freely with the holy community,” are “eligible to participate in the religious life of the community,” “counted among the ἅγιοι [hagioi]” and “have full access to the temple constituted by the sanctified community.”34 This interpretation is defended not on the basis of Pauline word usage but a complicated set of arguments drawn from various Jewish texts dealing with intermarriage. In these texts prohibited marriages—those that did not meet certain genealogical criteria for permitted marriage—resulted in the production of illicit children, mamzerim, who were a source of moral defilement for the Temple, the community, and the land, and according to some sources had to be eliminated.35 Further, in Jewish halakot concerning marriage “the verb ‘to sanctify’ [qdš] is used consistently to describe an act of licit betrothal,” which guarantees that the children will be licit.36 According to Gillihan, Paul’s “ἡγίασται ἐν appears to be a faithful appropriation of ‫מקדש ב‬/‫מתקדשת‬.”37 He is thus using the term in the idiomatic sense “is sanctified/betrothed by” “in the sense of ‘is eligible’ for licit marriage to a believer.”38 Gillihan concludes that Paul, to counteract the Corinthians’ Jewish concerns about avoiding illicit marriage partners and mamzerim, declares their prohibited unbelieving spouses (cf. 1 Cor. 7:40) to be permitted or licit, even without meeting the requisite criteria for permitted marriages, and the children of these marriages to be licit rather than morally defiling mamzerim. Verse 14 is a “linguistic proof that the sanctification of the spouse and the licitness of the union were guaranteed.”39 Gillihan attributes Paul’s novel position on prohibited marriages and their issue to the influence of the Jesus tradition: “The Pharisaic/rabbinic betrothal idiom has come under the influence of the commandment of the Lord against divorce, so that licitness of marriage is now judged on the basis of the indissolubility of the marital bond (by the believer) rather than on the basis of the premarital status of each spouse.”40

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Gillihan, “Jewish Laws,” 715–35. See, further, Christine E. Hayes, Gentile Impurities and Jewish Identities: Intermarriage and Conversion from the Bible to the Talmud (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 68–91. M. Qidd. 2.1: “A man betroths [a woman] by himself or through his agent. A woman is betrothed by herself or through her representative. A man betroths his daughter [to another] . . . either by himself or through his representative.” Gillihan, “Jewish Laws,” 717. Ibid., 716. Ibid., 729. Ibid., 719, 728–29.

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This interpretation strikes me as both too clever by half and creating more problems than it solves. Not only are there numerous discrepancies between the Pharisaic/rabbinic betrothal tradition and Paul’s discussion of pre-existing marriages and children in 1 Corinthians 7:14, as noted in the scholarly literature, and as Gillihan himself notes.41 When Paul does directly address “the virgins” in 7:26–38, which many scholars construe as referring to betrothed men and women, he says nothing about licit or illicit betrothals leading to illicit or licit children; children are not mentioned there at all.42 Furthermore, if the Corinthians treated the children born to them in interreligious marriages as among the hagioi, which on Gillihan’s interpretation would have to mean “licit,” then the Corinthians would hardly have needed Paul to tell them that the unbelieving spouse was eligible for licit marriage, the point of which was to avoid producing mamzerim. Gillihan’s interpretation appears to negate itself. Nor is it clear, on his interpretation, why a presumably licit unbelieving spouse must be allowed to divorce (1 Cor. 7:15), or why a new marriage to an unbeliever would necessarily be excluded (cf. 7:39: “she is free to marry whom she wishes, only in the Lord” [monon en kyriō]). Finally, it is implausible that a predominantly gentile, former polytheist community like the Corinthians would have become concerned with Jewish legal rulings on permitted and prohibited marriages and their implications for the moral defilement of the community,43 rather than taking Paul’s own teaching as their guide, which was not informed by such rulings, as far as we can tell. Their view of their children fits rather nicely, by contrast, in a Roman milieu characterized by an “apparent lack of concern for the illegitimate status of children born of forbidden marriages.”44 In summary, maximalist interpretations of 1 Corinthians 7:14—that the children in view are bona fide members of or “licit” participants in the Christbelieving community in Corinth—fail to convince. Paul is not suggesting that children inherit a Christian identity from a parent(s) (pace Horrell). Nor that children are socialized into a Christian identity by a parent(s) (pace MacDonald

41 42

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Ibid., 718–19. For the suggestion that female virgins were perhaps included in “your children” in 1 Cor. 7:14, see MacDonald, “Unclean but Holy Children,” 540. For Gillihan’s supporting arguments, see “Jewish Laws,” 712 with n. 6. This Roman attitude is noted by Gillihan, “Jewish Laws,” 721 n. 31.

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and Vaage). Nor does he give an opinion on whether children based on lineage may be considered “licit” or “eligible” for participation in the religious life of the community (pace Gillihan). Rather, Paul is referring to children who are not counted as “believers” or “allowed” participants in the ekklēsia and is making an assertion about the “religious” status of these children.

Morally Sanctified Children According to Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, Paul describes the Corinthians’ children as morally “holy” (hagia) on the basis of conduct which is analogous to Christ-believers’ morally sanctified conduct, even though the children “have not formally committed themselves to Christ in faith.” For it is a “simple fact of experience that children assimilate the behavior pattern of their parents.”45 Similarly, the unbelieving spouse, by consenting to remain in the marriage bond, “brings his/her behavior into line both with the intention of the Creator concerning marriage . . . and with the dominical directive prohibiting divorce” and so demonstrates “sanctified” conduct: “In this precise respect, therefore, the behavior of the pagan is identical with the conduct that Paul expects of Christians, and so the predication of ‘holiness’ is justified.”46 But it is pure speculation to suppose that the Corinthians’ children imitated their Christ-believing parent’s “sanctified” behavior, or even that they were old enough to produce deeds that were analogous to Christ-believers’ sanctified deeds.47 And in any case, moral sanctification for Paul is a work of the Holy Spirit (cf. Rom. 5:5; 14:17; 15:13; 1 Cor. 6:19; 12:3; 2 Cor. 6:6; 1 Thess. 1:5; 4:8). Finally, as noted by Wolfgang Schrage, Paul states that the unbelieving husband hēgiastai by his wife (en tē gynaiki) and the unbelieving wife hēgiastai by the brother (en tō adelphō), not that the unbeliever is sanctified by his or her own good deeds.48

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Murphy-O’Connor, “Works Without Faith,” 361. Ibid., 356–57. Contrast Hayes, who argues that Paul considered unbelievers immoral by definition and thus ruled out sexual or social intimacy with unbelievers as “a kind of porneia” (cf. 1 Cor. 6:12– 20; Gentile Impurities, 92–98). In her view, in the statement that the unbelieving spouse hēgiastai, Paul “is promulgating a legal fiction” necessary in order to enforce the Lord’s command not to divorce (94f.). The Corinthians however were unlikely to have heeded Paul’s command on this clearly refutable ground, which renders Hayes’s suggestion somewhat problematic. See above, n. 4. Wolfgang Schrage, Der erste Brief an die Korinther I–III , EKKNT 7 (Solothurn/Düsseldorf: Benzinger-Verlage; Neukirchen–Vluyn: Neukirschener Verlag, 1991–2001), 2:105.

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Counter-Contaminated, Ritually Pure Children William Loader argues that Paul is addressing a concern about ritual purity in 1 Corinthians 7:14. He states that the Corinthians’ children, though unbelieving, are ritually pure (hagia), rather than impure (akatharta), in support of the statement that the Corinthians’ unbelieving wife or husband is made ritually pure (hēgiastai) by the Christ-believing spouse. This is precisely the opposite of the supposed norm of contamination of the pure by the impure. Such “countercontamination” disproves the Corinthians’ fear of ritual contamination from unbelievers and removes the reason to divorce in such cases. In the case of new marriages, however, “Paul opposes believers marrying unbelievers because of contamination” (my emphasis),49 and to avoid such contamination says that they are to marry “only in the Lord” (7:39). Against this common interpretation similar criticisms can be lodged as were against Gillihan’s: the arbitrariness of the purported distinction between pre-conversion and post-conversion marriages; the lack of compelling evidence for a concern with ritual purity among the Corinthians50; the lack of explanation for why the Corinthians would have considered their unbelieving spouse to be ritually impure but their children, on the other hand, to be ritually pure; the tension between the prohibition of divorce on the purported grounds of counter-contamination and the command to accede to divorce initiated by the unbeliever, who presumably had been counter-contaminated on this view; the lack of explanation for the unbeliever’s wish to divorce (hardly due to a fear of contamination from the Christ-believer).51 49

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William Loader, The New Testament on Sexuality (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2012), 202; cf. Roy E. Ciampa and Brian S. Rosner, The First Letter to the Corinthians, PNTC (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2010), 297: “concerns about purity”; BDAG s.v. ἁγιάζω, 2, citing 1 Cor. 7:14b: “by contact w. what is holy.” Some recent German commentators preserve the older interpretation that “external” purity or impurity is implied; so, e.g., Schrage, 1 Korintherbrief 2:105: “An objective, though not exactly material [dinglich]-magical, concept of holiness is present here . . . the unbeliever is drawn into [the forcefield in which the Christ-believer lives] with a magnetic power” (my translation)”; see also Hans Conzelmann, A Commentary on the First Epistle to the Corinthians, trans. J. W. Leitch, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1976), 122. Thiselton, 1 Corinthians, 297, argues that the Corinthians may have been influenced by Jewish assumptions about ritual purity, including biblical texts such as Leviticus and Haggai 2:11–14. Some scholars have argued that Paul’s own teaching in 2 Cor. 6:14–7:1 inspired the Corinthians’ concern. But the disputed Pauline authorship of this text casts doubt on this explanation; for the relevant scholarly literature, see Gillihan, “Jewish Laws,” 712 n.3. Murphy-O’Connor opines: “Not only is there no hint that the primitive church was influenced by this Jewish attitude, but it is explicitly contradicted by the practice of the most conservative Christian community” (citing Acts  9:43; 10:25f., 28; Rom. 14:14) (“Works Without Faith,” 44–45). See also Lindemann, 1 Korintherbrief, 165. For further discussion and critique, see Gillihan, “Jewish Laws,” 733.

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Part II: Children Who Are Consecrated to God, Potentially Saved Gordon Fee argues that in 1 Corinthians 7:14 Paul means that the Corinthians’ children are “set apart in a special way that hopefully will lead to their salvation,”52 as are the unbelieving husband and wife.53 Fee draws a parallel with Romans 11:16, where Paul uses hagios in the sense “set apart” or “consecrated” to God when referring to unbelievers:54 “Now if the firstfruits [are] consecrated (hagia) [to God], so also the lump of dough [is consecrated to God]. And if the root [is] consecrated (hagia) [to God], so also the branches [are consecrated to God].” Fee comments: Because Israel was originally thus “sanctified” unto God, the Israel of Paul’s day, though still in unbelief, was nonetheless “holy” in this special sense . . . [hence] Paul hoped for their eventually coming to faith. That seems to be the same analogy put forth here [in 1 Cor. 7:14] . . . If the husband or wife is “holy,” then the unbelieving spouse is also “holy,” that is, set apart in a special way that hopefully will lead to their salvation (v. 16).55

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Gordon D. Fee avers that hagia here is not “a metaphor for salvation itself ” (The First Epistle to the Corinthians, NICNT, rev. ed. [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2014], 332f.). Cf. Collins, First Corinthians, 267, who similarly identifies “cultic overtones of holiness language that has been present in his letter since 1:2. Holiness means belonging to God.” BDAG s.v. ἁγιάζω 2, cites 1 Cor. 7:14 for the translation “consecrate, dedicate, sanctify” in the sense “include a pers. in the inner circle of what is holy.” Moral associations in addition to cultic associations are not always implied in the Pauline occurrences of this term, in my view; cf. 1 Cor. 1:2 (see below, n. 64). No moral associations are explicit in I Cor. 6:11; Rom. 15:16, where the cultic connotations are particularly prominent: “With the result that I am a cultic minister (leitourgon) of Christ Jesus to the gentiles (eis ta ethnē), who renders priestly service to the gospel of God (hierourgounta to euangelion tou Theou), so that the offering [consisting] of the gentiles (hē prosphora tōn ethnōn) might be acceptable (euprosdektos), consecrated to God by the Holy Spirit (hēgiasmenē en pneumati hagiō).” For further discussion, see David J. Downs, The Offering of the Gentiles: Paul’s Collection for Jerusalem in its Chronological, Cultural and Cultic Contexts, WUNT II/248 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 154–55. Downs argues for a different interpretation of hē prosphora tōn ethnōn: “the offering by the gentiles.” BDAG s.v. ἅγιος 1.a.β cites 1 Cor. 7:14 for hagios used adjectivally with the cultic sense, “dedicated to God, holy, sacred, i.e. reserved for God and God’s service.” For this sense also (without moral connotations, in my view), see 1 Cor. 7:34: “The unmarried, chaste woman devotes herself to what belongs to the Lord, so that she is consecrated (hagia) to God both in body and in spirit,” i.e., not for common use in childbearing and nursing. Fee, 1 Corinthians, 332; similarly, Beasley-Murray, Baptism, 196–97, 199; Collins, Divorce, 53; Collins, First Corinthians, 266: “In v. 14a-b Paul expresses something akin to the biblical tradition of holiness by association (cf. Exod. 29:37; Lev. 6:18; Rom. 11:16).” For a more general discussion of 1 Cor. 7:14 in relation to Jewish Scripture, see Brian S. Rosner, Paul, Scripture and Ethics: A Study of 1 Corinthians 5–7 (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1994; Grand Rapids: Baker, 1999), 168–71.

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I will now expand on Fee’s discussion of this important parallel as well as criticize certain aspects of his interpretation. The cultic references in Romans 11:16a, “the firstfruits” and “the lump of dough,” clearly support taking hagia in a transferred cultic sense: “set apart” or “consecrated” to God. This sense is carried over into verse 16b, as Ernst Käsemann notes: “[The first hagios] supplies the aspect from which the second [hagios] is seen: Holy means consecrated to God.”56 Paul’s assertions in Romans 11:16 rest on the notion that the consecration of the part (“the firstfruits”) to God in sacrifice extended to the rest (“the lump of dough”), although Jewish Scripture indicates that the rest was in fact free for common use (cf. Num. 15:20–21). Paul’s assertions however reflect other Jewish traditions. For example, the Temple’s holiness was taken to extend to Jerusalem and its hills (Neh. 11:1, 18; Isa. 11:9). Paul’s Pharisaic background is cited by Dunn as possibly contributing to the view that the consecration of cultic objects to God extended to noncultic objects: the Pharisees’ aim was “to extend the holiness of the temple throughout the land, . . . [by observing] in daily life the level of purity/holiness required in the law only in relation to the temple.”57 Further, as Dunn notes, the extension of “consecration to God” is the basis of Paul’s teaching regarding “the whole people . . . as ‘saints’ [ἅγιοι; Rom. 1:7] and ‘consecrated’ [ἡγιασμένοι; Rom. 15:16].”58 This extension of consecration to the profane sphere is the essential point in Rom. 11:16b. To undermine his implied audience’s view that the Jews who had not believed in the gospel had been replaced by the gentiles who had believed in the gospel (cf. Rom. 11:17–24), Paul states, using the metaphor of Israel as an olive tree, that the consecration to God of the Jewish patriarch, Abraham, extended to his physical descendants, the Jews: “If the root is consecrated [to God], so also the branches [are consecrated to God].” That is, despite belonging to the profane world outside the ekklēsia, the Jewish descendants of Abraham remain consecrated to God by extension and thus potentially saved (cf. Rom.

56

57 58

Käsemann, Commentary on Romans, 307f. With Käsemann, I take “the firstfruits” and “the lump of dough” in Rom. 11:16b literally rather than metaphorically. Dunn, Romans 9–16, 658f. Cf. Dunn, Romans 9–16, 659. Note that in 1 Cor. 10:1 Paul depicts gentile Christ-believers as spiritual descendants of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob: “Our fathers/mothers were all under the cloud.”

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11:28: “beloved for the sake of the fathers”).59 Developing this metaphor further in Romans 11:17–24, Paul counters his gentile audience’s assumptions with an argument from God’s sovereign power and the Jews’ eventual belief in the gospel. “The branches” which “were cut off in unbelief ” will be grafted on again “if they do not continue in unbelief,” for “God is able to graft them on again” (Rom. 11:23). This argument rests on the continuing status of “the branches” as “consecrated” to God (Rom. 11:16b). Ernst Käsemann thus correctly articulates Paul’s logic: “The issue [in Rom. 11:16b] is the relation between beginning and result, as earlier [in Rom. 11:16a] that between the part and the whole. The two cannot be separated as though they had nothing to do with each other” (my emphasis).60 Paul’s gentile interlocutors were separating what belongs together as commonly consecrated to God. Paul’s argument in 1 Corinthians 7:14 can be read similarly. Although Paul is not as explicit here as in Romans 11:16, he is arguing that since the Corinthians are (implicitly, here) “consecrated” to God (hagioi), so also, the unbelieving spouse “is consecrated” (hēgiastai) to God and the children are “consecrated” (hagia) to God. For the consecration of the first part extends to the rest. The unity of the part and the rest in this case is through marriage,61 while in the case of the parent and the children it is through physical descent (as in Rom. 11:16b).62 Paul’s aim here is the same as in Romans 11:16: to confront and overturn the assumption of Christ-believers that unbelievers in their midst were necessarily “common” and did not belong with them.63 Thus the Corinthians ought not to jump to divorce, if the unbeliever was willing to “live together.” It was a foregone conclusion however that the Corinthians would not “divorce” their children, who were “consecrated” to God (although

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60 61 62

63

Cf. Rom. 11:11–15, 23, 26 for Paul’s expectation concerning the now “cut off ” Jews. The referent of pas Israél in Rom. 11:26 however is debated. Käsemann, Commentary on Romans, 308. Cf. 1 Cor. 6:16: “The two will become one flesh.” Gillihan argues against consecration by extension in the light of Rom. 11:16. He appeals to “Paul’s Greek” as indicating that “the children’s holiness proceeds out of the unbeliever’s sanctified status” (rather than the Christ-believer’s) and that “the statuses of the unbelieving spouse and of the children are clearly of different origins” (“Jewish Law,” 735). I find his arguments unpersuasive. Cf. Käsemann, Commentary on Romans, 308, on Rom. 11:16: “Paul is stressing the continuity of God’s hidden faithfulness in Israel’s history” (my emphasis), just as Paul earlier (Rom. 9:6ff.) described “the selection which breaks earthly continuity again and again” and “prevents interpretation along the lines of an immanent process of development.”

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we do not know why the Corinthians would have agreed with Paul here, if the children were not baptized).64 If we read 1 Corinthians 7:14 in the light of Romans 11:16, there is no reason to try to look for some objective or outward reason why the unbelieving spouse and the children would be considered “consecrated” to God, for example, their moral sanctification, participation in the ekklēsia, or response to evangelism by the Christ-believing spouse or parent. For their consecration was not visible to the eye or audible to the ear, just like that of “the branches” that were “cut off in unbelief ” yet could be grafted on in faith. By the same token, we should rule out Fee’s suggestion that the unbelieving spouse and the children are consecrated to God “in the [intact] relationship” with the Christ-believer,65 but not apart from that relationship.66 This makes consecration reversible and dependent on human action. With Collins, pace Fee, Paul’s use of the perfect tense hēgiastai (“is [completely, or now] consecrated”) in 1 Corinthians 7:16 goes against the suggestion of reversible consecration, for here Paul depicts consecration as a past action with ongoing, present results (or a completed action)67—not a partial or reversible action. Moreover, as Collins notes, Paul does not say anything about losing a consecrated status through divorce. And in Romans 11:16–24 Paul clearly envisions a consecration to God that is maintained apart from the relationship to the part from which consecration was extended, in a state of being “cut off in unbelief,” severed from the olive tree, and unsupported by “the root.”

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A similar case can be made for Paul’s using the hagi-word group for unbelievers in 1 Cor. 1:2. Here Paul describes the Corinthians as “those who are consecrated to God in Christ Jesus, called [to faith], namely, as consecrated ones” (hēgiasmenois en Christō Iēsou, klētois hagiois). If hagiois is anaphoric, referring back to the preceding participle, hēgiasmenois, then Paul is saying that the Corinthians were “called as consecrated ones,” i.e., hagiois is the complement to klētois, not “called to be holy” in a moral sense. Later, Paul distinguishes between being “consecrated,” “called,” and “washed” through baptism (1 Cor. 6:11), though he does not say in what order these happen. For a critique of the older view that Paul is referring to the consecration of the wife or husband “through natural corporal union of one human being with another,” see Thiselton, 1 Corinthians, 528f. Fee takes en in 7:14a—hēgiastai en tē gynaiki . . . hēgiastai en tō adelphō—to refer to “a relationship with the believer rather than a relationship to God ‘through’ the believer” (1 Corinthians, 332 with n. 145; 333): “[The children are consecrated to God] through their relationship with the believer, who maintains the marriage and thus keeps intact the relationship with the children”; “[The unbelieving husband or wife] is sanctified in their relationship with the believer . . . as long as the marriage is maintained, the potential for the spouse’s realizing salvation remains”; similarly, Yarbrough, “Parents and Children,” 129. Collins, 1 Corinthians, 266. Paul’s requirement of compliance with the unbeliever who wants to divorce (1 Cor. 7:16) is hard to imagine at the cost of the loss of consecration to God for the unbeliever and the children.

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In summary, I have argued that in 1 Corinthians 7:14 Paul is referring to the unbelieving (not baptized) children of Corinthian Christ-believers married to unbelievers. Paul states that their children were “consecrated” or “dedicated” to God, as opposed to belonging to the profane sphere, hence, were potentially called to faith and saved. They were “consecrated” to God by extension of the Christ-believing parent’s being “consecrated” to God, in keeping with certain Jewish traditions on consecration which Paul also employs in Romans 11:16. The children’s “consecrated” status is not seen as reversible or as dependent on the Christ-believer’s marriage remaining intact. Paul expresses equivalent views about the Corinthians’ unbelieving spouses. Conversely, Paul is not saying that the Corinthians’ children were (or were regarded as) members of the ekklēsia, whether through inheriting a Christian identity, or imitating a Christian parent, or being declared licit by Paul, or participating in early Christian assemblies—for which compelling evidence is lacking. I turn now to the question of why Paul stated that the unbelieving children of Christbelievers married to unbelievers were consecrated to God rather than belonged to the profane realm, in support of equivalent statements about the unbelieving spouse, so as to shore up the prohibition of divorcing the unbelieving spouse willing to live together in 1 Corinthians 7:12–13.

Part III: A Common Consecration to God and the “Beautiful” Roman Household In 1 Corinthians 7:14, Paul assumes or ascribes to the Corinthians’ amenable unbelieving spouses, to their children, and to the Corinthians themselves the same spiritual status: “consecrated” to God. In the Corinthians’ households where a husband, a wife, and children offered worship to a different God or gods, each member could nevertheless share the same consecrated status: those who had turned from idol-worship to worship the one true God (1 Cor. 8:4–7; 12:2) were “consecrated” to God (1 Cor. 1:2; 6:11); the unbelieving husband or wife, who had not turned from idol-worship (cf. 1 Cor. 8:768; 10:27–28), yet was 68

For the interpretation of the “weak” “brother” with a “weak consciousness” in 1 Cor. 8:7–13 as a gentile polytheist, see Mark D. Nanos, “The Polytheist Identity of the ‘Weak,’ and Paul’s Strategy to ‘Gain’ Them: A New Reading of 1 Corinthians 8:1–11:1,” in Paul, Jew, Greek, and Roman, ed. Stanley E. Porter (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 179–210.

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willing to live with the ex-idol-worshipper, “is consecrated” to the one true God “by his wife” or “by the brother”; and the children of this marriage, who were perhaps implicated in the idol-worship of the unbelieving parent, “are consecrated” to the one true God. In short, Paul depicts these interreligious households in Corinth as characterized by a fundamental religious uniformity. He does so, I suggest, in the light of the norm of religious endogamy. Raymond Collins in his comments on 1 Corinthians 7:12–16 has observed that the norm in the ancient Mediterranean world was endogamous marriage: “People are expected to marry within their own group whether ‘the group’ be defined racially, ethnically, socially, or religiously (cf. Deut. 7:3; Neh. 13:25).”69 Similarly, Caroline Johnson Hodge in her article on 1 Corinthians 7:12–16 has discussed the Roman expectation that a wife will relinquish her own religious practices and adopt those of her husband, as seen in Plutarch: “A married woman should therefore worship and recognize the gods whom her husband holds dear, and these alone. The door must be closed to strange cults and foreign superstitions. No god takes pleasure in a cult performed furtively and in secret by a woman.”70 Johnson Hodge argues that this and similar texts point to the patriarchal social context presupposed in 1 Corinthians 7:12-16 through which the experience and views of the Corinthian wives (and other women) can be reconstructed, which is the primary goal of her article. She also stresses the central role of religious practice in the Roman household. Religious rituals were a matter of daily household life, for example, they were often associated with meals, as well as with simple entering and exiting and other mundane tasks.71 The close connection of meals with sacrifice in the GrecoRoman world has also been discussed by Andrew B. McGowan.72 Further, Johnson Hodge observes that all members of the household were involved in domestic religious rituals (but slaves may have had their own religious rituals devoted to other gods than those of the dominus and were thus

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Collins, 1 Corinthians, 265. Cf. JosAsen for the conversion of a gentile woman to Judaism for the purpose of licit betrothal to the Jewish patriarch Joseph. Plutarch Moralia 140D cited in Johnson Hodge, “Married to an Unbeliever,” 1, 9–13; cf. James R. Harrison, “Paul and the Gymnasiarchs: Two Approaches to Pastoral Formation in Antiquity,” in Paul, Jew, Greek, and Roman, ed. Porter, 172–77. Johnson Hodge, “Married to an Unbeliever,” 7. For a general discussion of the relationship between food/drink and sacrifice in the Greco-Roman world, see Andrew B. McGowan, Ascetic Eucharists: Food and Drink in Early Christian Ritual Meals (Oxford: Clarendon, 1999), 60–67.

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not allowed to perform the rituals which were the domain of the domina).73 The members’ roles in these rituals corresponded to the social hierarchy of the household: the husband taught his wife to perform her religious duties in the household, and the mother instructed her daughter in the performance of religious practices.74 The latter is illustrated in a text by the first century CE Roman elegist Tibullus on the occasion of a birthday: Juno of the birthday, receive the holy piles of incense which the accomplished maid’s soft hand now offers thee. Today she has bathed for thee; most joyfully she has decked herself for thee, to stand before your altar a sight for all to see. ’Tis in thee, goddess, she bids us find the reason for this apparelling. . . . They are making an offering to thee, holy goddess, thrice with cake and thrice with wine, and the mother eagerly enjoins upon her child what she must pray for. 3.12.1–5, 14–1575

The second century CE Stoic Hierocles, in On Duties: On Marriage 4.22.21–24, refers to “the gods who preside over weddings, births and hearths.” This assumes that all the members of the household would have participated in rituals in honor of the household gods on such occasions, including the children. The union of husband and wife in devotion to the gods, as well as in other aspects of household management, according to Hierocles, is what makes a household beautiful. It is not in “expensive buildings and marble walls” that one can discern “the beauty of a home,” but in “the union of a husband and wife who share each other’s destinies and are consecrated to the gods (syngkatheimarmenōn allēlois kai kathierōmenōn theois) of marriage, generation, and the hearth, in concord with each other and setting everything in common up to their very bodies, or rather up to their very own souls.”76 When Paul asserts that the Corinthians’ children and unbelieving 73 74

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Johnson Hodge, “Married to an Unbeliever,” 6, 12. Xenophon’s discussion on the household in Oec. influenced Roman philosophers, such as Cicero, Philodemus, and Columulla (Pomeroy, Xenophon, 69–73). Xenophon writes that Socrates asked Ischomachus, after having instructed his young wife in her household duties, “did your wife sacrifice along with you (soi synethue) and offer the same prayers (synēucheto)?” He answered, “oh, yes, very much so” (Oec. VII.8; Pomeroy, Xenophon, 139). Catullus, Tibullus, Pervigilium Veneris [Postgate, LCL] 331; cited by Johnson Hodge, “Married to an Unbeliever,” 6. Ilaria Ramelli, Hierocles the Stoic: Elements of Ethics, Fragments and Excerpts, trans. David Konstan (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 77. Cf. Musonius Rufus, Or. 14.20–32, where marriage is under the superintendence of “the great gods,” Hera, Eros and Aphrodite; Xenophon, Oec. XI.8, where Ischomachus describes his household duties: “I start by cultivating the good will of the gods. And I try to behave so that it may be right for me when I pray, to acquire good health, physical strength, distinction in the city, good will among my friends, survival with honour in war, and wealth that has been increased by honest means”;

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husband or wife were “consecrated” by the Christ-believer, just as Christ-believers themselves were “consecrated,” he is pointing to the invisible beauty that adorned the Corinthians’ households even apart from an outward uniformity of religious practice. If Paul in 1 Corinthians 7:14 is alluding to the Roman ideal of the household united in consecration to the same gods,77 his assertions that unbelievers in the Corinthians’ households may be in fact “consecrated” to God would have further relieved them of the burden of dissociating themselves from these household members as “the immoral,” including the idolater (eidōlolatrēs; cf. 1 Cor. 5:11 for Paul’s statement that his prior instructions not to associate with “the immoral” pertained to “the so-called brother/sister” who was sexually immoral . . . . an idolater,” etc.). The Corinthians need not divorce their unbelieving spouse—which for mothers would have meant abandoning their children, since children remained with the father in the case of divorce. If the unbelieving spouse was willing to live together, that was perfectly fine, in Paul’s opinion, based on the invisible “beauty” of the household united in consecration to God—not to mention that the Corinthians may eventually “save” their unbelieving husband or wife (cf. 1 Cor. 7:16). This, of course, meant that the two spouses would have had to reach an agreement that each would worship their respective God/gods in the household, and in the case of the Christ-believer, withhold worship of the other’s gods78—thus possibly putting at risk the prosperity of the household for

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cf. XI.9: “It’s a pleasure to honour the gods magnificently.” For a similar discussion of household harmony as “the divine ideal for marriage in antiquity,” providing the social context for the Ephesian household code [Eph. 5:18–33] as a modification of the Colossian household code, see Harrison, “Paul and the Gymnasiarchs,” 174–77. He comments that in Ephesians “[Paul was] demoting the GraecoRoman gods from their privileged position as guardians of the household and its social relations” (177). Johnson Hodge does not apply her reconstruction of the occasion for 1 Cor. 7:12–16 to the interpretation of v. 14. Rather, she adopts an interpretation of v. 14 which I have criticized above, namely, that Paul is addressing the issue of “purity” and overturning the view that impurity is contagious for the Christ-believer (“Married to an Unbeliever,” 14–18). Paul ruled out Christ-believers’ consciously engaging in polytheistic rituals, inviting divine judgment (1 Cor. 10:14, 28), as in the example of the wilderness generation (1 Cor. 10:1–13), for Israel’s God and Christians’ Lord demanded exclusive worship too. Contrast Johnson Hodge, “Married to an Unbeliever,” 23 n. 82: “Perhaps it [this mixing of gods] would not have bothered Paul.” She inaccurately cites 1 Cor. 8:4–13 and 10:23–33 for the view that “Paul is remarkably tolerant of other religious traditions.” In both of those texts Paul is concerned precisely about the problem of Christbelievers’ misuse of “freedom” to “build up” gentile polytheists in their idolatrous ways of thinking. So the nonparticipation of Christ-believers in the polytheist spouse’s religious practices is implied. For a later discussion on the Christian wife married to the tolerant pagan husband, see Tertullian Ad Uxorem 2.5–7.

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having compromised its prospects for obtaining God’s/the gods’ favor. Just as the household gods required exclusive worship,79 so also did the Christbeliever’s Lord: “You cannot drink the cup of the Lord, and the cup of demons; you cannot partake of the table of the Lord, and the table of demons. Or do we provoke the Lord to jealousy? We are not stronger than He, are we?” (1 Cor. 10:21–22).80 In the midst of this fraught domestic context, the Corinthians could embrace and hold fast the conviction that their children, even if not believers or baptized, were “consecrated” to God by extension, and potentially saved. This, I submit, is the novel perspective on children which Paul offers in 1 Corinthians 7:14.

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Plutarch Moralia 140D: “No god takes pleasure in cult performed furtively and in secret by a woman.” On the demonic reality to which Paul points here, see Otfried Hofius, “Einer ist Gott—Einer ist Herr”: Erwägungen zu Struktur und Aussage des Bekenntnisses 1 Kor 8,6,” in Otfried Hofius, Paulusstudien II , WUNT 1:143 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002), 173. Were the Corinthians who were guilty of bad religious practices at meals and who were being judged (1 Cor. 11:27, 29) engaging in polytheistic as well as Christian rituals? “Many among you are weak and sick, and a number sleep” (1 Cor. 11:30).

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Fathers and Daughters in 1 Corinthians 7:36–38: The Social Implications of Marriage in Early Christian Families John W. Martens

Older versions of the Bible in English, such as the KJV and the Jerusalem Bible, translated 1 Corinthians 7:36–38 as having to do with whether fathers ought to let their daughters be married in light of Paul’s teachings on the eschaton. Every major English translation today rejects this reading, interpreting these verses in light of either the purported practice of spiritual marriage in Corinth or as directed to the fiancé (male partner of an engaged couple). The NRSV, NIV, RSV, NAB, NEB, and NJB all interpret the passage in this way. The NRSV translation is indicative of current English translations: 36

If anyone thinks that he is not behaving properly (aschēmonein) toward his fiancée (parthenon), if his passions are strong (hyperakmos), and so it has to be, let him marry as he wishes; it is no sin. Let them marry (gameitōsan). 37 But if someone stands firm in his resolve, being under no necessity (anagkēn) but having his own desire under control (exousian de echei peri tou idiou thelēmatos), and has determined in his own mind to keep her as his fiancée (parthenon), he will do well. 38 So then, he who marries (gamizon) his fiancée (parthenon) does well; and he who refrains from marriage (mē gamizon) will do better.

While the passage offers linguistic and exegetical difficulties, current English translations are examples of patristic and modern understandings of betrothal and marriage driving translation. Current translations do not pay attention to the Greco-Roman understanding of marriage in which young daughters were given to their spouses by their fathers. Young women, or girls, did not make 335

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marriage bonds with fiancés of their own accord, nor was the choice for marriage the prerogative of fiancés due to their inability to control their sexual passions. In fact, this passage presents a first inkling of how the lives of girls (and their families) would be transformed in early Christianity through Paul’s eschatological teaching on marriage and sexuality. This passage should be read in the context of the nascent Christian ideal of celibacy, instead of marriage, for girls reaching the age of marriage and a father’s decision whether to allow a daughter to marry, the key transition point in the life of girls in the Roman Empire. Most recent interpreters have rejected translating 1 Corinthians 7:36–38 as concerned with fathers and daughters on the basis of difficulties with the Greek, stating that “virgin” is not the equivalent of “daughter,” that aschēmonein has a strong sense of “shamefulness” inappropriate to describe a father’s relation to his daughter, and that the subject of v. 36 must change if one wants to understand “father” instead of “fiancé.”1 But current English translations do considerable damage to the clear sense of other words in the passage, such as parthenos, gamizō, and hyperakmos.2 In order to set the stage for understanding this passage in light of Roman marriage laws and traditions concerning girls at the time of Paul, I offer an alternative translation of the passage in advance: 36

But if anyone thinks that he is behaving dishonorably (aschēmonein) toward his virgin “daughter” (parthenos), if she has reached a prime marriageable age (hyperakmos) and so he is obligated to [let marriage] take place, whoever wishes this, let it happen, it is no sin, let them marry (gameitōsan). 37 But whoever stands steadfast in his heart, not having any necessity (anagkēn), but he has the freedom of will concerning his own [family/

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Samuel Belkin, “The Problem of Paul’s Background,” JBL 54 (1935): 49; Roland H. A. Seboldt, “Spiritual Marriage in the Early Church: A Suggested Interpretation of 1 Cor 7:36–38,” CTM 30 (1959): 109; Arthur S. Peake, A Commentary on the Bible (New York: Thomas Nelson and Sons, 1920), 839; Greg Peters, “Spiritual Marriage in Early Christianity: 1 Corinthians 7:25–38 in Modern Exegesis and the Earliest Church,” TJ 23 no. 2 (2002): 217, n. 29; Gordon D. Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians, NICNT (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1987), 351. The translation “if he is over-sexed” is offered by C. K. Barrett, A Commentary on the First Epistle to the Corinthians (New York: Harper & Row, 1968), 182; Bruce W. Winter, After Paul Left Corinth: The Influence of Secular Ethics and Social Change (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001), 251; Richard A. Horsley, 1 Corinthians, ANTC (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1998), 108; Anthony Thiselton, The First Epistle to the Corinthians: A Commentary on the Greek Text, NIGTC (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 594–98.

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daughter] (exousian de echei peri tou idiou thelēmatos) and he has judged in his own heart to keep his daughter (parthenos), he will do well. 38 So that if he gives (gamizon) his virgin “daughter” (parthenon) in marriage, he does well; and if he does not give (mē gamizon) her in marriage, he will do better.

It is necessary to place Paul’s teaching in the context of the marriage of virgins in the Roman Empire and this, in turn, will allow us to understand the impact that early Christian teachings had upon the lives of daughters (and sons) and the life course that could be expected for most (free) people in the Roman Empire.3 Indeed many translations and exegetical studies of this passage assume concepts of marriage that emerged in the patristic period or modern sorts of betrothal, contracted by the engaged couple itself.4 First, I will examine the philological issues and then offer an analysis of the passage in light of the social realities of marriage for young women in the Roman Empire. Prior to doing this, the passage must be situated in its context in 1 Corinthians 7.

Context As a whole, 1 Corinthians 7 is Paul’s response to the Corinthians who have stated (or asked whether), “it is well for a man not to touch a woman” (7:1).5 His response throughout the chapter may be viewed is an extended “yes, but” argument, modifying and clarifying his previous teaching and the positions of various Corinthian Christians. The first notice of virgins comes in v. 25, where Paul states that he has no teaching from the Lord regarding the marriage of parthenoi, but that in light of the current “crisis” (v. 26: anagkē), which

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J. Massingberd Ford, “Levirate Marriage in St. Paul (I Cor. VII),” NTS 10:361–5; J. Duncan Derrett, “The Disposal of Virgins,” Man, New Series 9 (1974) 23–30; Belkin, “Marrying One’s Virgin,” 49–53. Older commentaries remark at times on Roman marriage law and practice, but do not integrate it into the interpretation of the passage, such as Archibald Robertson and Alfred Plummer, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the First Epistle to the Corinthians, ICC (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1911), 159–60. Concerning projections of modern sorts of courtship back into the first century, see Reidulf K. Molvaer, “St. Paul’s View on Sex According to 1 Corinthians 7:9 & 36–38,” ST 58 (2004): 52–56. For recent general studies of 1 Cor. 7 see J. Dorcas Gordon, Sister or Wife? 1 Corinthians 7 and Cultural Anthropology, JSNTSup 149 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997) and Will Deming, Paul on Marriage and Celibacy: The Hellenistic Background of 1 Corinthians 7, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004).

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commentators often interpret to mean “eschatological crisis,” it is best to remain in one’s current state. If a parthenos marries, though, she does not sin (v. 28). If she does not marry, however, she is better able to concentrate on “the things” of the Lord (v. 34). Questions arise with respect to vv. 36–38 because Paul has spoken already about parthenoi, so why does he mention them again?6 It seems that there are two general possibilities: the word parthenos means something different from the uses in vv. 25, 28, and 34; or there is some detail regarding parthenoi which Paul had previously overlooked and now wants to correct. Currently, most efforts have been expended to understand the parthenos in vv. 25, 28, and 34 as somehow different from the parthenos in vv. 36–38. As such, the translation of parthenos switches to “fiancée” in these later verses or the “virgin” is understood as a “betrothed” partner in a spiritual marriage.7 Paul returns to the issue of the parthenoi, though, because even though he has already stated his beliefs about marriage in light of the coming eschaton, he must now answer questions about the real-life implications of his teaching for daughters coming of age for marriage and the many practical considerations that fathers had to weigh by not having a daughter married, when this was the expected goal of a girl’s life throughout the Mediterranean basin. But this discussion must wait until after an examination of the philological questions.

Philological Questions A) The Language of 7:36–38 The words or phrases which I want to examine are as follows: 1) hē parthenos; 2) hyperakmos; 3) gamizō; 4) peri tou idiou (with thelēmatos); 5) anagkē; 6) exousia. Apart from the meanings of these words and phrases, a final concern will be the vexed question of the subject of this passage, or, potentially, subjects.

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Margaret Y. MacDonald, “Virgins, Widows, and Wives,” A Feminist Companion to Paul, ed. Amy Jill Levine with Marianne Blickenstaff (London: T&T Clark, 2004), 150; Thiselton, First Corinthians, 568–71. Peters, “Spiritual Marriage,” 211–14.

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1) Hē parthenos With the feminine article, the most common meaning of this word is virgin, though it is important to understand that “virgin,” both in Greek and in Latin (virgo) is not simply about one’s sexual status, but about a number of social expectations regarding girls in antiquity. It speaks especially about an unmarried girl of a certain chronological age and class.8 As Lauren Caldwell states, “Virgo appears as a notional, rather than formal or institutional, category in Roman law, associated with youth, sexual purity, and, for free females, marriageability.”9 Virginity only was an issue concerning girls prior to their first marriage, not boys.10 Christian Laes writes, “Girls were called virgines from about the age of seven. This was legally considered the minimum age for betrothal; from this age marriageableness could be displayed by the use of this word.”11 To be a virgin, therefore, was something available primarily to girls of a certain class, whose virginity could be protected, as was also the case in Jewish law and practice for all unmarried girls. However, this was not the case for slave girls, for instance, who by law could not marry. Even prior to the rise of Christianity, both in the Greek and the Roman tradition, sexual initiation and the loss of virginity were crucial components of the first wedding night for the girls. . . . For high class Roman girls, sexual chastity before marriage was considered a must. The requirement of sexual purity was such that unmarried girls were not even allowed to attend banquets at which obscene jokes were made.12

Virgin “daughter” is implied by the whole semantic context of the word. Thus, the man to whom one might say a virgin “belongs”—the one who can “keep 8

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G. Delling perceived an “ascetic sense” of “virgin” in 1 Cor. 7: 25–38, but this “specific” sense of the word is determined by reading this passage in light of spiritual marriage in Corinth and not any shift in usage (TDNT, s.v. παρθένος, 5:836). Lauren Caldwell, Roman Girlhood and the Fashioning of Femininity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 51. Indeed, prior to late antique Christianity virginity concerned only girls (Christian Laes, “Male Virgins in Latin Inscriptions from Rome” in Religious Participation in Ancient and Medieval Societies Rituals, Interaction and Identity, ed. Sari Katajala-Peltomaa and Ville Vuolanto [Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 2013], 105). Laes, “Male Virgins,” 109–10. David, Konstan, Sexual Symmetry: Love in the Ancient Novel and Related Genres (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 155–56. The case for a purely statusoriented and sociologically-constructed notion of parthenos, apart from sexual purity, is discussed and given qualified support by Giulia Sissa, Greek Virginity (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1990), 73–86. Laes, “Male Virgins,” 106.

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her” in v. 37—is the father. J. Duncan Derrett points out that both Sophocles Oed. Tyr. 1462 and Aristotle Rhet. III. 10.7 do use “virgin” for daughter.13 I can find no commentator who actually finds an instance of parthenos standing for fiancée.

2) Hyperakmos This word appears rarely before Paul and then, after Paul, does not appear often until the church fathers take up the interpretation of this very passage.14 A nuanced reading of hyperakmos is essential to a proper understanding of this passage. The word is related to the adjective akmaios, the noun akmē, and the verb akmazō.15 The common meanings of these words, which regularly appear in Greek literature, relate to something that is ripe, developed, or in full bloom.16 At times, this can be related to sexual desire, as for instance in Plutarch, Timoleon 70d where the verb akmazō refers to sexual passion. Most often, however, these words refer to something that is ripe and, with respect to people, especially girls, someone who has achieved puberty. It is worth taking a look at one of these occurrences. A fragment attributed to the Pythagorean philosopher Callicratidas found in the Anthology of Stobaeus reveals the most common usage of akmazō.17 The passage itself is of high significance since the fragments come from a text titled Peri Oikon Eudaimonias, “Concerning the Happy Family.”18 The verb appears in the discussion of the sort of wife which a man ought to seek. She should have good ancestors, and she should be a paidion, who is in “full bloom to be given in marriage” (akmazousan gamiskē). Such a child is easy to mold, docile, has the right temperament for learning, and will show affection for her husband. This is not specifically “sexual” language, but it does point to a key component in ancient Greco-Roman marriage: the young woman given in 13 14 15

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“The Disposal of Virgins,” 25, n.2. See Peters, “Spiritual Marriage in the Early Church,” 211–14; Winter, After Paul, 246–51. This is in contrast to Winter, who argues that “attempts by lexicographers to construct a meaning for ὑπέρακμος on the basis of ἀκμή or ἀκμαἶος and ὑπέρ are not linguistically secure” (After Paul, 249). LSJ, s.v. ἀκμαἶος. Curt Wachsmuth and Otto Hense, eds., Ioannes Stobaei Anthologium (Berlin: Apud Weidmannos, 1884) 4.28.18; F. Mullach, ed., Fragmenta philosophorum graecorum (Aalen: Scientia, 1968), 2. See David L. Balch for dating these texts (“Neopythagorean Moralists and the New Testament Household Codes” in ANRW II.26.1 [Berlin: de Gruyter, 1992], 384–92). Elsewhere, I argue that these texts must be dated to at least the first century BCE, because of their influence on Philo (One God, One Law: Philo of Alexandria on the Mosaic and Greco-Roman Law [Boston: Brill, 2003], 165–74).

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marriage was often a paidion, “child,” who was approaching or had achieved puberty.19 According to Susan Treggiari, “ancient medical theory, accommodating itself to social pressures, held that marriage should come soon after menarche.”20 Marriage, therefore, was most often tied to physical development, and girls could be described as being “as yet unripe for a demanding man” or “ripe for a man.”21 This is the most usual meaning of the akm- root words with respect to a girl. It refers to the achievement of a developmental stage which could be associated with the sexual readiness of a girl on the cusp of marriage. In current translations of 1 Corinthians 7, hyperakmos is often seen to reflect sexual desires, but these desires are associated with the male and not the female. The usage of the word is so rare that Paul’s use constitutes its earliest occurrence in the Common Era and the word remains rare until the church fathers of the fourth century, all of whom are interpreting 1 Corinthians 7:36–38.22 There are only a handful of occurrences of this word prior to Paul or after Paul which offer us an opportunity to view the word apart from its later Christian discussions. Prior to Paul, it occurs twice in the Praecepta Salubria, roughly translated “Rules of Health” (first century BCE) in the context of food preparation.23 Significantly, in both occurrences hyperakmos is contrasted with akmē. In this passage, the author is giving advice on how and when to slaughter an animal. In the first case, one is to slaughter the animal at the time of the waning of the moon if the animal is akmē, but if the animal is hyperakmos, to be careful of its “fullness” and to empty its stomach of feces.24 The use of hyperakmos refers only to the physical development of the animal. That which is hyperakmos is developed beyond that which is akmē. This example is particularly helpful due to the comparison between that which is akmē with that which is hyperakmos, which links these cognates in terms of physical development, but not sexual desire.

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Cornelia Horn and John W. Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me”: Children and Childhood in Early Christianity (Washington, DC: Catholic University Press, 2009), 10–17, 35–36. Susan Treggiari, Roman Marriage: Iusti coniuges From the Time of Cicero to the Time of Ulpian (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991), 40. Treggiari, Roman Marriage, 40. LSJ cites only 1 Cor. 7:36 and Soranus, Gynecology, I.22; LPGL, s.v. ὑπέρακμος. U. C. Bussemaker, Poetae bucolici et didactici (Paris: Didot, 1862), 132–34, http://stephanus.tlg.uci. edu/Iris/Cite?0663:001:21 Praec. Salub. 8–12.

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Bruce Winter, though, sees hyperakmos as referring either to a pubescent girl or to a man “full of passion.”25 There is no evidence that the word refers to sexual passion in men, but even where he properly reads the relationship of female puberty to hyperakmos, he misses the point of the word. He states that a traditional rendering of the word hyperakmos, “ ‘if she be past the flower of her age,’ is not a feasible rendering” since Soranus, the first-century CE doctor from Ephesus, suggests this is when menstruation and thus child-bearing ceased.26 But Soranus uses neither the English phrase, “if she be past the flower of her age,” quite obviously, or the Greek hyperakmos in the context of menopause. This is Winter’s conflation. When Soranus does use the word hyperakmos in Gynecology I.22, it fits precisely in the context of the physical development of a virgin, at an age and stage of one who would be preparing for marriage. Liddell and Scott note the occurrence in Soranus, which they define in terms of physical development.27 The relevant passage, as translated by Owsei Temkin, speaks of a young woman who is past puberty and has started to menstruate: “in very rare cases limited to women past puberty (ὑπέρακμοις), a concentrated flow appears before defloration.”28 The discussion focuses on the sort and kind of flow a doctor should expect in this kind of circumstance. It describes the physical state of the young woman’s body and not sexual desire. Indeed, in Soranus’ example the woman who is hyperakmos is by definition a virgin. Winter says that Soranus uses the term “in this instance as a medical term to describe females who were past puberty (i.e., fourteen years old), but certainly not past child-bearing age.”29 This is exactly the case, since no ancient Greek author ever connected hyperakmos to menopause as Winter has done. The reason for Winter’s confusion is a conflation of a rather Victorian English rendering of hyperakmos in Paul as “past the flower of her age” or “past her prime” with the ancient context of the term. A young woman in ancient Greece and Rome who was hyperakmos was beyond puberty, and if her father

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Winter, After Paul, 246. Ibid. LSJ ὐπέρακομος define it as “sexually well-developed” with reference to 1 Cor. 7:36–38. The verb ὐπερακμαζω is defined as “to surpass in vigour or bloom.” The verb ἀκμαζω is defined as “to be in full bloom, at the prime.” Owsei Temkin, Soranus’ Gynecology (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1956), 19. Winter, After Paul, 248.

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and mother were desirous of marriage, they needed to act swiftly.30 Puberty was the time when many, if not most, girls were married. A young woman beyond puberty and not engaged could be in a difficult situation. Treggiari states that “for the girl’s family, it was important to have a husband ready to marry her at that short-lived and not precisely predictable moment when she was ‘ripe’.”31 Beyond this moment is the time when a girl might be considered hyperakmos. There were concerns, for instance, that a girl who was unmarried beyond the time of “ripeness” or is “beyond” the perfect marriageable age might be subject to seduction, rape, or kidnapping.32 The ancient sources stress over and over: female virginity is valuable, but precarious and easily lost. The only guard against it is early marriage.

3) Gamizō This verb means to give in marriage, as contrasted with gameō, which means to marry.33 Recently, Reidulf K. Molvaer has argued that by the time of the NT “the distinction between these two endings had largely vanished.”34 However, gamizō always indicates “to give in marriage,” even in the one non-Christian usage given by the BAGD, from Apollonius Dyscolus, a Greek grammarian of the second century CE.35 The distinction is maintained in the NT, in all three Synoptic Gospels (Mt. 22:30; Mk. 12:25; Lk. 17:27; 20:34; 20:35).36 Since the NT corpus itself contains the distinction, we ought to be aware that the distinction itself still holds, and we ought to translate gamizō in light of its contrast with gameō unless there is some compelling reason not to do so.37 Gordon Fee’s explanation that Paul uses both forms of verb in 1 Corinthians 7:36–38 “for the sake of variety” is singularly unconvincing. As Derrett argues, “no example of any other meaning has come to light, and an attempt to urge 30 31 32

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Treggiari, Roman Marriage, 127. Ibid. Emphasis mine. Caldwell writes that “the underlying assumption” in ancient discussions of girls and marriage is that sexual attention and harassment of males, such as “inappropriate sexual remarks, solicitations, and stalking . . . might diminish their value on the marriage market” (Roman Girlhood, 55). LSJ, s.v. γαμίζω, γαμέω; BDAG, s.v. γαμίζω, γαμέω. Molvaer, “St. Paul’s View on Sex According to 1 Corinthians 7:9 & 36–38,” 53; Fee, First Corinthians, 354. BAGD, s.v. γαμίζω. E. Stauffer states that this verb is “to give in marriage,” TDNT, s.v. γαμίζω, 1:648; Derrett says the Gospel examples are “unambiguous” (“Disposal of Virgins,” 25). The verb gamizō clearly means “to give in marriage” according to William Orr and James Walther (1 Corinthians AB [Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1976], 224).

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that it could mean the reverse, viz. ‘to marry,’ fails to convince.”38 For Archibald Robertson and Alfred Plummer, the use of gamizō is “decisive: the Apostle is speaking of a father or guardian disposing of an unmarried daughter or ward.”39 One more comment needs to be made. Fee states that “the verb gamizō, however, is not found outside the NT.”40 And yet, as we saw earlier with Callicratidas, the Neopythagorean philosopher used the verb when he spoke of a girl at puberty “ripe” to be “given in marriage.” This is a non-Christian usage of gamizō which clearly points to its common NT usage: to give in marriage.

4) Peri tou idiou (with thelēmatos) This phrase means “concerning all of one’s possessions,” or “concerning all that belongs to oneself.” However, English translations often render the phrase as referring to “his own desire” (with thelēmatos), which in the NRSV, at least, refers to the sexual desire (“his own desire under control”) of the male fiancé. A number of English versions do translate this phrase, however, as “full control of his own will” (NJB), “power over his own will” (NAB), or “control over his own will” (NIV), which captures the meaning more fully. It is better, however, to think of peri tou idiou as referring to “that which belongs to him;” in this case, it would refer to the father’s daughter, or perhaps his family in general, with thelēmatos modifying exousia (see the discussion of exousia below). This phrase, “concerning his own will,” is related to the father’s patria potestas regarding the disposition of his daughter in marriage, which I will discuss in more detail below.

5) Anagkē This word means “crisis.” In v. 25, it refers to the coming eschaton, which impacts the whole community.41 In v. 37, however, it lacks the eschatological overtones because Paul refers to a personal or individual crisis and not a communal one. The issue is not so much a matter of translation, but a matter 38 39 40 41

Derrett, “Disposal of Virgins,” 25. Robertson and Plummer, First Corinthians, 159. Fee, First Corinthians, 354. W. Grundmann describes anagkē as “compulsion or necessity” or a “situation of need” in TDNT, s.v. ἀναγκη, 1:345, 346.

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of determining in context what the possible “necessity” or “crisis” might be. The NRSV see this necessity as the fiancé’s sexual desire. Whether a betrothed male’s sexual desire would be seen as a significant “necessity” in contracting an ancient marriage, I will discuss further below.

6) Exousia This word has a wide range of meanings, such as freedom (of choice), authority, the right to act, and the right to dispose of one’s property as one wishes. If coupled with thelēmatos, it would read “authority” or “freedom” of will. In this case, the context should guide us, and it is possible that the entire phrase, with peri tou idiou, could indeed be “the freedom concerning his own will.” It is best translated, however, as “authority of will concerning that which belongs to him.” And exousia is “appropriate to a father in relation to a daughter,” for it describes the patria potestas.42

B) Patristic Readings The other potential source for philological insight is the church fathers. For while modern scholars might see “insuperable philological difficulties” with a father-daughter reading, many native Greek speakers did not.43 The majority of patristic writers saw the passage as referring to fathers and daughters and none of them note philological difficulties. Modern translators sometimes shy away from understanding this passage in reference to a father and daughter due to the strong nature of aschēmonein (behaving dishonorably).44 Yet in antiquity, an unmarried daughter was often considered a disgrace, for simply being unmarried or if the girl was somehow to lose her virginity prior to marriage.45 Theodoret views the relevant verses as referring to a virgin daughter and her father.46 Indeed, he interprets it particularly in the context of the father who feels that an unmarried daughter 42

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Derrett, “Disposal of Virgins,” 25. Judith Evans Grubbs, a scholar of Roman legal history, has written to me that “of course Paul is talking to fathers, not fiancés. Exousia is the word used in the papyri for patria potestas” (Judith Evans Grubbs, private correspondence, August 26, 2015). G. Delling states that “almost insuperable philological difficulties prevent us from seeing here a reference to unmarried daughters” (TDNT, 5:836). Fee, First Corinthians, 351, n.13. Caldwell, Roman Girlhood, 167. Theodoret Interp. Epist. I Ad Cor. Cap. VII PG.82: 284 C and D.

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“is a disgrace.”47 Valerius presents four stories in Memorable Deeds and Sayings Book 6, one in which a father kills his unmarried daughter because she had lost her virginity and another in which a father kills a freedman who kissed his unmarried, virgin daughter.48 The actions of the fathers demonstrate that “virginity is a life and death matter” and taken together these stories “serve to intensify, rather than mitigate, worries about the problem of premarital sexual purity.”49 John Chrysostom assumed that Paul was speaking to a father and his daughter when he asked in his treatise On Virginity why Paul did not simply direct the father to “guide his daughter (thugatēr) away from marriage.”50 Theodore of Mopsuestia and Augustine also read it in reference to fathers and daughters.51 Likewise Epiphanius understands 1 Corinthians 7:36-38 in the context of fathers who would keep their daughters at home due to a lack of marriageable men.52 Support for these majority patristic readings come from other ancient translations of the Greek text of Paul. The Coptic text translates “virgin” as “daughter,” understands hyperakmos as physical maturation and has a clear change of subject in v. 36 from “he” (the father) to “she” (the daughter).53 The same is true for the translations in the Latin Vulgate and for the Syriac Peshitta.54 There are two patristic writers, though, who do read this text in the context of “spiritual marriage.” Greg Peters, who opts for a reading of “spiritual marriage” in 1 Corinthians 7:36–38, does so on the basis of Ephrem the Syrian’s

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Judith L. Kovacs, trans. and ed., 1 Corinthians: Interpreted by Early Christian Commentators (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005), 128–29. Caldwell, Roman Girlhood, 68. Ibid., 68–70. LXXVIII, 1.11. John Chrysostom, On Virginity; Against Remarriage, trans. Sally Rieger Shore; Studies in Women and Religion vol.  9 (New York: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1983), 116; Jean Chrysostome, La Virginité, ed. Herbert Musurillo SJ, Sources Chrétiennes, no. 125 (Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1966), 368. See Thiselton, First Corinthians, 595, n. 595 for the citation for Theodore of Mopsuestia, 2:76r; Augustine, De Bono Vid. 6–7 (CSEL 41, 309–11); De Virginit.18–21 (CSEL 41, 250–56); see also De Bon. conj. 11–21 (CSEL 41, 202–15). Epiphanius, Adversus Haereses 2.385, in PG 42 (Paris: Garnier, 1863) 1045 B and D. George William Horner, The Coptic Version of the New Testament in the Southern Dialect, 7 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1911). New Testament in Syriac (London: The British and Foreign Bible Society, 1966); George M. Lamsa, The Peshitta: The Holy Bible from Ancient Eastern Manuscripts (Philadelphia: A. J. Holman Co., 1957); Robert Weber and Roger Gryson, Biblia Sacra Vulgata. Editio quinta (Stuttgart: German Bible Society, 2007).

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interpretation, now only available in Armenian.55 Chrysostom himself, though interpreting the passage in De Virginitate as concerning a father and daughter, also read the text as concerning a man and a woman living together as a brother and sister, that is, in a celibate marriage in Homily 19. Concerning these verses, he says: “these words refer to a man and a woman living in sexual continence as a brother and sister; he approves of this but also says it is no sin if they marry.”56 It is precisely here, however, that we must pay close attention to the historical reality of “spiritual marriage” in the ancient church. The practice of “spiritual marriage” was a later development in the church of Chrysostom’s and Ephrem’s day.57 This is why 1 Corinthians 7:36–38 only begins to find commentators who read Paul’s passage in the context of “spiritual marriage” at the time of Ephrem and Chrysostom. It was essential for those who supported this practice to find scriptural warrant for spiritual marriage and scriptural warrant for a way out of it. First Corinthians 7:36–38 served that purpose. “Spiritual marriage” in its heyday was ripe for abuse, especially since many consecrated girls had been consecrated as infants and not all were happy with the choice which had been made for them. It seems that certain church fathers imported 1 Corinthians 7:36–38 as a means to allow people “out” of a “spiritual marriage,” even though these same authors understand that the initial application of these verses was to a father and a daughter. It also bears mentioning that the church fathers who offer this interpretation were themselves all based in the East, especially in Syria, when and where the practice flourished.58 The practice of “spiritual marriage” assumes a long Christian history and support, both internal and external, for the life of consecrated virginity. It assumes laws and traditions favorable to young Christian men and women who were of marriageable age and fathers and families who were open to this as a choice. It assumes enough Christian young people desirous to live in this

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Peters, “Spiritual Marriage in Early Christianity,” 224; For a translation of the Armenian fragment, see Franz Herklotz, “Miszelle. Zu 1 Kor 7, 36ff,” BZ 14 (1917): 344. St. John Chrysostom, “Homily 19, On 1 Corinthians 7” in On Marriage and Family Life, trans. Catherine P. Roth and David Anderson (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1986), 41. On the fourth-century CE explosion of “spiritual marriage” see Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 335–45. On the contentious discussions regarding virginity and marriage in the late fourth and early fifth centuries, see David G. Hunter, “Between Jovinian and Jerome: Augustine and the Interpretation of 1 Corinthians 7,” StPat 43 (2006): 131–36.

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way and from whom they could choose mates. That is, it assumes a large Christian population and Christian families flouting the Augustan marriage laws and marital traditions to follow the fourth-century CE Christian practice of “spiritual marriage,” which not even Constantine’s revision of the marriage law made legal.59 None of these conditions are present in Corinth in the year 55 CE.

Marriage in the Roman Empire Who would have “authority” over a “virgin” engaged to be married? Who had “authority” regarding whether a “virgin” could marry or remain a virgin? To whom did a “virgin” belong? The answers lie in understanding marriage in the first century of the Roman Empire.

A) Social Issues The first thing to keep in mind when evaluating 1 Corinthians 7:36–38 is that marriage was a “nearly universal experience for respectable Roman women,” which girls could enter at very young ages.60 The Augustan marriage law legislated that betrothal could only take place for a period of two years before marriage, but many people ignored the restriction.61 Treggiari states that the 59

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Judith Evans Grubbs comments that “self-professed celibates were still few in number in the West” in the fourth century, Law and Family in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 132. Constantine only repealed the Augustan penalties on the unmarried, “but ‘spiritual marriage’ between those not also legally married was definitely still a no-no” (Judith Evans Grubbs, private correspondence, August 26, 2015). Caldwell, Roman Girlhood, 2. The same was true in Greece. In Athens, for instance, Cheryl Anne Cox notes that marriages “were arranged: the selection of a prospective husband for a woman was a matter of great concern for her parents as she was supposed to marry a man of satisfactory status. Generally, the bride was about fourteen years of age, whereas her husband tended to be in his thirties” (Household Interests: Property, Marriage Strategies, and Family Dynamics in Ancient Athens [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998], 70). Treggiari, Roman Marriage, 154. The laws regarding engagement seem to enshrine this social reality, since girls could be engaged to be married well before the time of puberty—under the age of twelve in Digest 23.1.9, but not before the age of seven according to Digest 23.1.14. (The Digest of Justinian. 4 vols., ed. Theodor Mommsen with the aid of Paul Krueger, trans. Alan Watson [Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1985]). “The minimum betrothal age of seven recommended in Digest 23.1.14, for example, may have been an interpolation; there was, as Modestinus there states, no minimum betrothal age in classical Roman law. Seven is specified as the earliest age at which children would be capable of understanding what was being done,” according to Caldwell, Roman Girlhood, 48.

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accepted wisdom was that a girl of twelve was ready for marriage, though Soranus set the age of puberty for girls at the fourteenth year.62 The epigraphical evidence suggests an age for girls at their first marriage in their early to midteens.63 Caldwell offers that elite girls actually married younger, often from twelve to fourteen, in order to “keep power within the family or to cement alliances.”64 Keith Hopkins, however, found 12 of 145 inscriptions referring to the age of marriage of pagan girls (8%) at ten or eleven.65 Apart from common cultural practices of marriage, there were also legal prescriptions promulgated under Augustus that required a woman to have had her first child by the age of twenty.66 According to the Augustan law, “those who would wrongfully prevent their children whom they have in their power from marrying or who are not willing to give dowries” were compelled to do so.67 While this legislation applied only to the upper classes, it remains one possible influence on the concerns of fathers and daughters in Corinth, and perhaps for Paul too. Even without this legal influence, the need to have daughters marry would still exert constant social pressure on families, whether Roman, Greek, or Jewish, to preserve honor and sexual purity. The whole complex of issues swirling around unmarried pubescent daughters was driven more by social expectations than by fertility, what Caldwell calls “the pressure to marry,” since legislation was focused on marrying daughters to create alliances “between two men, her father and her husband, at an opportune time.”68 Virginity itself was a part of the dowry and so “a combination of pressures pushed these girls into early marriage, including competition among upper-class families for brides, traditional paternal authority in the family, state promotion of marriage, the custom of dowry, and cultural expectations of youthful femininity, including the preservation of sexual purity until marriage and the belief that female passions began to 62 63 64 65

66 67 68

Treggiari, Roman Marriage, 39; Soranus Gynecology, I. iv.20. Keith Hopkins, “The Age of Roman Girls at Marriage,” Population Studies 18 (1965): 309–27. Caldwell, Roman Girlhood, 5. Hopkins, “The Age of Roman Girls at Marriage,” 313; Brent D. Shaw, “The Age of Roman Girls at Marriage: Some Reconsiderations” in JRS 77 (1987): 32, n. 10. Christian Laes writes that “for girls, the age of twelve was set as a legal marker for becoming viripotens or marriageable (Dig. 23.1.9; Ulpian and 23.2.4; Pomponius); the actual marriage age for girls was in the late teens for first marriage (Scheidel, “Children: Roman World,” The Oxford Encyclopedia of the Bible and Gender Studies [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007], http://www.oxfordbiblicalstudies.com/article/opr/t453/e4). Shaw, “The Age of Roman Girls at Marriage,” 43; Caldwell, Roman Girlhood, 5. Treggiari, Roman Marriage, 65. Caldwell, Roman Girlhood, 7, 13.

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become unruly at puberty.”69 And marriage was not one of many goals for a girl in Roman antiquity, but the goal for which she was being prepared and whose loss was seen as tragic.70 What we overlook today is that the connotations of an unmarried girl in Roman antiquity are almost all entirely negative. Christian valorization of celibacy would take centuries to grow and to be accepted; even after centuries it was not widely accepted by most parents. At the time of Paul, protecting virginity was a situation producing anxiety for families, only ameliorated when the daughter married. The law attempted to protect virgins by establishing criminal penalties for those who sexually assaulted unmarried girls. In 18 and 17 BCE, two laws were passed, lex Iulia de maritandis ordinibus, and the lex Iulia de adulteris coercendis, which punished adultery (adulterium).71 The adultery law was designed not just for married women, but to protect boys, unmarried girls, widows, and divorcees. Sex with a member of this group was classified as stuprum. Stuprum focused on a father’s right to control his daughter’s virginity, especially the right to choose a husband, and to penalize anyone who violated that right.72 Men tended to marry at much later ages than girls, though, with the average age being twenty-five,73 which has important implications for understanding how a marriage was contracted between a young girl and a man at least ten years older. Matchmaking was a paternal responsibility, which rested upon the father’s potestas.74 If the father of the potential bride was alive, he was legally responsible for the marriage contract of his daughter. In the absence of the father, guardians or other relatives would contract the marriage, but a prepubescent or pubescent girl did not contract her own marriage. Even married men remained under their father’s potestas, but Richard Saller hypothesizes that the actual impact of the patria potestas on men contracting marriage would have been minimal.75 Due to the relatively 69 70 71 72 73

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Ibid., 6. Ibid. Ibid., 47. Ibid., 45. Richard P. Saller, “Men’s Age at Marriage and Its Consequences in the Roman Family,” CP 82, no. 1 (1987): 29–30. Caldwell writes that Egyptian census records “combine with tombstone evidence to suggest near-universal marriage for Roman women and marriage to a husband who was older by about ten years” (Roman Girlhood, 4). Treggiari, Roman Marriage, 134. Saller, “Men’s Age at Marriage,” 32.

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advanced age of the bridegroom, there was a greater likelihood his father was dead and so most men would marry sui juris and not in potestate. The firsttime bride would have it contracted by her father (or surrogates). What is important to stress, though, is that the girl has little say in the entire process. Marriage was the binding of two families and not the joining of star-struck lovers.

B) Understanding the Social Implications of Marriage in Corinth It is in this context of Roman marriage conventions that Paul writes, and this context impacts the interpretation of 1 Corinthians 7:36–38. Since the absolute numbers of Christians when Paul is writing his letter to Corinth are small throughout the Empire,76 and there were mixed marriages among the Corinthians (7:12-16), the impact of Christian belief about marriage practices was just beginning. It certainly had no impact at all on non-Christian Corinthian social and marriage practices. It is not, frankly, clear what impact it had on Christians up to this point. Keeping in mind the age of the “virgin” and the value placed on a girl’s virginity, no father, Christian or otherwise, would allow his “virgin” daughter to live with a man without a marriage. For this sort of arrangement to even be considered implies development in the Christian practice of celibacy over a number of centuries, and the willingness of fathers and mothers to accept such an arrangement. Since even after centuries of Christian growth “spiritual marriage” was not well-accepted, it is unthinkable that in first-century Corinth when “the importance of maintaining female sexual purity until the wedding night” was a reality for Romans, Greeks, and Jews, Paul would counsel allowing an unmarried virgin daughter to live without a wedding at the home of her “spiritual” partner.77 Neither would an engaged couple live together before marriage as some do today. Such a scenario for ancient Corinth supposes that the engaged couple were making their own marital choices based solely upon the fiancé’s will or 76

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Rodney Stark, The Rise of Christianity: A Sociologist Reconsiders History (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996), 4–13. Keith Hopkins, “Christian Number and Its Implications,” JECS 6.2 (1998): 185–226. Caldwell, Roman Girlhood, 106 and 167; Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 339–45; Laes, “Male Virgins,” 113.

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sexual desire. Marriage in first-century Rome was not dependent upon the fiancé’s decision, but the father who chose to “keep his virgin” or give her in marriage. When we see this passage as addressed to a father, the context of the passage falls into place. A father might ask, if it is best not to touch a woman, or a woman a man, what about my daughter? Is it not dishonorable to keep one’s daughter from marriage? What if she has reached marriageable age and a contract has previously been made for her marriage when she reaches puberty? Is the father not then obligated to allow the marriage to take place? What if she is beyond the age set by the contract? What if her betrothed is demanding that the contract be honored? What if she wants to marry? Paul responds to these questions. The term “virgin” is not simply a description of someone who has not engaged in sexual intercourse, but more significantly someone who is an unmarried girl. Without the father’s approval, no marriage would take place, nor could any “living” arrangement take place without his prior approval. The idea that the choice to marry rested with a betrothed male due to his sexual passions, without the approval of the father, is impossible to imagine at this point in Christian history. All of the legal evidence places power for marriage with the father, not the fiancé’s choice.

Putting Philological and Social Concerns Together The passage is concerned with the practical and social implications of whether a man should “give” his daughter in marriage. Apart from the theological considerations, which Paul has already covered in vv. 25–31, there are issues of honor and virtue associated with an unmarried daughter, her own possible desire for marriage, the possibility of preexisting marriage contracts, and the financial considerations of caring for an unmarried daughter in perpetuity. There is also the possibility that the fiancé is not a Christian, which, of course, would leave him unconcerned with Christian models of marriage and discussions of celibacy if he desired a marriage that had already been contracted. A first-century Corinthian Christian father would have to consider the legal and financial implications of canceling a contract, if it was even

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possible to cancel it, and this would weigh much more than theology in his considerations.78 Indeed, the word hyperakmos is not concerned with the sexual passions of a male, but with a developmental stage that sets in motions a number of factors that led to a girl’s marriage. These factors might include the belief that girls were in the throes of sexual desire when they reached puberty,79 the terms of a marriage contract, the desire of the father or fiancé for the marriage, or the time at which the daughter was considered to be pushing “past her prime marriageable age,” beyond when a girl was “ripe” for marriage.80 Most ancient Roman doctors believed puberty was the appropriate time for girls to marry. The doctor Rufus thought girls should marry at eighteen, not puberty, but also believed that “those girls who remain virgins for longer than is appropriate fall victim to many diseases . . . it is necessary then that girls marry at the proper time.”81 Contracts often had a set time at which the girl was to be given in marriage, and perhaps it is to this that hyperakmos refers. However, it seems more likely that it refers to the girl’s physical and sexual development. With hyperakmos Paul indicates either that the time for marriage been reached, or, perhaps, the time beyond which marriage will become more difficult to contract for the girl. It is also possible that if the girl is hyperakmos, she might be reaching the maximum age before which penalties would be set into place by the state if she was childless. All of these possibilities must be considered. Yet, if no marriage contract exists, or if the father could afford the financial blow of breaking a contract, or if the father could afford (potential) penalties imposed by the Augustan marriage laws, there is no reason to give her in marriage.82 The “necessity,” anagkē, in v. 37 might indicate a marriage contract a father has made for his daughter or that she has reached a legal age at which she ought to be married and begin to have children. But the necessity might also be the daughter’s desire for marriage, as “maternity was the only way for a woman to escape from the requirement that she be under lifelong 78 79 80 81

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Digest 23.2.19. Caldwell, Roman Girlhood, 79. Treggiari, Roman Marriage, 127. This translation from Ruf. Ap. Orib., Coll. Med. Lib. Inc. 18.1–2 (CMG 6.2.2, 4.106–7 Raeder) is found in Caldwell, Roman Girlhood, 97, n. 73. In Greek the girls are described as tas parthenous. For example, gifts and dowries would have to be returned if a contract was broken (Treggiari, Roman Marriage, 155).

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guardianship.”83 The necessity might also reside in the father’s inability to care for the daughter financially. Or perhaps the necessity might be that the father’s wife is not a Christian or that the girl herself is not a Christian and so Christian views of marriage do not impinge on their desire for marriage. We also cannot be sure that the contract for his daughter was made with a man who is a Christian, so perhaps the father has been threatened with dishonor if he does not accede to a prearranged marriage. All of these are real possibilities in firstcentury Corinth. Yet if none of these potential “needs” exist, whether contractually, socially, personally, or financially, Paul instructs the father to care for her and not give her in marriage. However, the second phrase of v. 37 expands on this necessity. This is why a previously existing contractual obligation and the implications of not following through on this obligation, including legal implications, seem most likely: if the father has exousia, he can keep his daughter, says Paul. A daughter’s desire for marriage might be seen as a necessary compelling force; so, too, might economic need; but anything that limits the father’s exousia seems external to the family dynamic.84 The father, free from compulsion, and with the power to act freely, can enact his patria potestas and keep his daughter. Such a reading also allows us to properly translate the verb for marriage in v. 38: so he who gives his virgin in marriage does well and he who does not give his virgin in marriage does better. This is the meaning of gamizō, and this is what fathers did, not fiancés. It also makes sense of gameō in the third person plural in v. 36, which makes no sense if this passage is addressed to a fiancé: “let them get married.”

Conclusion In Paul, there is a response to social realities set in motion by the Christian teaching regarding marriage, celibacy, and sexuality. The impact on children and family is profound: if celibacy is the preferred path, it affects how a girl

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Ibid., 69. MacDonald states that “remaining unmarried and childless could mean restrictions on inheritance and the thwarting of the privilege of legal independence for women” (“Virgins, Widows, and Wives,” 164).

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finds her place in society and the extended family dynamic. The questions are not only whether she can be married, but if her betrothed is a Christian. There is also the question of whether she has a choice in the matter. If she does not get married, even if she agrees with this decision, or at least accedes to it, it raises the question of who will care for her when her father dies. What will her status be as an unmarried virgin? Corinth was at the beginning of what we might call “Christianity,” a liminal stage between being Greek, Roman, Jewish, and some new way; between this world (which is soon to pass, Paul states) and the world to come. But families could not so easily pass from the things of this world when it came to their children. They had to make sense of this new thing to which they belonged which asked them to think about the world to come and the fact that most daughters still needed to be (or wanted to be) married. Paul’s teaching for this first generation of young Christian girls might be seen as the loss of the hopes and dreams of a normal married life in GrecoRoman society and the security it could bring. It is also possible, of course, that she might see her celibate status as a new and fresh opportunity. The choice to live a life of virginity might appeal to a girl whose potential spouse she does not know, and who might be twice her age. It puts her in the vanguard, certainly, of a movement that would change the marital options for generations of girls and begins to raise broader questions regarding marriage, sexuality, and the celibate life. It was not just for the daughters, though, that such decisions might have been made. While the father–daughter relationship is one of the least explored relationships in most ancient cultures, in Roman society it “is given cultural prominence.”85 A Roman father speaks of the “good fortune for merely having held his daughters’ offspring in his arms,” good fortune for those Roman fathers who “were lucky to live long enough for their daughters to make them grandfathers.”86 The hope of a grandchild: another reason for a father to ask Paul if he must keep his “virgin” or whether he could give his daughter in marriage.

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Cox, Household Interests, 92; Hallett, Fathers and Daughters, 103. Hallett, Fathers and Daughters, 107–8.

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Absence and Presence of Children in the Apocryphal Acts Anna Rebecca Solevåg

The study of children in the Bible, especially the New Testament, has grown in recent years. An area that remains relatively unexplored is the New Testament Apocrypha, which include genres similar to the New Testament: gospels, apocalypses, epistles, and acts. The texts I study in this chapter are the five apocryphal Acts: the Acts of Peter, the Acts of Paul and Thecla, the Acts of Andrew, the Acts of John, and the Acts of Thomas.1 These texts, mostly preserved as fragments, are usually dated to the second and third centuries.2 In the narratives, chastity and sexual renunciation are key elements, and much research has focused on the female characters and other issues relating to gender and sexuality.3 Considering the rejection of marriage and family life, one should think that children are not particularly prominent in the stories. Little attention has thus been given to the fact that children do appear on the

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For the Greek (and Latin for Act. Verc.) sources, see Constantin von Tischendorf, Max Bonnet and Richard Adelbert Lipsius, Acta Apostolorum Apocrypha, 2 vols. (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1959). The Coptic Act of Peter (BG 4) is found in the Berlin Codex; see Douglas M. Parrott, ed. Nag Hammadi Codices V, 2–5 and VI: with Papyrus Berolinensis 8502 (Leiden: Brill, 1979). All English translations are from John K. Elliott, The Apocryphal New Testament: A Collection of Apocryphal Christian Literature in an English Translation (Oxford: Clarendon, 1993). Hans-Josef Klauck dates them between 150 and 240 CE; Elliott gives the range from the end of the second century to the third century (Klauck, The Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles. An Introduction, trans. Brian McNeil [Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2008], 3); Elliott, The Apocryphal New Testament), 229–30. See e.g. Virginia Burrus, Chastity as Autonomy: Women in the Stories of Apocryphal Acts (Lewiston, NY: Mellen Press, 1987); Kate Cooper, The Virgin and the Bride: Idealized Womanhood in Late Antiquity (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1996); Amy-Jill Levine with Maria Mayo Robbins, A Feminist Companion to the New Testament Apocrypha (London: T&T Clark, 2006).

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pages of these texts.4 This article aims to reflect upon how and why children are both present and absent in these narratives. I draw on studies of children in antiquity in general,5 and in the New Testament and early Christianity in particular.6 Recent childhood studies has moved away from the idea that children are passive objects of socialization. Rather, scholars now argue that children should be seen as “active in constructing and experiencing their own lives.”7 Julie Faith Parker calls such a perspective “childist,” and advocates for a childist biblical interpretation that emphasizes children’s active role in shaping culture: Adults often fail to notice how children strategize and act to accomplish goals, exert control, maintain relationships, and organize their lives. Even babies and toddlers have tremendous ability to restructure adult lives. Just as we often do not acknowledge children’s influence in families and society, we have largely ignored their roles in the text.8

This study is an attempt to take a closer look at previously ignored children in the apocryphal acts. Another insight from recent child studies is that there is no archetypal child.9 The children that appear in the apocryphal Acts vary tremendously in terms of gender, age, and social status. Taking an intersectional approach, I am interested in how children’s lives varied in terms of gender, status, ethnicity, dis/ability, etc. Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza argues that the role of the male householder (kyrios in Greek, paterfamilias in Latin) and his relations to wife, children, and slaves is important for understanding the 4

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In her work on children in early Christian narratives, Sharon Betsworth did not include the apocryphal acts (Children in Early Christian Narratives [London: Bloomsbury/T&T Clark, 2015]). An exception is Cornelia Horn’s article on girls in the apocryphal acts (“Suffering Children, Parental Authority and the Quest for Liberation?: A Tale of Three Girls in the Acts of Paul (and Thecla), The Act(s) of Peter, the Acts of Nerseus and Achilleus and the Epistle of Pseudo-Titus,” in A Feminist Companion to the New Testament Apocrypha, ed. Amy-Jill Levine with Maria Mayo Robbins [London: T&T Clark, 2006]). See e.g. Beryl Rawson, Children and Childhood in Roman Italy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003); Christian Laes and Ville Vuolanto, Children and Everyday Life in the Roman and Late Antique World (London: Routledge, 2017); K. R. Bradley, Discovering the Roman Family: Studies in Roman Social History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991). See Reidar Aasgaard, “History of Research on Children and Childhood in the Biblical World: Past developments, Present State—and Future Potential” in this volume. Ville Vuolanto, “Experience, Agency, and the Children in the Past: The Case of Roman Childhood,” in Children and Everyday Life in the Roman and Late Antique World, ed. Christian Laes and Ville Vuolanto (London: Routledge, 2017), 12. Julie Faith Parker, Valuable and Vulnerable. Children in the Hebrew Bible, Especially the Elisha Cycle (Providence, RI: Brown Judaic Studies, 2013), 17. Parker, Valuable and Vulnerable, 16.

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intersecting power structures of antiquity. She has introduced the terms kyriarchy/kyriarchal/kyriocentric, in order to underscore how this particular framework shapes family and social life in the Greek and Roman worlds.10 One aspect that varied tremendously, depending on gender and social status, was the transition into adulthood. While free boys in principle entered adulthood with the toga virilis ceremony, sometime in their teens, they did not have full economic independence according to Roman law until they were twenty-five.11 Free girls were allowed to marry from the age of twelve (and boys at fourteen), but early marriage was more common for elite girls, for whom matrimony would be an important political and family alliance.12 Expectations about education and leisure time as opposed to work varied according to gender, status, and class. Slave children of either sex were expected to work from the age of five.13 Also, freeborn children of lower classes, mostly boys, would take apprenticeships, in their early teens or even younger.14 Upperclass children of either sex received a broad education, but training in rhetoric as a preparation for public office was not open to females.15 In the following, I will first present the children characters that occur in these narratives, as well as other, more brief or obscure references to the presence of children. Second, I discuss the presence and absence of children in light of the theological tendency toward sexual renunciation in the apocryphal acts. In some of the Acts there are references to Jesus as a child and/or youth, and the last section will be devoted to these passages.

The Presence of Children Who are the children that appear in these narratives? The most elaborate child character in the apocryphal Acts may be Thecla, the heroine of the Acts of Paul 10

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Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, “Introduction: Exploring the Intersections of Race, Gender, Status, and Ethnicity in Early Christian Studies,” in Prejudice and Christian Beginnings: Investigating Race, Gender, and Ethnicity in Early Christian Studies, ed. Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza and Laura Salah Nasrallah (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2009), ix. Christian Laes and Ville Vuolanto, “A New Paradigm for the Social History of Childhood in Antiquity,” in Children and Everyday Life, ed. Laes and Vuolanto. Betsworth, Children in Early Christian Narratives, 35. Cornelia B. Horn and John W. Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me”: Childhood and Children in Early Christianity (Washington: Catholic University of America Press, 2009), 170. Bradley, Discovering the Roman Family, 111–12. Rawson, Children and Childhood in Roman Italy, 197.

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and Thecla. In this narrative, a young virgin, Thecla, belonging to the nobility of the city of Iconium, is converted to Christianity when she hears the apostle Paul preach on “the discourse of virginity” (Acts Paul 7). Ostracized from her family, due to her choice to part from her betrothed, she is handed over to the authorities and convicted to be burned in the theater. She survives the pyre, and travels in search of Paul. Thecla, however, ends up with a second conviction in a different city, this time to fight wild animals. The authorities have no more luck the second time around, and finally let her go. Thecla is presented as a virgin (parthenos, Acts Paul 7), about to get married. As noted above, girls could legally marry from the age of twelve, and most girls were married by their late teens.16 The narrative may be read as a coming-ofage story, in which the protagonist breaks with expectations of what it means for a girl to become an adult woman.17 The whole household is in mourning because of Thecla’s unusual choice to break off her betrothal and not marry: “And those who were in the house wept bitterly, Thamyris for the loss of a wife, Theoclia for the loss of a daughter, and the maidservants for that of a mistress” (Acts Paul 10). A young, free girl’s place in the kyriarchal economy of the Roman Empire was to step into adult life to become a wife, a mother, and a mistress for her household slaves. Thecla’s own mother is outraged and even supports her daughter’s death penalty: “Burn the wicked one; burn her who will not marry in the midst of the theater, that all the women who have been taught by this man may be afraid” (Acts Paul 20). In the narrative, Thecla is active and makes decisions and important life choices independently. She decides to follow Paul (Acts Paul 18; 23; 40), talks back to authorities (Acts Paul 26; 38), dresses like a man in order to travel freely (Acts Paul 40), and even baptizes herself in a pool of carnivorous seals in the arena (Acts Paul 34). From a childist perspective, the whole story is constructed around the breaking of expectations concerning notions about free girls’ socialization, and Thecla is presented as consistently

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Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 35. According to Johannes N. Vorster, Thecla typifies the stage of “becoming a person,” as she is transitioning from parthenos to gunē (“Construction of Culture Through the Construction of Person: The Construction of Thecla in the Acts of Thecla,” in A Feminist Companion to the New Testament Apocrypha, ed. Levine, 106). See also Jeremy W. Barrier, The Acts of Paul and Thecla. A Critical Introduction and Commentary (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 129.

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making her own choices, not only vis-à-vis her own family, but also over against Paul.18 There are also two boys in the Acts of Paul and Thecla. They appear after Thecla miraculously survives the pyre and sets out to look for Paul. In the meantime, Paul has fled the city together with Onesiphorus, the leader of the Iconian house church where Thecla first heard Paul preach. Together with Onesiphorus’s wife, Lectra, and their two children, Zimmias and Zeno, they hide in a tomb outside the city: And Paul was fasting with Onesiphorus and his wife and his children [tōn teknon] in a new tomb on the way which led from Iconium to Daphne. And after many days had been spent in fasting, the children [hoi paides] said to Paul, “We are hungry.” And they had nothing with which to buy bread, for Onesiphorus had left the things of this world, and followed Paul with all his house. And Paul, having taken off his cloak, said, “Go, my child [teknon], sell this and buy some loaves and bring them.” And when the child [ho pais] was buying them, he saw Thecla, their neighbor, and was astonished and said, “Thecla, where are you going?” And she said, “I have been saved from the fire and am following Paul.” And the child [ho pais] said, “Come, I shall take you to him; for he has been mourning for you and praying for you and fasting six days already.” Acts Paul 23

In this scene, a child character is significant for the development of the story, reuniting hero and heroine. The boy is also active in securing food for the group in hiding, and upon finding Thecla, explains the situation to her and unites her with the group. The role the child here takes upon himself, acting as a go-between, and perhaps even a spy, is intriguing. While the adults are hiding in the tomb, fleeing the authorities, the child can freely move around, and he is sent to do the errands for that reason. Children acting as inconspicuous agents in war zones is known from many historical eras and conflicts.19 One scholar suggests that the cloak Paul hands over to the child symbolically represents

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For the complex relationship between Thecla and Paul, see Vorster, “The Construction of Thecla,” 115. For example, children were used as messengers by the resistance in Norway during WWII, delivering illegal newspapers and information between groups in hiding. See Ellen Schrumpf, “Children and their Stories of World War II. A Study of Essays by Norwegian School Children from 1946,” in Nordic Childhoods 1700–1960: From Folk Beliefs to Pippi Longstocking, ed. Reidar Aasgaard, Marcia Bunge, and Merethe Roos (London: Routledge, 2018), 205–19.

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Paul’s authority as apostle.20 The scene seems to show both dependency of the adults on the children, and a great amount of trust in them and their abilities. When Thecla is reunited with Paul in the tomb, they celebrate an agape meal there, using the bread that the boy has bought: “And there was great love in the tomb as Paul and Onesiphorus and the others all rejoiced. And they had five loaves and vegetables and water, and they rejoiced in the holy works of Christ” (Acts Paul 25). The reference to five loaves of bread is probably an allusion to the stories in the Gospels of the feeding of the five thousand (Mt. 14.13–21; Mk 6.30–44; Lk. 9.10–17; Jn 6.1–15). In John’s version, it is a young boy (paidarion, 6:9) who provides the five loaves and two fish. Another similarity between John’s account of the feeding miracle and the passage quoted above that both have eucharistic overtones.21 In the Acts of Paul and Thecla, Onesiphorus’s boy is the one who provides the objects for this sacramental meal, and thus serves as an instrument of God. Another passage containing child characters occurs when Thecla is condemned to death the first time and is prepared to be burned on a pyre: “And the boys [paides] and girls [parthenoi] brought wood and straw in order that Thecla might be burned” (Acts Paul 22). The reference to the girls as virgins (parthenoi), whereas the males are simply called “boys” (paides) signals that these attendants are quite young, but probably youths rather than small children. Clearly, the virgins serve as a contrast to Thecla, who is also a young virgin. Thecla rebels against her place in society, where she could easily have been in the position of one of the virgins bringing wood for such a fire. Nevertheless, these youngsters are also similar to Onesiphorus’s boys in that they take active part in a religious ritual. The boys and girls in the theater bring the material for the pyre; Onesiphorus’s child brings the bread for the eucharist. Yet another child character in these Acts is Falconilla, the deceased daughter of queen Tryphaena. Thecla travels to Antioch with Paul after they have been reunited. Here, she is imprisoned and tried a second time, because she rejects and ridicules an important citizen, Alexander (Acts Paul 27). Queen Tryphaena,

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Barrier, The Acts of Paul and Thecla, 129. There is no “last supper” in the Gospel of John, but this episode is one of many with sacramental associations (Paul N. Anderson, Riddles of the Fourth Gospel: An Introduction to John [Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2011], 40). For the eucharistic allusion in the Acts, see Barrier, The Acts of Paul and Thecla, 135.

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another prominent citizen, takes Thecla in while she is awaiting trial, and the daughter appears to her mother in a dream. She asks her mother that Thecla may pray for her, and Tryphaena appeals to Thecla: “Thecla, my second child [teknon mou deuteron], come pray for my child [tou teknou mou] that she may live in eternity, for this I saw in my sleep” (Acts Paul 29). Thecla is here called “child” and compared to Falconilla as a second daughter. There is no information about how old Falconilla was when she died, but the mother compares them, and they have a similar place of affection in Tryphaena’s heart. As a confessor, about to suffer martyrdom, Thecla can intercede on behalf of the living as well as the dead.22 Thecla’s prayer for the deceased Falconilla is a powerful moment in the narrative. A young girl lifts her voice in prayer and petitions God’s favor. Later in the narrative, Thecla baptizes herself in a pool in the arena, “in the name of Jesus Christ” (Acts Paul 34). She also witnesses to the governor after her survival of the games and finally returns to Tryphaena, whom she instructs “in the word of God” (Acts Paul 39). Thecla’s authority, despite her age and gender, is repeatedly brought to the fore. Finally, child characters appear toward the end of the Acts of Paul and Thecla, when Thecla is condemned to death a second time, this time by fighting wild animals. In this scene, children appear together with women as spectators of the games in the theater. These children are not antagonists, however, like the boys and virgins bringing wood to Thecla’s pyre. These children, together with their mothers, offer support for Thecla. They are outraged over the injustice done to her and protest it: “And the women and children [hai de gynaikes meta tōn teknon] cried out again and again, ‘Oh, God, outrageous things take place in this city” (Acts Paul 28). The children are only mentioned once, but the outrage of the women spectators come up several times, and ultimately these women help save Thecla’s life by throwing into the arena strong-smelling flowers and herbs that paralyze the wild beasts so they do not touch her (Acts Paul 35). The gender aspect of this support, women spectators rooting for a female convict, has been duly noted.23 However, there is also an

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Gail Corrington Streete, “Buying the Stairway to Heaven: Perpetua and Thecla as Early Christian Heroines,” in A Feminist Companion to the New Testament Apocrypha, ed. Levine, 194. See e.g. Streete, “Buying the Stairway to Heaven,” 200; Jan N. Bremmer, “Magic, Martyrdom and Women’s Liberation,” in The Apocryphal Acts of Paul and Thecla, ed. Jan N. Bremmer (Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1996), 51–52.

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age component in this scene, as children show outrage at the conviction of someone their age or close to it. In conclusion, there are a number of child characters in the Acts of Paul and Thecla. This is the only narrative among the apocryphal Acts, where it can be argued that the main female character and protagonist of the story is a child transitioning into adulthood. Through her adventures she encounters other children, both antagonists, such as the young boys and girls bringing wood to her pyre, and supporters, such as Onesiphorus’s boys, Falconilla and the children present at the second arena fight. The Acts of Peter also presents several child characters. In the Coptic version, there is a story about Peter’s daughter and how she became disabled.24 Peter is questioned by fellow Christ-believers about his abilities to heal, since he has a daughter who is lame. The daughter, who is present, lying on a mat in a corner, is commanded by Peter to rise and walk toward him, which she does. But then he bids her to return to her place, arguing that, “it is good for me and you” (BG 4, 131). The girl returns to her place and immediately becomes paralyzed again. Peter then tells the story about how his daughter became paralyzed. When she was ten years old, she became so beautiful that she was a stumbling-block to many men (BG 4, 132). A man called Ptolemy saw the girl bathing and wanted to marry her. The parents turned down his marriage offer, because the mother “did not consent” (BG 4, 132). In the contexts, it seems that her young age is the main reason why the parents do not consent to the marriage. But Ptolemy was impatient: “He often sent for her, he could not wait” (BG 4, 132). Unfortunately, the following part of the story is obscured, because two pages are missing from the manuscript. After the lacuna, the text states that the girl was returned outside her parents’ house, and Peter and his wife find their daughter there, paralyzed. “We carried her away, praising the Lord that he had kept his servant from defilement and violation and . . .” (BG 4, 135), says Peter. It seems that Ptolemy abducts the girl, probably intending to take her by force, yet somehow his plan fails because the girl becomes paralyzed, and he then returns her to her parents. In this narrative, Peter’s daughter appears at two different stages in her life. First, when she is ten years old, and then later, when Peter heals and un-heals 24

Scholars argue that this text unit belongs to the lost beginning of the apocryphal Acts of Peter. See e.g. Wilhelm Schneemelcher, “The Acts of Peter: Introduction,” in New Testament Apocrypha, ed. Wilhelm Schneemelcher and R. McL. Wilson (Cambridge: James Clarke, 1991), 278–79; Klauck, The Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles, 106–7.

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her. The text does not indicate how old Peter’s daughter is when the (un-) healing occurs, but she is referred to as a virgin who “has grown up beautiful” (BG 4, 128). This may indicate that she is still of marriageable age and could easily have contracted a marriage had she not been disabled.25 Peter’s claim that the daughter’s situation is good for both her and himself reflects Greco-Roman gender values. A young girl was a future bride, and as such, young, free women’s most important asset was their virginity. It was shameful for the whole family if a daughter was sexually violated, especially for the head of the household, the kyrios, whose responsibility it was to protect the sexual honor of women in his family. Hence, Peter insists that the daughter was not “defiled,” but somehow miraculously saved through God’s intervention via paralysis. Cornelia Horn has argued that the combination of householder and apostle in the narrative construction of Peter in this story, renders him extremely powerful.26 As a child, a female, and a disabled person, Peter’s daughter has no say when her father declares her situation “good.” Peter has absolute power over his daughter’s body, and the benefit seems to be rather for the crowd whose faith is increased and for Peter whose honor is preserved. There is also another, quite different child character in the Acts of Peter: a speaking baby. This episode is found in the Latin version of the Acts of Peter, the Actus Vercellences, in which the competition between Peter and the impostor and charlatan Simon Magus is central. The two are in Rome, fighting for the allegiance of the Roman Christ-believers. In a series of miracles, Peter shows that he is a true man of God, with real power to heal and do miracles, whereas Simon is only a charlatan, who has no real power. Simon is made a laughingstock in a number of ways in several consecutive scenes, in one of which he is chastised by an eloquently speaking “suckling child” (infans lactans, Act. Verc. 15): And her baby [infans] was seven months old. Assuming a manly voice [vocem virilem,] it said to Simon: “You abomination before God and men, O destroyer of truth and most wicked seed of corruption, O unfaithful fruit of nature! . . . When the dog accused you, you were not ashamed. I, a child [infans], am forced by God to speak and still you do not blush. . . . Now I say to you a last 25

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Meghan Henning, “Paralysis and Sexualilty in Medical Literature and the Acts of Peter,” JLA 8, no. 2 (2015): 308. Horn, “Suffering Children,” 136.

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word: Jesus Christ says to you: ‘Be speechless by the power of my name and leave Rome till the coming Sabbath.’ ” At once he became speechless, and being constrained he left Rome till the next Sabbath and lodged in a stable. The woman returned to Peter with the baby [infantem] and told Peter and the other brethren what the child [infans] had said to Simon. Act. Verc. 15

The baby’s manly voice stands in contrast to Simon’s voice, which is referred to as “shrill” (voce gracili, Act. Verc. 4), and “weak and useless” (vocem tuam infirmem et inutilem, Act. Verc. 12). According to ancient physiognomic treatises, a high-pitched voice was a sign of cowardice. Flaws in vocal control signalled lack of sexual self-control and were considered a feminine trait.27 Simon is thus ridiculed and un-manned when he loses his speech at the prophecy of a speaking baby. The baby claims to represent Jesus Christ and gives a message from Christ in the first person when he says, “Be speechless . . .” In a similar episode, a dog also speaks to Simon and chastises him (Act. Verc. 9–12), but this dog does not claim to represent Christ. The baby representing Christ, may be understood in connection with the polymorphic appearances of Christ in the apocryphal Acts, which will be discussed below. The appearance of a woman with a suckling baby as part of a Christbelieving group presumed to have renounced sexuality and married life is also worth noting. Like Onesiphorus with his wife and two children in the Acts of Paul and Thecla, and Peter and his wife and daughter in the Coptic Acts of Peter, the text includes a Christ-believer with a family constellation that includes children. This indicates that even texts with an ascetic message of sexual renunciation could portray the believing community as being made up of both families and people who had renounced family. However, in the three other Acts, the situation is more ambivalent.

Presence or Absence of Children? It is only in the Acts of Paul and Thecla and in the Acts of Peter that these unambiguous and fleshed out children’s characters exist. Perhaps there are so 27

Maud W. Gleason, Making Men: Sophists and Self-Presentation in Ancient Rome (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995), 83.

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many children in Acts of Paul and Thecla precisely because the heroine is a young person. It can of course be questioned whether Thecla or Peter’s daughter (at the time she is healed/un-healed) are children. In previous research, these characters have not been seen primarily as children but as (young) women. The focus of the Acts on women as primary targets for preaching on sexual renunciation has brought gender to the fore, but age and class are other avenues to explore.28 An intersectional perspective brings out the complexity of social identity and serves as a reminder that gender is not the only category worth consideration. Marianne Bjelland Kartzow argues that it is precisely when a text foregrounds one identity category or binary pair that we need to ask for others, “when class is mentioned it is relevant to ask about gender: when ethnicity or race is at work, it is relevant to ask about class.”29 I now probe even further in search of children in the apocryphal Acts. There are, in fact, a number of other characters in the apocryphal Acts in which the characters’ youth is highlighted in one way or another, and which can be reconsidered from a childist perspective. In the Acts of Thomas, a royal couple is converted and renounce “filthy intercourse” on their wedding night. The bride and groom are called “young people” (neos, Acts Thom. 10; 13; 16). In the Acts of John, there are two consecutive stories about young men, referred to as neaniskos. Again, it is uncertain whether these should be considered children or adolescents, but at least full adulthood has not yet been acquired. The first story is about a youth whom John encourages to raise a relative from the dead (Acts John 47), and the second is about a young farmer who kills his father because he admonishes him to live a chaste life (Acts John 48–53). John raises the father and converts the young man, but this inspires the young man to do a second rash act: he cuts off his genitals and flings them at his mistress. The second story clearly has the theme of sexual renunciation, so common in the Acts, but both stories also hold aspects of introduction into discipleship

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For a discussion of the intersection between gender and class in the Acts of Andrew, see Anna Rebecca Solevåg, Birthing Salvation: Gender and Class in Early Christian Childbearing Discourse (Leiden: Brill, 2013). For other work on class, particularly slavery in the apocryphal Acts, see e.g. Jennifer A. Glancy, “Slavery in Acts of Thomas,” JECH 2, no. 2 (2012); Callie Callon, “Secondary Characters Furthering Characterization: The Depiction of Slaves in the Acts of Peter,” JBL, no. 4 (2012). Marianne Bjelland Kartzow, “‘Asking the Other Question’: An Intersectional Approach to Galatians 3:28 and the Colossian Household Code,” BibInt 18, no. 4 (2010): 371.

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and teaching from the apostle. In other words, the apostle functions as a teacher, casting the young men in the role of student or apprentice, preparing for adult life. Toward the end of the Acts, John recalls his own youth (neotēs, Acts John 113), when he had himself desired to marry but was prevented by God. There are many other stories in the apocryphal Acts concerning chastity, in which women who are already married turn away from their husbands as part of their conversions (see e.g. Acts Andr. 14–17, Acts John 63–83, Acts Pet. 34). It is harder to argue that these characters are young, as there are no indications about age in the passages. But when it comes to characters called “young” or “virgins,” as those presented above, the terminology invites the reader to examine the characters as children transitioning into adulthood. Another complicating factor for considerations about children and age in the apocryphal Acts is slavery. “Asking the other question” can also be to ask about the age of slave characters that appear in these narratives. Are there any slaves that may be considered as children? One possible case is the flute-girl in the Acts of Thomas who performs at the wedding banquet of the king’s daughter. There are no indicators of her age in the passage. She is only referred to as “flute-girl” (aulētria). The term indicates that she was a sexually available performer, probably a slave prostitute.30 Such girls could be very young,31 maybe even children, as there were no restrictions on a slave owner’s sexual exploitations of his slaves.32 Horn and Martens argue that she is young, since she becomes a convert and joins the group of young converts around the king’s daughter.33 Another case of a possible slave child is from the Acts of Andrew. In the narrative, the apostle heals a slave, Alcman, who is referred to as a boy (pais, 4). In the ancient world, male slaves were commonly referred to as pais, irrespective of their age, as a demeaning epithet underscoring that a male slave was never a real man.34 There are, however, other reasons to consider that Alcman may be quite young. He is his master’s favorite, whom Stratocles “loved dearly,” and upon finding him possessed the distraught owner cried out that “I cannot live 30 31

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Glancy, “Slavery in Acts of Thomas,” 8–9. Ammonius refers to a “young flute-girl,” (tina neon aulētria), Amm. In Porphyrii isagogen sive quinque voces 13.25. Horn and Martens, “Let the Little Children Come to Me,” 169–70. Ibid., 91. Jennifer A. Glancy, Slavery in Early Christianity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 24.

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without him” (Acts Andr. 2). Maybe there is a hint at a pederastic relationship here. As the demon leaves Alcman’s body, it speaks with “a masculine voice” (epandron fōnēn, Acts Andr. 5), perhaps alluding to the contrast with Alcman’s own puerile one.35 There are several other slave characters in the apocryphal Acts whose intersection with childhood and age in general would be interesting to explore in a further study.36 In the Acts of Thomas there is a demon who is presented as a boy. Two demons, described as “a man and a boy” (anthrōpon tina kai paida sun autō, Acts Thom. 63) attack and sexually assault the wife and daughter of a certain captain in India. The age of the daughter is not given, but both she and her mother are referred to as “women” later in the story (gunaikes, Acts Thom 77, 81). Nevertheless, the age difference of the demons seems to parallel the age difference of mother and daughter. The story hints at the sexual vulnerability of girls as well as women when they were outside the home.37 In several Acts, children are mentioned in passing, as being present in one way or another. In the Acts of Peter, there is a description of the believing community and the various groups within: “And the whole multitude of the brethren came together, rich and poor, widows and orphans [orfanōn te kai chērōn], able-bodied and disabled alike” (Act Pet. 36). Eubola, a wealthy patron of Peter, is also praised as one who supported “widows and orphans” (Acts Pet. 17). These brief mentions of widows and orphans together offer a glimpse into the organization of the Christ-believing communities in which orphans could be cared for by widows.38 In the Acts of Andrew, the apostle is praised “by rich and poor including infants” (Acts Andr. 27). In a speech to the public present at his crucifixion he says, “Men who are present with me, women, children, old, slaves, free and any others who would hear” (Acts Andr. 56). This group does not only consist of believers, but spectators in general. Children are included among those who would be expected to be present at a public execution. In the

35 36

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Solevåg, Birthing Salvation, 166. E.g. the slave referred to as “youth” (neos, Acts Andr. 26), Maximilla’s slave Euclia (Acts Andr.17–24), and the young men in the service of Simon who steal from Eubola but are caught and confess under torture (Acts Pet. 18). The same notion of sexual vulnerability underlies the story of Peter’s daughter, who was first seen by Ptolemy at the baths (BG 4: 132). Carolyn Osiek and Margaret Y. MacDonald, A Woman’s Place: House Churches in Earliest Christianity (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2006), 75–78.

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Acts of Thomas, the apostle preaches his ascetic gospel to adults and children alike: “Men and women, boys and girls [paides kai korai], young men and maidens [neaniskoi kai karthenoi], vigorous and aged, both bond and free, withhold yourselves form fornication, covetousness, and gluttony” (Acts Thom. 28). The variety in age seems here to be of particular interest in the address. The three first pairs are male-female, but focusing on different life stages, whereas the fourth draws out age in particular.

The Problem of Children In this section, I want to point to some instances where children become a target in the preaching against marriage and in favor of sexual renunciation: the absence of children is put forth as a good in life. As part of this argument, the heavy toll of being a parent is brought to the fore in several of the Acts. In the Acts of Thomas, the apostle advises against having children, because they will be disabled or otherwise a source of more sorrow than joy. Among the benefits of abstaining from “foul intercourse” is that one will have fewer worries: But if you get many children [paidas pollous], for their sakes you become unprofitable, being possessed by demons, some openly, some secretly. For they become either lunatics or half-withered or crippled or deaf or dumb or paralytics or idiots. And though they may be healthy, they will be again goodfor-nothing, doing unprofitable and abominable works. For they will be detected either in adultery or in murder or in theft or in unchastity, and by all these you will be afflicted. But if you obey and preserve your souls pure to God, there will be born to you living children. Untouched by these hurtful things, and you will be without care, spending an untroubled life, free from grief and care. Acts Thom. 12

Thomas argues for sexual renunciation by drawing on the fear of bearing a disabled child or a child who will grow up to become a sinner. Moreover, he argues that parents may behave badly in an effort to provide for their children, exploiting other people in the process. It is a dark picture of humankind that Thomas evokes. The argument for celibacy in this text is the unprofitability of children, so to speak; parenthood leads to poverty, and children will most likely be a disappointment, particularly if they are disabled. This sermon is

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preached to a king’s daughter on her wedding night, and it has the intended effect: she decides to become celibate. Later in the narrative, the warning is exemplified in a scene mentioned above, in which a mother and her daughter are attacked by demons, and the daughter becomes possessed (Acts Thom. 62). The Acts of John likewise draws out the problem of children, stating: “Do not think, if you have children, to rest on them, and do not seek to rob and defraud on their account” (Acts John 34). Finally, a similar sentiment is expressed in the Acts of Andrew, in the apostle’s speech before his crucifixion. As noted earlier, children as well as adults are addressed in this speech: And if the pleasure and intercourse of marriage pleases you, and if the corruption that is from them, full of pain, makes you sad, and if you are in need of sustenance for your many children, and if the annoying poverty they cause is known to you, it will upset you. . . . What pride issues from external ancestry if the soul in you is held captive, sold to desires? And why do we desire pleasure and childbearing, for later we have to separate? No one knows what he does. Who will take care of his wife when he is preoccupied merely by the passions of desire? Acts Andr. 5739

This passage focuses on the painfulness of earthly life and ponders the futility of childbearing and marriage. There is a radical devaluation of the present life, in favor of the next, but note that there is no soteriological function attached to the ascetic life. In other words, it does not seem to be encratite.40

Jesus as a Child In the apocryphal Acts, Jesus, too, appears as a child. There are several instances where believers have visions of Christ as a youth or a child. It has been noted that the Acts of John, Thomas, and Peter, all exhibit a polymorphic Christology.41 39

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This passage is only preserved in an Armenian version but is seems to have belonged to the original Greek text (Jean-Marc Prieur, Acta Andreae, vol. 5/6, Corpus Christianorum. Series Apocryphorum [Turnhout: Brepols, 1989], 522). I have argued this elsewhere for the case of Acts of Andrew. See Anna Rebecca Solevåg, “Adam, Eve and the Serpent in the Acts of Andrew,” in Hidden Truths from Eden: Esoteric Readings of Genesis 2–3, ed. Caroline Vander Stichele and Susanne Scholz (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2013), 9–28. See Paul Foster, “Polymorphic Christology: Its Origins and Development in Early Christianity,” JTS 58, no. 1 (2007).

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In the Acts of John, John recalls when he was first called by Jesus, as a young fisherman by the Sea of Galilee: For when he had chosen Peter and Andrew, who were brothers, he came to me and to my brother James, saying, “I have need of you, come unto me.” And my brother said, “John, this child [to paidion] on the shore who called us, what does he want?” And I said, “What child [paidion]?” He replied, “The one who is beckoning to us.” And I answered, “Because of your long watch that we kept at sea you are not seeing straight, brother James: but do you not see the man [andra] who stands there, fair and comely and of a cheerful countenance?” But he said to me, “Him I do not see, brother; but let us go and we shall see what it means.” . . . And when we left the place, wishing to follow him again, he again appeared to me, bald-headed but with a thick flowing beard; but to James he appeared as a youth [neaniskos] whose beard was just starting [archigeneios]. . . . Also there was in him another marvel; when I sat at table he would take me upon his breast and I held him; and sometimes his breast felt to me smooth [leia] and tender, and sometimes hard, like stone. Acts of John 88–89

John and his brother James perceive Jesus differently; one sees him as a fully grown man with a beard, and the other as first a child and then a youth with the first appearance of a beard. John describes the polymorphism of Jesus not only as a visual/haptic experience but also as a tactile one: Christ’s chest was sometimes smooth and sometimes hard. The term used for Jesus’ smooth chest, leiōs, can refer to being “smooth-skinned, without hair” and is especially used of youths to refer to their beardlessness.42 In the Acts of Peter, Christ is described in a sermon as “this Great and Small One, this Beautiful and Ugly One, this Young Man and Old Man” (Acts Pet. 20). At the same gathering a group of blind widows have different visions of Jesus, including seeing him as a child: Peter said to them, “Tell us what you have seen.” They said, “We saw an old man whose appearance we cannot describe to you.” Some, however, said, “We saw a young man [iuvenem adulescentem].” Others said, “We saw a boy [puerum] tenderly touching our eyes; thus our eyes were opened.” Acts Pet. 21

42

LSJ, s.v. λεῖος.

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The widows perceive Jesus in the three main stages of a male life; as boy, young man and old man. Paul Foster argues that the Acts of Peter has a less developed use of polymorphism, where the theological significance adds up to the message that “God is greater than we think.”43 In the Acts of John, on the other hand, the polymorphic appearances are part of a docetic Christology, used to sustain that Jesus was not fully human, but only appeared as a human being, and thus could attain different shapes.44 My interest here is not to explore polymorphic Christology per se, but to point out that some of these polymorphic aspects of the text introduced the notion of Jesus as a child to the hearers. The speaking baby in the Acts of Peter may also be understood as a polymorphic appearance of Christ, because the baby speaks words of Jesus in a first person voice. In the Acts of Thomas, there is an epic poem, the “Hymn of the Pearl,” which starts with the words: “When I was a child [brefos] in my father’s palace” (Acts Thom. 108). The identity of the narrator is variously interpreted as either the soul, telling the story of its human incarnation and forgetting its heavenly origin, or as Christ, narrating his pre-existence and sojourn on earth.45 The meaning of brefos is fetus or newborn baby.46 Here, the pre-existence of Christ or the soul with God before the incarnation is conceived of as a sort of pregnancy or infancy. In the same text there is also a reference to Jesus’ earthly childhood, in an exhortation to faith: Believe the apostle of Jesus Christ; believe the teacher of truth; believe him who shows you the truth; believe in Jesus; believe in the Messiah who was born, that the born might have life through his life; who also became a child [nēpiou] and was educated, that perfect humanity might appear through him. He taught his own teacher, because he is the teacher of truth and the wisest of the wise. Acts Thom. 79

This reference to Jesus’ childhood education is reminiscent of a scene in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas. In this scene Jesus, when he is first taken to school by Joseph, teaches his teacher the deeper meaning of the Greek alphabet (Inf. Gos. Thom. 6.8–10). Through several episodes a number of teachers try 43 44 45 46

Foster, “Polymorphic Christology,” 93. Ibid., 87, 89–90. Elliott, The Apocryphal New Testament, 441. LSJ, s.v. βρέφος.

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but fail to teach Jesus (Inf. Gos. Thom. 6–8;13–14).47 In the passage from the Acts of Thomas, the reference to Jesus as a child works both to underscore the incarnation and support the main theme of the sermon, that Christ is the teacher of truth.

Conclusion This presentation of children in the apocryphal Acts has revealed that despite the focus on chastity and sexual renunciation, children make many appearances in these narratives. There are clear differences between the five Acts. The Acts of Paul and Thecla and the Acts of Peter have a number of fleshed out children characters, while there are fewer in the others. I have argued that probing a little deeper will reveal more children. Using an intersectional lens, characters that have previously been understood as (young) men and women, or slaves can be reconsidered from the perspective of age. Children also appear in brief references or side-notes as a part of the Christ-believing group. This unassuming presence of children in the apocryphal Acts underscores that although the texts promoted sexual renunciation, this was a choice for the elite few. Most Christ-believers did not have the opportunity to choose a celibate life, and the lives of celibate and married were intermingled.48 These child characters, as well as the “snap-shot” glimpses of children, are valuable sources for scholars interested in children in the first centuries of Christianity. The children of the apocryphal Acts appear in different settings from children in the New Testament, who primarily occupy healing stories and household codes. In the apocryphal Acts, children are a “normal” presence in the Christ-believing group, partaking in the religious rituals of the group, listening to the sermons, being healed and un-healed; they appear as suckling infants, orphans, boys running errands, and virgins whose chastity needs to be preserved. Yet, at the same time as children are present, their absence is preached as a sought-after good: In speeches in the Acts of Thomas, Andrew,

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Reidar Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus. Decoding the Apocryphal Infancy Gospel of Thomas (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2009), 107–8. Osiek and MacDonald, A Woman’s Place, 4–6.

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and John, parenthood is presented negatively, and childlessness is hailed as the most perfected kind of Christian life. The polymorphic appearances of Christ as a child show that childhood also was a topic for Christological reflection. The fact that Jesus himself had gone through all the stages of childhood thus becomes part of a reflection on the meaning of the incarnation. Did such stories about the “childishness” of Christ have a special significance for children listening to these narratives? Did such theological meaning making give added value to children in a Christian context and perhaps even counter the devaluation of children of the ascetic speeches? More research needs to be done on children in the apocryphal Acts. Some further avenues for research could include the metaphorical uses of child and family language in the Acts and the “dubious presences” I have pointed to, particularly the intersection of slavery and childhood. Another topic could be the relation between the theology of the Acts and children as hearers of their message. However, the material I have presented demonstrates the presence of children in the narratives yet underscores the ambivalence of these texts in their attitudes toward non-adult people.

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Traveling with Children: Flight Stories and Pilgrimage Routes in the Apocryphal Infancy Gospels Tony Burke

Travel in antiquity was fraught with challenges and dangers.1 Marine travelers had to contend with pirates and rough weather; land travelers with brigands and inaccessible roads. All sojourners had to travel in groups for their mutual protection and plan carefully to ensure they would be able to find hospitable locations along the way to stock up on provisions. Travel was slow, and particularly lengthy trips brought a sense of displacement from the culture and comforts of home. The very purpose of the journey could be reason enough for anxiety; for the most part, people in antiquity did not enjoy traveling, and would do so only in extreme circumstances, such as resettlement due to war, food shortages, or government policy.2 As any modern-day parent knows, traveling with children makes a journey even more challenging. Packing for a short trip seems to take as much preparation and supplies as a lengthy one, 1

2

The difficulties of travel, particularly the dangers, are ubiquitous in scholarship on travel in antiquity. For detailed discussion, see Colin Adams, “ ‘There and Back Again’: Getting Around in Roman Egypt,” in Travel and Geography in the Roman Empire, ed. Colin Adams and Ray Laurence (London: Routledge, 2001), 138–65; Lionel Casson, Travel in the Ancient World (London: Book Club Associates, 1974; repr. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994); Linda Ellis and Frank L. Kidner, eds., Travel, Communication, and Geography in Late Antiquity: Sacred and Profane (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004); and Ian Rutherford, “Theoric Crisis: The Dangers of Pilgrimage in Greek Religion and Society,” SMSR 61 (1995): 276–92. On reasons for travel see Philip A. Harland, “Pausing at the Intersection of Religion and Travel,” in Travel and Religion in Antiquity, ed. Philip A. Harland, ESCJ 21 (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2011), 1–26. Maribel Dietz adds to Harland’s list two further reasons endemic to Christianity: conciliar voyage (i.e., church officials journeying to the various ecclesiastical councils) and missionary work (Monks, Virgins, and Pilgrims: Ascetic Travel in the Mediterranean World, AD 300– 800 [University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2005], 24–27). Note too that some people traveled for education and research.

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there are additional costs, logistical concerns about meals, naps, and potty breaks, the frustrations of sulky teenagers, squabbling siblings, and the endlessly repeated question “are we there yet?” One can imagine how much more difficult this activity would have been in antiquity. Indeed one has to imagine the difficulties because there is so little written about travel with children in ancient literature. Heroes like Odysseus or the Hellenistic divine man Apollonius did not take children on their journeys, nor did the ethnographers who documented the wonders of far-off lands. Even the writers of pilgrimage itineraries were Christian ascetics, not mothers and fathers with young families. Nevertheless, children certainly accompanied their parents on journeys, even if the surviving literature rarely mentions them. The exception to this silence is a selection of apocryphal Christian texts that expand upon the Holy Family’s Flight to Egypt as told in Matthew 2:13–15 and 2:19–21. The flight story is interwoven with the tale of the Magi’s search for the boy-king and serves to take the family out of harm’s way when Herod mounts his murderous efforts to rid himself of any would-be messiahs. It seems Matthew chose Egypt as the family’s haven as part of his efforts to cast Jesus as a new Moses or to align the Jesus biography with pre-Matthean messianic testimonia, or both. Matthew says nothing about what happened to the Holy Family in Egypt nor how long they resided there. This literary gap proved too tempting for later writers to ignore. Critics of Christianity took advantage of the Gospel’s association of Jesus with Egypt, known in antiquity for its expertise in so-called magic, and used it to cast Jesus as a nefarious magician.3 But writers within the Christian tradition filled the gap with tales of the family visiting various locations in Egypt, each one a site of miraculous proofs of Jesus’ divinity and superiority over native deities. The most detailed accounts of the flight serve as pilgrimage maps for those who want to follow Jesus’ footsteps and visit the sites where Jesus performed his wonders, either in person or vicariously through reading the texts. Though fanciful the apocryphal flight stories reflect some of the struggles encountered by travelers in antiquity, particularly for 3

See Origen, Cels. 1.28; b. Shabb. 104b and b. Sanh. 107b; and Toledot Yeshu 101. The Toledot Yeshu comes in several forms. The reference here is to Günter Schichting’s text in which Jesus goes to Egypt as an adult (Ein jüdisches Leben Jesu. Die verschollene Toledot-Jeschu-Fassung Tamū-mū’ ād, WUNT 1.24 [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1982]). The version published by Johann Jakob Huldreich contains an account of the Flight to Egypt, though here the family flees Galilee because Herod seeks to execute Mary and Joseph (Pandera) for the crime of adultery and to kill their children (Historia Jeschuae Nazareni [Leiden: Apud Johannem du Vivie, Is. Severinum, 1705]).

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parents who could see something of their own travel experiences in these tales and perhaps feel emboldened to follow the path of the Holy Family as a family.

Exile and Pilgrimage in the Ancient World Of the reasons for travel in antiquity, two are most germane for the study of the Flight to Egypt traditions: forced migration (expressed also as exile and wandering) and pilgrimage. The Holy Family is forced to leave Bethlehem to escape Herod’s slaughter of the innocents and, like the Israelites of old, they wander the deserts of Egypt, moving from one place to another until they can return home. Over time, identifiable pilgrimage sites and routes were brought into the flight traditions as an expression of the enthusiasm to connect events from the life of Jesus to specific places and objects. The suffering wanderer, forced to leave home, is a familiar image in Greek literature from as early as Homer’s Odysseus, who famously declared “for mortals, nothing is worse than wandering”.4 Wanderers figure prominently also in Greek tragedy; their protagonists, Silvia Montiglio says, are “exiles, mad persons, persecuted fugitives, or returning heroes who lose their way.”5 The travails of these characters illustrate the anxiety felt by many Greeks at the prospect of being cast out and cut off from the safety of home. Wanderers were considered “hateful to the gods”6 and regarded as suspicious—“idle and deceitful talkers”—though also as enigmatic, for the gods too were said to wander about the earth, and the wanderer who comes into town with stories to tell could be a god with divine knowledge to impart.7 Conditions of travel changed over time, and with the pax Romana it became safer and easier, so much that writers began to regard travel more positively; nevertheless, Montiglio maintains that “in the first centuries people moved around more but most of them did so reluctantly.”8 The most prominent exception is the itinerant sage. Figures such as Apollonius, Pythagoras, Alexander of Abonuteichos, and 4 5

6 7 8

Homer, Od. 15.343 [Murray, LCL]. Silvia Montiglio, Wandering in Ancient Greek Culture (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005), 5. Ibid., 25. Ibid., 91–2. Ibid., 223.

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Peregrinus Proteus are said to have traveled in their early lives to the remote corners of the world in search of wisdom—Apollonius, Pythagoras, and Peregrinus even visit Egypt.9 Apollonius, however, spends more of his time displaying his superior, divine knowledge than learning from others and as he moves from temple to temple, he offers suggestions for the improvement and reinvigoration of cultic rites.10 Exile and wandering are integral to Jewish history and self-identity. Scripture tells of the displacement of the descendants of Jacob in Egypt and their return journey generations later, their migration lengthened by God’s curse to forty years of wandering the wilderness of the Sinai Peninsula (Num. 14:34). The conquests of Israel (734–732, 724–721 BCE) and Judah (597 and 586 BCE) again led to both forced and voluntary migration; though some Jews returned, many chose to remain in the diaspora communities of Babylonia, Egypt, and elsewhere. Jews were taken as slaves after the wars of 66–70 and 132–35 CE and the following centuries saw greater and greater dispersion from the Jewish homeland. Pilgrimage is the second of the two reasons for travel in antiquity that have direct bearing on the examination of the flight narratives.11 The pilgrimage industry got its start when Constantine’s mother Helena traveled to Jerusalem and the Sinai in 326–28 in search of relics.12 With the explosion of conversions to Christianity and the freedom of Christians to travel around the empire, supplicants crowded saints’ graves and eagerly sought out locations in the Holy 9

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See further Montiglio, Wandering, 100–17, 213–18; Jás Elsner, “Hagiographic Geography: Travel and Allegory in The Life of Apollonius of Tyana,” JHS 117 (1997): 22–37; and Ian Scott, “The Divine Wanderer: Travel and Divinization in Late Antiquity,” in Travel and Religion, ed. Harland, 101–21. Apollonius’s efforts at cultic reform are particularly apparent in Egypt, where he corrects the rites of the naked sages and even wins the youngest one over as a disciple (Vit. Apoll. 5.25–6.23). See further, Scott, “Divine Wanderer,” 107. Scholarship on late-antique pilgrimage is plentiful. Key resources include Edward D. Hunt, Holy Land Pilgrimage in the Later Roman Empire AD 312–460 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982), Hunt Janin, Four Paths to Jerusalem: Jewish, Christian, Muslim, and Secular Pilgrimages, 1000 BCE to 2001 CE (Jefferson: McFarland, 2002); as well as Casson, Travel, 300–29; and the collected essays in Robert Ousterhout, The Blessings of Pilgrimage (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1990); Ellis and Kidner, eds., Travel, Communication, and Geography; Jaś Elsner and Ian Rutherford, eds., Pilgrimage in Graeco-Roman and Early Christian Antiquity: Seeing the Gods (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005); and David Frankfurter, ed., Pilgrimage and Holy Space in Late Antique Egypt (Leiden: Brill, 1998). On Jewish pilgrimage see particularly Susan Haber, “Going Up to Jerusalem: Pilgrimage, Purity, and the Historical Jesus,” in Travel and Religion, ed. Harland, 49–67; Janin, Four Paths, 42–55; and Wayne O. McCready, “Pilgrimage, Place, and Meaning Making in Greco-Roman Egypt,” in Travel and Religion, ed. Harland, 69–81. See Kenneth G. Holum, “Hadrian and St. Helena: Imperial Travel and the Origins of Christian Holy Land Pilgrimage,” in The Blessings of Pilgrimage, ed. Ousterhout, 66–81. On the view that pilgrimage began prior to Helena see Edward D. Hunt, “Were there Christian Pilgrims before Constantine?” in Pilgrimage Explored, ed. Jennie Stopford (Woodbridge: York Medieval Press, 1999), 25–40.

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Land associated with Scripture. Pilgrimage itineraries soon appeared, telling their readers not only about the spectacles witnessed by the writers but also about the challenges of traveling to their destinations. The itineraries function also as virtual pilgrimages for those unable to make the journey themselves. Seven pilgrims composed their itineraries around the time of the creation of the flight narratives: the Bordeaux pilgrim (Itinerarium Burdigalense, ca. 333– 34), Egeria (Itinerarium Egeriae, ca. end fourth century), Paula and Eustochium (narrated in Jerome’s Epist. 46 and Epist. 108 ad Eustochium, 386), Eucherius of Lyons (De situ Hierusolimae, 444), Archdeacon Theodosios (Theodosii de situ terrae sanctae, 518–30), the Breviarius de Hierosolyma (mid-sixth century), and the Piacenza Pilgrim (Antonini Placentini Itinerarium, 570).13 Only three traveled farther afield than Jerusalem: Egeria visited Galilee, Samaria, and Egypt (including the Sinai), Paula and Eustochium went to Egypt and Nitria, and the Piacenza Pilgrim to Clysma, Qubba, Memphis, and Alexandria. The writers of these early pilgrimage itineraries were all widows and ascetics, so none of them would have been accompanied in their travels by young children of their own, nor do they mention children as being present in their larger company of travelers.14 We do read about family members traveling together (a mother and sister, two sisters), but they did so as adults.15 This silence on children in pilgrimage should not be mistaken for exclusion. In Greek sources, children are noted as being present at the local festivals, in the activities of mystery cults (many of which allowed children to be initiated), and at sporting events, where male children as young as twelve could participate.16 Entire families would take part in Jewish pilgrimage; Jesus twice went to Jerusalem as a child according to Luke (2:22–24, 41–42). Certainly a lengthy trip could make traveling as a family difficult, since some family members would have to stay behind to take care of the household; but it 13

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Helpfully listed (with additional bibliography) in Tobias Nicklas, “Beyond ‘Canon.’ Christian Apocrypha and Pilgrimage,” in The Other Side: Apocryphal Perspectives on Ancient Christian “Orthodoxies,” ed. Tobias Nicklas et  al., NTOA 117 (Göttingen: Vandenhoek & Ruprecht, 2017), 25–26. Excerpts collected in John Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims before the Crusades (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1977). Consider too, in this context, the participation of women in Greek pilgrimage, which, as Matthew Dillon says, is rarely mentioned in scholarship (Pilgrims and Pilgrimage in Ancient Greece [London: Routledge, 1997], 183). The majority of festivals allowed the presence and even participation of women; indeed, some festivals were for women only and took place in secrecy, sometimes at night. Dietz, Monks, Virgins, and Pilgrims, 108–09. Dillon, Pilgrims and Pilgrimage, 200–01.

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remains likely that Christian children joined their parents and/or extended family for pilgrimage. Locations mentioned in Scripture were not the only interest of the pilgrims. Their travels took them also to the homes of living holy men and women, churches and sanctuaries dedicated to saints, and to sites mentioned in apocryphal texts and traditions. Scholars of Christian apocrypha have only begun to examine the intersection of pilgrimage and apocrypha. Tobias Nicklas’s 2017 essay “Beyond ‘Canon’: Christian Apocrypha and Pilgrimage” is the first wideranging look at the apocryphal traditions that appear in the early pilgrimage itineraries. His survey includes the Piacenza Pilgrim’s mention of a synagogue in Nazareth where he saw “the book in which the Lord wrote his ABC” (an allusion to Inf. Gos. Thom. 6 and 14) and a bench that Jesus and other children sat upon that cannot be moved (Plac. Itin. 5). The pilgrim also visited Scythopolis, where miracles were performed by John the Baptist (Plac. Itin. 8), and saw the cross of St. Peter housed in the Basilica of St. Zion (Plac. Itin. 22; related, albeit loosely, to the various martyrdom accounts of Peter), and a field in Jericho sowed by Jesus that yielded a continuous harvest (Plac. Itin. 13; an allusion perhaps to Inf. Gos. Thom. 12, but associated by Nicklas with P. Egerton 2).17 The field is mentioned also twice by Theodosius (1 and 18), along with Sinope as the setting for the Acts of Andrew and Matthias (13), and the Ecclesia Kathismatis, a church built in the mid-fifth century to commemorate where Mary dismounted from her donkey on the way from Jerusalem to Bethlehem (28; cf. Prot. Jas. 17:3). As for locations in Egypt, Piacenza visited the place where Mary rested on the Flight to Egypt (Plac. Itin. 28; cf. perhaps Ps.-Mt. 20–21) and mentions an otherwise unknown tradition about the Holy Family’s stay in Memphis (Plac. Itin. 44). Nicklas’s reliance on the pilgrim itineraries leaves neglected additional holy sites associated with apocryphal texts and traditions, including the Eleona Church, which is built over a cave on the Mount of Olives where Jesus appeared to John (cf. Acts John 97), the Cave of the Nativity (cf. Prot. Jas. 18:1) known to Jerome (Epist. 57.3; cf. Justin, Dial. 78), the Tomb of the Virgin (cf. Dorm. Vir.), and Ain Karim, where Elizabeth and John the Baptist are said to have hidden from Herod’s soldiers (cf. Prot. Jas. 22:3 but explicitly identified in Life Bapt. 17

Nicklas, “Beyond ‘Canon’,” 37–8.

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Serap. 3:9).18 The pilgrims of Nicklas’s study also do not journey to the sites in Rome that commemorate the martyrdoms of Peter and Paul.19 The pilgrims who do make it to Egypt are not aware of the sites described in the apocryphal flight stories. As a result, these tales tend to be neglected by scholars of Christian pilgrimage, though they are examined in detail by scholars of Coptic Christianity, in which these tales were created, transmitted, and expanded over the centuries.

The Flight to Egypt in Christian Apocrypha The apocryphal Christian texts that expand upon the Flight to Egypt range in origin from East to West and from roughly the fifth to eighth centuries, with further expansion in the manuscript tradition and in other literature inspired by these tales written in the centuries thereafter.20 The following discussion is limited to the earliest sources but in full recognition of the fact that more recent traditions are each worthy of study in its own right.21 Christianity came to Egypt sometime in the first century, though the New Testament texts are completely silent about its origins. According to tradition, the mission to Egypt was appointed to the evangelist Mark, though his missionary endeavors are said to be built on preliminary evangelizing by Jesus

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See Joan E. Taylor, Christians and the Holy Places: The Myth of Jewish-Christian Origins (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 96–112, 144–47, 163–65, 200–05; and P. W. L. Walker, Holy City, Holy Places? Christian Attitudes to Jerusalem and the Holy Land in the Fourth Century (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990), 171–84, 207. Additional locations are listed in Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims, 41 no. 140 (but no sources are provided): Mary’s Nativity at the Sheep Pool, her Falling Asleep on Sion, Diocaesarea as the scene of her childhood, Tabgha as the scene of the apostles’ baptism, and Choziba as the place where Mary’s birth was announced to Joachim. Examined in David L. Eastman, Paul the Martyr: The Cult of the Apostle in the Latin West, WGRWSup 4 (Atlanta: SBL Press; Leiden: Brill, 2011). Much of the literature on the flight narratives is comprised of a range of locally produced devotional works, many of which are cited in Gawdat Gabra, ed., Be Thou There: The Holy Family’s Journey in Egypt (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2001), a volume published to commemorate the 2000-year celebration of the flight. One early text not included here is P. Cairo 10735, a single leaf fragment dating from the sixth to seventh century. It contains Mt. 2:13 on one side and Lk. 1:36 on the reverse. Though frequently included in collections of Christian apocrypha (e.g., Bart D. Ehrman and Zlatko Pleše, ed. and trans., The Apocryphal Gospels: Texts and Translations [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011], 241–43), the fragment may be a witness to a homily or a gospel harmony, not an apocryphon. Whatever the case, it does not expand the flight story in any way. Similarly, the Coptic History of Joseph the Carpenter mentions the flight story only briefly (text and trans. in ibid., 157–93), though it does add the details that the family stayed in Egypt for one year and they were accompanied by Salome (8.3).

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during his Egyptian sojourn as a child.22 The embroidery of the flight story begins with Hippolytus, who in his Commentary on Matthew states that the length of the “days which will be cut short” (Mt. 24:22) is three and a half years (cf. Rev 11:2; 12:14), the same length of time Jesus spent in Egypt as a child.23 Eusebius of Caesarea appears to be the first writer to connect the flight narrative to the prophecy of Isaiah 19:1 (“See, the Lord is riding on a swift cloud and comes to Egypt; the idols of Egypt will tremble at his presence, and the heart of the Egyptians will melt within them”), though he is emphatic that the connection is metaphorical (Dem. ev. 6.20, 9.2).24 A similar connection is made in a fourth/fifth-century Coptic papyrus (P. Köln 20912) that combines a prophecy about Egypt’s status above other lands with the Flight to Egypt story.25 The earliest reference to the flight in Christian pilgrimage accounts comes in the History of the Monks in Egypt, attributed by Jerome to Rufinus of Aquileia and composed around 400. It tells of seven pilgrims who traveled to Egypt from Palestine in 394–95. They stopped at Hermopolis where they said the Holy Family came and fulfilled Isaiah 19:1, though here the prophecy reads “the idols of Egypt will be shaken by his presence and will fall on the ground,” and the author says he saw this temple where the idols were destroyed (Hist. mon. 7). Hermopolis is mentioned also in the History of the Church written by Sozomen (ca. 439–50) in Constantinople. He reports a story of a tree called Persis, which was given healing powers by Jesus as a reward for bending down and worshipping him—an event once again linked to Isaiah 19:1 (Hist. eccl. 5.21.8–11). Finally, the fifth-century Life of Shenoute includes an account of Christ appearing to Shenoute and raising a corpse to life; the resurrected man tells of meeting Mary and the infant Jesus in Hermopolis (157). 22 23

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Cornelius Hulsman, “Tracing the Route of the Holy Family Today,” in Be Thou There, ed. Gabra, 32. For discussion of these early sources see Stephen J. Davis, “Ancient Sources for the Coptic Tradition,” in Gabra, ed., Be Thou There, 135–41; Stephen J. Davis, Coptic Christology in Practice: Incarnation and Divine Participation in Late Antique and Medieval Egypt, OECS (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 128–35. Note also the reference to the flight in the sixth/seventh century “rewritten Bible” text the Cave of Treasures: “Know that, when Christ entered Egypt, all the idols within it were cast down, fell upon the ground, and broke, so that there might be fulfilled what is written,” etc. (47:4–5, trans. Alexander Toepel, “The Cave of Treasures: A New Translation and Introduction,” in Old Testament Pseudepigrapha: More Noncanonical Scriptures, vol. 1, ed. Richard Bauckham, James R. Davila, and Alexander Panayotov [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2013], 531–84). Gesa Schenke, “P. Köln 354. Über Ägyptens Sonderstatus vor allen anderen Ländern. Inv. 20912, 4/5. Jh.n. Chr,” in Kölner Papyri Band 8 (P. Köln VIII), ed. Michael Gronewald, Klaus Maresch, and Cornelia Römer (Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1997), 183–200.

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The earliest developed apocryphal narrative of the flight story is likely the tales collected in the Gospel of the Infancy. This text comes in two forms: in Syriac as part of the East Syriac History of the Virgin26 and translated from Syriac into Arabic as the Arabic Infancy Gospel.27 The middle portion of the text (corresponding to Arab. Gos. Inf. 10–24), extant in both the Syriac and Arabic forms, comprises the flight narrative. It begins with a retelling of Matthew 2:13–15 (Arab. Gos. Inf. 9), and then, within a day’s journey, the family arrives in the first of several unnamed Egyptian cities (10–12). While in Egypt the family encounters the two bandits crucified alongside Jesus, here given the names Titus and Dumachus (23). Titus, the good thief, asks Dumachus to let the family pass freely, and Mary blesses him for his kindness. Jesus then utters a prediction of their future meeting at his crucifixion. This encounter with figures from Jesus’ adult career is a motif that is carried through the entire text of Arab. Gos. Inf. (Mary, the mother of Cleopas appears in ch.  27; Thomas/ Bartholomew in 28; Judas Iscariot in 33; Simon the Canaanite/Zealot in 41; and Nathaniel in 43). These encounters bring greater scriptural value to the locations visited by the family, a quality that would be important to Christians on scriptural pilgrimage. The first city the Holy Family enters is host to an idol to whom the other idols and divinities in Egypt are subservient. The family enters the city’s hospital, which is dedicated to the idol, and the earth trembles, causing all of the idols to fall. The people are struck with fear. When the priests and the doctors consult the idol about the source of this fear, the statue responds, “There is a hidden God who has a hidden son like him; because of the arrival of this son in this land, the earth has shaken and trembled, and because of the

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Published from two manuscripts in Ernest A. W. Budge, ed. and trans., The History of the Blessed Virgin Mary and the History of the Likeness of Christ, 2 vols. (London: Luzac & Co., 1899). Additional manuscripts described in Burke, Syriac Tradition, 88–112. Published in two forms: recension S (based on Oxford, Bodleian Library, Bodl. Or. 350) in Heinrich Sike, ed., Evangelium Infantiae; vel, Liber Apocryphus de Infantia Salvatoris; ex manuscripto edidit, ac Latina versione et notis illustravit Henricus Sike (Utrecht: Halman, 1697), and recension L (based on Florence, Biblioteca Laurenziana, codex orientalis 387 [32]) in Mario E. Provera, ed., Il Vangelo arabo dell’infanzia secondo il Ms. Laurenziano orientale (n. 387) (Jerusalem: Franciscan Printing Press, 1973). Recension L appears to be more representative of the original text. The most accessible translation of this text, and the one favored here, is Charles Genequand, “Vie de Jésus en Arabe,” in Écrits apocryphes chrétiens, vol. 1, ed. François Bovon and Pierre Geoltrain (Bibliothèque de la Pléiade 442; Paris: Gallimard, 1997), 207–38. Additional manuscripts are listed in Burke, Syriac Tradition, 112–19. The title “Gospel of the Infancy” is found in the incipits and explicits of the Arabic manuscripts.

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intensity of his light, the gods have fallen” (10:5).28 The priest’s three-year-old son, who is often seized by demons, meets the family at the hospital, places one of Jesus’ swaddling bands on his face and is cured. The boy reports the cure to his father, who then realizes that Jesus must be the Son of God mentioned by the idol, but before he can express his gratitude, the family flees the city, worried that the citizens will burn them with fire. The story, a literal interpretation of Isaiah 19:1, is designed to show the superiority of Jesus to other gods and the conversion of pagan lands to Christianity. But it also bears similarities to the activities of Apollonius, with the young Jesus entering the city and destroying the gods rather than honoring them. Jesus even bests the Egyptian gods by displaying superior abilities to cure the demon-possessed. In the immediate sequel to the tale (13), the family encounters a group of thieves who free their captives and abandon their spoils because they hear a great noise at the approach of the family and think that a king must be nearby attended by a mighty army. They see Joseph and Mary and ask, “Where is the king?” Joseph replies, “After us he will come.” Jesus not only triumphs over rival gods and healing shrines, but he defeats the thieves who prey on pilgrims and other travelers. The remaining Egyptian stories have a much different tone. The family is still restless, moving from city to city, but not in flight—that is, they are not pursued by Herod’s soldiers, though they are exiles, wandering the desert without home. In each town they encounter rulers and nobles, perform healings, and are suitably honored and given provisions before they move to the next. The healings and exorcisms are performed typically through the application of bathwater (17, 18) or by touching the infant (20); one cure is effected simply by Mary looking upon a demon-possessed woman with pity (14). In one tale a mute bride sees Jesus and responds to him with affection: “When Mary entered the village carrying her child, the bride saw her, stretched out her hands, greeted the child, took him, and kissed him (15).”29 In another, a “woman known by everyone” who is attacked at night by Satan in the form of a snake, sees Mary with Jesus and “experiencing a great desire for him” asks 28

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“Il y a un Dieu caché qui a un fils semblable caché auprès de lui; à cause du passage de ce dernier dans cette terre, celle-ci a été secouée et a tremblé; et à cause de l’intensité de sa lumière, les dieux sont tombés,” (Arab. Gos. Inf. 10:5). “Lorsque Marie entra dans le village en portant son infant, la fiancée la vit, étendit les mains, salua l’enfant, le prit et l’embrassa” (Arab. Gos. Inf. 15:2).

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to carry Jesus and kiss him. This time, however, the afflicted woman is cured before Jesus even makes contact with her (16). These encounters are charming in the affection displayed between the women and the infant Jesus, but the portrayal of Jesus that dominates the narrative is less human than divine— wandering from place to place like a god walking the earth—and those he heals approach this stranger with the hope that if indeed he is a god, he will bestow blessings upon them. Another apocryphal flight narrative that circulated in the East forms a large part of the Armenian Infancy Gospel, which also seems to have an origin in, or at least through, Syriac.30 A handful of the stories in this sprawling text have parallels in Arab. Gos. Inf., suggesting that the two drew upon a common pool of tales known in the Syriac milieu; the Egyptian stories, however, have only thematic parallels. After a retelling of Prot. Jas. (chs. 1–14), the narrative shifts to the family’s exile (ch. 15). They move first to Ashkelon, then Hebron, and then to Egypt to escape the soldiers of Herod. For the first time, names are given to the cities visited by the family, along with precise times they spent there. Though the activities of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph are the focus of the text, the family is not alone in their journey. When asked about his travels, Joseph says he “followed acquaintances; at times alone with my household and family” (15.9). The pilgrimages in the New Testament Gospels are similar, with the family accompanied by a “group of travelers” in Luke 2:44 and Jesus and his disciples moving toward Jerusalem with “a large crowd” in Mark 10:46 (and par.). Such a practice is the best and most likely course of travel in antiquity, even if it is not always explicit in the texts and the iconography depicting the flight. “At the many stations where they lodged,” the text reports, “the child Jesus would draw water out of the sand and would offer it to them to drink” (15.3). The water is necessary for their survival but the author is laying the groundwork here for pilgrimage to sites boasting to be the location of a healing spring or a sacred well. Many of the themes observed in Arab. Gos. Inf. are found also in the Armenian text. The family is always on the move, sometimes because of the trouble they stir up in the city, but mostly to continue their 30

The text is extant in over forty manuscripts dating from the early thirteenth to the late nineteenth centuries; the earliest of these forms the basis of Abraham Terian’s English translation, The Armenian Gospel of the Infancy with Three Early Versions of the Protevangelium of James (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008). On evidence for Syriac composition prior to the sixth century see ibid., xxii–xix.

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exilic wandering. Along the way they meet characters from Jesus’ adult career (Eleazar, said to be the father of Lazarus, Mary, and Martha appears in 23–25, again investing the locations with greater scriptural value), temples are destroyed (15–16), and healings performed in order to demonstrate Jesus’ superiority over other gods (17–22). Christians in the West encountered the flight narrative in a Latin expansion of Prot. Jas. known today as the Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew.31 The translation is believed to have been made around the seventh century, and it was extremely popular—extant in almost 200 manuscripts at last count. At ch. 17 in the text the angel tells Joseph to flee to Egypt; then follows a series of stories told on their journey (18–24). The ultimate source of these tales is unknown, though there is some evidence for their circulation prior to the seventh century. In the first story (18–19), the family stop at a cave to cool off. Three boys and one girl accompany them, but no mention of this larger company is made thereafter; they may be present here only to provide a contrast to Jesus, who remains calm when a dragon comes out of the cave, whereas the boys run away in fear. The dragons worship Jesus, an event said to have happened in fulfillment of Psalm 148:7 (“Praise the Lord from the earth, dragons and all the depths”). The story continues with Jesus demonstrating his maturity as a child; he is not yet two years old yet he walks alongside his parents so as not to weigh them down, and when his parents say it would be better for the dragon to eat them than have harm come to Jesus, he says to them, “Do not consider me a small child; for I have always been the perfect man, and I am, and it is necessary that I make tame every kind of wild beast” (18.9). The travelers journey on and additional animals—lions, panthers, and other wild beasts—worship and accompany them, thus fulfilling Isaiah 65:25: “The wolf and lamb will feed together, and the lion and the ox will feed on straw together.” Once again, Jesus is portrayed like a god on earth, speaking with a maturity that belies his age and taming wild beasts. In the next story (20–21), Mary is fatigued and rests beneath a palm tree. Jesus sits in her lap and calls out to the tree to bend down and provide fruit for 31

Text available in the critical edition by Jan Gijsel, ed., Libri de nativitate Mariae: Pseudo-Matthaei Evangelium, textus et commentarius, Libellus de nativitate sanctae Mariae, textus et commentarius, CCSA 9 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1997); partial text and translation in Ehrman and Pleše, ed. and trans, Apocryphal Gospels, 73–113; see also the new translation by Brandon Hawk (employed here), The Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew and the Nativity of Mary, Early Christian Apocrypha 8 (Eugene, OR: Wipf-Stock, forthcoming).

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his mother. He then commands water to spring up from its roots and refresh the family. Jesus rewards the tree by commanding an angel to take one of its branches and plant it in Paradise. The legend bears some similarity to Sozomon’s tale of the tree called Persis; it may be significant that Sozomon connects the worship of the tree to Isaiah 19:1, a passage that features prominently in the next story in Ps.-Mt. (22–24). In this story, the family finally arrive in Egypt, thanks to Jesus shortening a journey of thirty days into one (cf. Arab. Gos. Inf. 9). They come to a town named variously in the manuscripts—Sohennen, Syenem, Shohen, etc.— and therefore difficult to identify.32 Some manuscripts say it is near Hermopolis, an explanation added perhaps from contact with Pseudo-Rufinus. They enter a temple housing 365 idols and the idols fall. The governor, Afrodisius, comes to investigate. He worships Jesus and advises his army and friends to do likewise so that they also will not be destroyed. The text then comes to a close with the angel’s call for the family to return home (Mt. 2:19–20). Additional tales of the family’s time in Egypt are featured in an expanded version of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas assigned the designation Greek D and known also in a Latin translation.33 The expansion entails a brief prologue that appears designed to connect Inf. Gos. Thom. with Prot. Jas.—the title attributes the text to “James, the brother of God” and concludes with a reproduction of the final verse of Prot. Jas. (25). The Egyptian episodes begin with a reproduction of Matthew 2:13, adding the detail that Jesus was two years old when he went to Egypt. Little is said about the journey except for one brief episode: “As they were passing through the grainfields, he began to pluck the heads of grain and eat them” (2). The story is longer in some of the Latin witnesses—one version presents it as an etiology for an unnamed field that “each year that it is to be sown, it returns as many measures of grain to its owner as many seeds as it accepted from him.” The account in the Greek manuscripts may have suffered some loss of text.34 But 32

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Rita Beyers suggests the author meant Syene (now Assuan) or Tanis (Hebrew Soan, now San elHagar) (“The Transmission of Marian Apocrypha in the Latin Middle Ages,” Apocrypha 23 [2012]: 117–40, at 127 n. 41). Published from three manuscripts in Burke, De infantia Iesu, 392–451. The Latin text first appeared in Constantin von Tischendorf, Evangelia Apocrypha, 2nd ed. (1853; Leipzig: Hermann Mendelsohn, 1876), 164–80. For a detailed study of the Flight to Egypt portion of the text see Enrico Norelli, “Gesù ride: Gesù, il maestro di scuola e i passeri. Le sorprese di un testo apocrifo trascurato,” in Mysterium regni ministerium verbi (Mc 4,11; At 6,4). Scritti in onore di mons. Vittorio Fusco, ed. Ettore Franco, Supplementi alla Rivista Biblica 38 (Bologna: EDB, 2001), 653–84. The entire episode is absent in one Latin manuscript, leading Norelli to believe it is an addition to the original cycle of stories (“Gesù ride,” 663–4).

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whether the longer ending is an interpolation or not, it may have some connection to the Field of the Lord in Jericho mentioned in the itineraries of the Piacenza Pilgrim and Theodosius. Once Mary and Jesus reach Egypt, they stay for a year in the house of an unnamed widow. The widow drives them out of her house after Jesus performs a miracle in which he makes a salted fish come to life (3–4). A similar structure is at play in the final story of the prologue, in which Jesus and Mary encounter a teacher, who chases them out of the city after the young Jesus accurately foretells an event (5–7). The prologue comes to a close when the angel of the Lord comes to Mary and tells her to return home (as in Mt. 2:19–20), though the family move first to Capernaum, not Nazareth. This Egyptian prologue is relatively neglected in scholarship, since it appears in a late branch of the Inf. Gos. Thom. tradition, one that cannot be traced earlier than the twelfth century. Still, it has some noteworthy elements—including the theme of constant flight that is present, but not as prevalent, in the other Egyptian narratives; the Holy Family is forever on the move, chased from one city to another. The Flight to Egypt is transformed from an exile story to a full-blown pilgrimage map in the final text in this survey: the Vision of Theophilus.35 The text is little-known in the West, even to Christian apocrypha scholars, but it is highly important in Coptic Christianity as one of several efforts by the late antique Egyptian church to establish Egypt as a new Holy Land with pilgrimage sites on par with those of Palestine.36 Today there are some forty sites on the official pilgrimage map of the Coptic Church, some established only a few decades ago; other sites known only in oral tales are located among those sites.37 The stories associated with the sites typically feature miraculous rescue 35

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Edition and translation of the Syriac text in Alphonse Mingana, “The Vision of Theophilus, Or the Book of the Flight of the Holy Family into Egypt,” BJRL 13 (1929): 383–474 (repr. in Woodbroke Studies, fascicle 5 [Cambridge: W. Heffer & Sons, Ltd., 1931]. The text is not divided into chapters and verses; references here are to page numbers in Mingana’s English translation. Versions exist also in Arabic, Ethiopic, and Garšūnī. Likely the text was composed in Coptic but, until recently, no Coptic witnesses were available. This changed with the discovery of a fragment from the White Monastery published in Alin Suciu, “ ‘Me, This Wretched Sinner’: A Coptic Fragment from the Vision of Theophilus Concerning the Flight of the Holy Family to Egypt,” VC 67 (2013): 436–50. The written and oral stories of the flight are examined in Gabra, ed., Be Thou There; see also the survey in Ashref A. Sadek, “The Place of Qusqam in the Textual Data on the Flight into Egypt,” in Christianity and Monasticism in Middle Egypt: Al-Minya and Asyut, ed. Gawdat Gabra and Hany N. Takla (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2015), 113–21; and Ashref A. Sadek, Un fleuve d’eau vive, 2 vols., Le Monde Copte 34–35 (Limoges: Sadek and Sadek, 2011/2017; a planned third volume has yet to appear). For a comprehensive description of the route see Hulsman, “Tracing the Route” (see also the map on 163). The texts associated with the sites are examined by Davis, “Ancient Sources”; see also Davis, Coptic Christology in Practice, 125–48.

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from some kind of difficulty encountered by the family—such as a tree that provides shade, or a spring that provides water—and each location is marked by a church, monastery, or convent, usually dedicated to Mary. The flight is such an integral part of the identity of Coptic Christianity that some elements of the narrative frequently appear in iconography—showing the mother and child on a donkey and Joseph walking alongside, or the family in a boat on the Nile—and of the six pilgrimage festivals dedicated to Mary, five are held at sites associated with their sojourn in Egypt.38 Vis. Theo. belongs to a genre of texts that feature an apocryphon framed by a homily delivered on a feast day dedicated to the subject of the embedded text; this genre was popular in Egyptian Christianity of the fifth century and was employed to establish festivals and encourage the veneration of saints and angels.39 In Vis. Theo. the Flight to Egypt is narrated by Mary, who appears to Theophilus, the patriarch of Alexandria (r. 385–412), while he was staying at a house on the grounds of Dayr al-Muharraq, a monastery on a holy mountain near the village of Qusqam. The house is said to have been the dwelling of the holy family for six months of their three-and-a-half-year stay in Egypt. Theophilus gives the details of his vision on the feast day of Mary’s dormition. In its earliest extant form, Vis. Theo. features three stories associated with explicitly named sites in Egypt: Tell Basta, al-Ashmunayn, and Qusqam. Tell Basta is celebrated as the first town visited by the Holy Family in a retelling of the story of the fallen idols and the thieves from Arab. Gos. Inf. 10–13.40 In Vis. Theo.’s version of the story, Mary leaves Joseph on the outskirts of Tell Basta and goes with Jesus in search of water. No one in the town comes to their aid, so they re-unite with Joseph only to discover that while he slept, two thieves, one Egyptian and one a Syrian Jew, have stolen Jesus’ sandals. Mary weeps at their misfortune, but she is comforted when Jesus wipes her tears. Then he makes the sign of the cross upon the earth and a spring bubbles up that becomes 38 39

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William Lyster, “Coptic Egypt and the Holy Family,” in Gabra, ed., Be Thou There, 3. The genre is explored in Alin Suciu, The Berlin-Strasbourg Apocryphon: A Coptic Apostolic Memoir, WUNT 370 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017), though Suciu defines the genre with somewhat narrower criteria; nevertheless, Vis. Theo. contains many of the same elements. Hulsman, “Tracing the Route,” 34–38; and Davis, Ancient Sources, 145, 150–51. Another version of the story is found in the Ethiopic Narrative of the Virgin Mary as Told by Herself to Timothy, Patriarch of Alexandria 12 (text and translation in Ernest A. W. Budge, Legends of Our Lady Mary the Perpetual Virgin and Her Mother Hanna, [London: Medici Society, 1922], 86–87 (with a summary in Davis, Ancient Sources, 150). A Coptic version has been edited by Leslie MacCoull, “Holy Family Pilgrimage in Late Antique Egypt: The Case of Qosqam,” JAC 20 (1995): 987–92.

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a place of healing though not, Jesus says, for the inhabitants of the town who refused to help them. When they resume their journey, the temples in the town fall and their idols smash into pieces. The author’s choice of Tell Basta as the location for the story is not accidental. In antiquity it was a thriving and powerful city known for being a center for the worship of Bastet, the cat goddess.41 The city was prominent enough for it to earn Ezekiel’s rebuke (30:17), and Herodotus (2.58–60) documents a festival there for Bastet that drew 700,000 pilgrims. Children came to the city with their parents but were excluded from celebrating the festival, likely because it involved nudity and liberal amounts of drinking. Tell Basta remained an important city into Christian times. Early pilgrims who followed the footsteps of the Holy Family could associate its Christian transformation to Jesus’ visit and when the city went into decline in the seventh century, they could pass by the ruins and attribute its demise to Jesus’ curse on the town and the destruction of its temples. From Tell Basta the family moves on to the second major site: the village of al-Ashmunayn, known in antiquity as Hermopolis.42 The city was associated with the Flight to Egypt as early as the fourth century—as noted earlier, Pseudo-Rufinus identified it as a site where Jesus destroyed a temple and Sozomen as the location of the healing tree Persis. Vis. Theo. also mentions the tree, though here it is named Mukantah. In Vis. Theo. Jesus encounters statues of horses at the gate of the city, which crumble at his presence, and five camels that block the family’s path are turned to stone. When they enter the city, once again all the idols of the town fall to the ground (pp. 21–23). After a brief stop in Qenis, the family reach Qusqam, home to the monastery of Dayr al-Muharraq.43 They were chased out of Qenis by the nobles of the town who were distraught over the destruction of their idols (pp. 23–24). The same happens in Qusqam, where an idol adorned with seven veils falls and the demons within it tell the priests to take rods and axes and drive the family

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Ian Rutherford, “Down-Stream to the Cat-Goddess: Herodotus on Egyptian Pilgrimage,” in Pilgrimage, ed. Jaś Elsner and Ian Rutherford (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 131–49; and Hulsman, “Tracing the Route,” 35. Hulsman, “Tracing the Route,” 92–94; and Davis, Ancient Sources, 138–41. Hulsman, “Tracing the Route,” 106–44; Davis, Ancient Sources, 145–47; Sadek, “Place of Qusqam”; and Angelos al-Muharraqi,“The Monastery of the Holy Virgin Mary at al-Muharraq, Mount Qusqam: History and Heritage (Reflections of Its Monks),” in Christianity and Monasticism in Middle Egypt, ed. Gawdat Gabra and Hany N. Takla, 77–87. According to monastery tradition, the “altar to the Lord in the center of the land of Egypt” of Isa. 19:19 is specifically the altar of this church (ibid., 79).

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out of the town. When Mary weeps over their violent reception, Jesus curses the town, rendering its land and its rulers infertile (pp.  24–26). Outside of town, the family climbs the mountain, where they encounter the two thieves once again, and several aspects of Qusqam pilgrimage are established: an olive tree grows out of Joseph’s staff of olive-wood (p. 26), a healing spring is created out of Mary’s tears (pp. 26–29), the house where the family finds shelter one day becomes a church (pp.  29–30), and the body of a visiting friend of the family, Moses (Yusa in the Arabic versions), who dies on the mountain, is said to reside in the wall of the church there to this day (pp. 30–35).44 Meanwhile, in Jerusalem, Satan appears to Herod, tells him where the family is staying, and instructs him to pursue them with soldiers. After six months, an angel comes to tell Joseph that Herod has died and the family may return home (p. 35; from Mt. 2:19–20). The family heads home on a ship that Jesus creates by making the sign of the cross on the water (p. 37). After a brief recounting of Mary’s death, the vision ends with Mary telling Theophilus to write everything down so that the world knows about the history and miraculous qualities of the house (pp. 39–40). The account of the family’s journey in Vis. Theo. grew over the centuries, both in the text’s manuscript tradition and in other texts that expanded on Vis. Theo.’s itinerary.45 The additional tales typically include sacred wells and signs of the family’s presence, such as the imprint of Jesus’ foot in a stone; in some tellings the family is continually pursued by Herod’s soldiers, providing a greater impetus for their continual movement from one town, one pilgrimage site, to another. The creation of these stories also influenced manuscripts of Arab. Gos. Inf.; in the version edited by Sike there is a tale inserted in which Jesus visits the town of Matariya, in which is located a sacred sycamore tree that grew from where Jesus’ sweat hit the ground and a spring produced by Jesus so Mary could wash his garments (ch.  24 in Sike’s numbering).46 The family then moves on to Memphis where they stay three years (ch. 25).

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Presumably they were present at the time of the writer of Vis. Theo.; at some point, however, they became lost only to be rediscovered (or so it is claimed) during renovations in the church of the monastery in 2000. See Hulsman, “Tracing the Route,” 107. These texts include the Homily of Zacharias and the History of the Patriarchs of the Egyptian Church. See the chart in Davis, Ancient Sources, 150–51. See Davis, Ancient Sources, 152 for a discussion of the variations of the story and tales of pilgrims who visited the site.

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Despite the great distance that separates the Eastern and Western flight traditions there is a surprising amount of commonality between them. The application of Isaiah 19:1 to the fall of the Egyptian idols and the palm tree miracle seem to be integral to the flight tradition, and other elements weave in and out of the sources, such as the presence of the thieves and the creation of springs. Themes also recur: constant movement brought on by pursuit by Herod’s soldiers or the abuse of the townspeople, the Christianization of pagan holy sites, and the portrayal of Jesus as a god wandering among people. All of the texts attempt to satisfy a desire common throughout Christendom for more information about where Jesus went and as the traditions develop, an increasing interest in how one might also journey there.

Concluding Remarks The apocryphal flight narratives offer readers windows into aspects of Christian self-understanding, myth-building, literary creativity, and pilgrimage practices. The Holy Family wanders like the Israelites of old and like the Christians who think of themselves as strangers in the world. Jesus’ travels in Egypt fill in details missing from the canonical Gospels but demonstrate a consistency with the adult Jesus who similarly journeys from place to place, proclaiming his divine origins and his superiority over other gods and other ways of worshipping the gods, struggling against human and demonic adversaries, healing with his touch, controlling the forces of nature, and demonstrating his uncanny wisdom. With the growth of interest in following in Jesus’ footsteps, the flight narratives began a continual process of expansion, integrating already existing pilgrimage sites into the route and introducing new ones. Naturally these sites are of greatest interest to Egyptian Christians who think of their world as an extension of the Holy Land and have more ready access to Egyptian pilgrimage sites than to those in Jerusalem. Unfortunately, this regional interest in the flight narratives has led to a neglect of the texts, not only in the study of Christian apocrypha but also in the study of pilgrimage, which appears more comfortable with the realism of the Jerusalem itineraries than the surrealism of the Egyptian apocrypha.

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To be fair, the flight narratives are bare in historical detail about the experience of pilgrimage, particularly about traveling with children. Concern is shown about the dangers of banditry, the need to travel in groups, and the life of the outcast—the mistrust, the anxiety that attends dislocation from one’s home and culture. But it would be difficult for parents to recognize their experiences with their own children in these texts, because Jesus is no ordinary child—he tames beasts, walks and talks like an adult, and his every word and touch, even simply his presence, produces a miracle. Some of the stories show an affectionate side to Jesus’ interactions with his parents and the people they encounter—a kiss, a warm embrace, words of encouragement, help in time of need—but for the most part there is little in these texts that tells the reader what it was like to travel as a family in antiquity. Nevertheless, the flight narratives were extremely popular in the East and West; Vis. Theo. remains so, with an authority in Coptic Christianity almost on par with the texts of the canon. Like other apocryphal texts, it fills needs unsatisfied by the canonical Gospels, enabling Egyptian Christians to connect with the life of Jesus in profound ways, providing them with the means to walk where Jesus walked, and demonstrating the importance of their land in redemption history.

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Wilson, Stephen M. Making Men: The Male Coming-of-Age Theme in the Hebrew Bible. New York: Oxford University Press, 2015. Wilson, Walter T. “Works of Wisdom (Matt 9, 9–17; 11, 16–19).” ZNW 106, no. 1 (2015): 1–20. Winter, Bruce W. After Paul Left Corinth: The Influence of Secular Ethics and Social Change. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001. Woodhead, Martin. “Childhood Studies: Past, Present and Future,” in An Introduction to Childhood Studies, edited Mary Jane Kehily, 17–34. Maidenhead, UK : Open University Press, 2009. Wright, David. Out, In, Out: Jesus’ Blessing of the Children and Infant Baptism in Dimensions of Baptism: Biblical and Theological Studies. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 2002. Yamada, Frank M. “Constructing Hybridity and Heterogeneity: Asian American Biblical Interpretation from a Third-Generation Perspective.” In Ways of Being, Ways of Reading: Asian American Biblical Interpretation, edited by Mary F. Foskett and Jeffrey Kah-Jin Kuan, 164–77. St. Louis: Chalice, 2006. Yamauchi, Edwin M., and Marvin R. Wilson. Dictionary of Daily Life in Biblical and Post-Biblical Antiquity, Vol. 1–4. Peabody, MA : Hendrickson, 2014–16. Yarbrough, O. Larry. “Parents and Children in the Letters of Paul.” In The Social World of the First Christians: Essays in Honor of Wayne A. Meeks, edited by L. Michael White and O. Larry Yarbrough, 126–41. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995. Yetter, Deborah. “Kentucky’s ‘child bride’ bill is revised amid outrage on social media.” Louisville Courier Journal March 5, 2018. https://www.courier- journal.com/story/ news/2018/03/05/child-bride-marriage-kentucky-legislation-revised/396031002/ Yoder, Christine Roy. Wisdom as a Woman of Substance: A Socioeconomic Reading of Proverbs 1–9 and 31:10–31. Berlin: de Gruyter, 2001. Yoder, Christine Roy. Proverbs. AOTC . Nashville: Abingdon, 2009. Yoder, Christine Roy. “Shaping Desire: A Parent’s Attempt.” JP 33, no. 4 (2010): 54–61. York, John. The Last Shall Be First: The Rhetoric of Reversal in Luke. JSNTSup 46. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1991. Young-Bruehl, Elisabeth. Childism: Confronting Prejudice against Children. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2012. Zelizer, Viviana. Pricing the Priceless Child. New York: Basic Books, 1985. Zuck, Roy B. Precious in His Sight: Childhood and Children in the Bible. Cedar Rapids, IA : Baker, 1996.

444

Scripture Index Hebrew Bible Genesis 1–3 33 1:26 158–60, 163 1:26–27 155, 156, 158–60, 163, 175 1:27 158, 159, 163, 175 1:28–29 266 2:18–23 271 2:23 75, 163 3:22 149 4:1 74, 163 4:1–16 163 4:2 77, 163 4:11–12 159 4:17 163 4:20 163 4:21 163 4:22 163 4:25 163 5:3 158, 159, 160 6–9 32 6:19 163 7:2 163 7:3 163 7:9 163 7:16 163 9:6 158 10:15 163 14:24 161 16:11 164 16:15 164 16:16 164 17:12 163 17:15–21 164 17:19 164 17:21 164 18:7 133 18:9–15 164 19:4 135

19:31 78 19:33 78 19:34 78 19:37 78, 164 19:38 164 21 20 21:2–8 164 21:8 55 21:9 164 21:9–13 164 21:9–20 164 21:10 164 21:11 164 21:12 134 21:13 164 21:14 164 21:15 164 21:16 164 21:17 164 21:18 164 21:19 164 21:20 164 22 205 22:1–4 77 22:2 133, 140, 164 22:2–19 164 22:3 164 22:3–5 161 22:5 133, 140, 164 22:6 133, 164 22:7 164 22:8 164 22:9 164 22:10 164 22:12 133, 164 22:13 164 22:16 164 22:20–23 164 22:23 164 22:24 164 24 211, 216

445

446 24:14 164 24:14–60 164 24:16 164 24:23 164 24:24 164 24:28 164 24:30 164 24:36 164 24:43 164 24:47 164 24:48 164 24:55 164 24:57 164 24:59 164 24:60 164 25:2 164 25:8 56 25:13 164 25:17 56 25:25 165 25:26 165 25:27 165 27:2 134 29:6 165 29:16 165 29:16–30 78 29:18 165 29:26 78 29:32 165 29:33 165 29:34 165 29:35 165 30:5–6 165 30:7–8 165 30:10–11 165 30:11 75 30:12–13 165 30:14 165 30:14–16 165 30:15 165 30:16 165 30:17–18 165 30:19–20 165 30:21 75, 165 30:23–24 165 31:36 171 33:2 165 33:5 76 33:7 165

Scripture Index 33:13 133 34:1 166 34:1–26 166 34:1–31 165 34:2 166 34:3 166 34:4 168 34:5 166 34:7 166 34:8 166 34:12 166 34:13 166 34:14 166 34:17 166 34:19 134, 166 34:20 166 34:24 166 34:26 166 34:27 166 34:31 166 35:17–18 166 35:18 166 35:29 56 36:4 166 36:5 166 36:12 166 37:2 161, 166 38:3 166 38:4 166 38:5 166 38:9 104 38:11 166 38:27 166 38:27–30 166 38:29 166 38:30 166 41:50–51 166 41:52 166 42:12–43:34 166 42:13 166 42:15 166 42:20 166 42:22 166 42:32 166 42:34 166 43:8 166 43:29 166 43:33 166 44:2 166

Scripture Index 44:12 44:20 44:22 44:23 44:26 44:27 44:30 44:31 44:32 44:33 44:34 46:9 46:10 46:11 46:12 46:13 46:14 46:15 46:16 46:17 46:20 46:21 46:23 46:24 48:1 48:1–20 48:5 48:8 48:9 48:11 48:14 48:16 48:18 48:19 49:33

166 166 166 166 166 167 166 166 166 166 166 165 165 165 165, 166 165 165 165 165 165 167 166 165 165 167 167 167 167 167 167 167 167 167 167 56

Exodus 2 193, 217, 218 2:2 140 2:6 140 2:6–10 135 10:9 135 13:2 91 13:12–13 91, 94 13:13 91 15:21 169 19:3–6 268 20:12 205 22:24 [22:23 MT] 167

447

22:29–30 [22:28–29 MT] 91–96 23:19 91 29:37 325 30:14 202 34:19–20 91, 94, 106 34:20 91, 93 Leviticus 6:18 325 12:2 163 12:5 163 12:7 163 18:21 77, 107 20:1–5 107 20:3 77 23:10 91 26:29 169 27:3–5 202 27:26 91 Numbers 1:3 202 1:18 202 3:11–13 91 3:13 91 3:40–51 91 8:13–18 91 8:14–19 91 11:12 158 14:29 202 14:34 382 15:20–21 326 18:13–18 106 18:15 91 20:24 56 20:26 56 26:2 202 32:11 202 Deuteronomy 1:39 202 4:9–10 2 6:1–7 2 7:3 330 11:19–21 12:20–31 14:22–29 15:19 91 15:19–20

2 77 105 91, 106

448

Scripture Index

15:19–23 105 15:20–21 326 18:4 91 18:10 77 28:22 171 28:53–57 169, 182 32:6 157 32:18 158 Judges 8 217 5:2–31 169 8:20–21 72, 204 9:2–14 169 11:29–40 77 13–16 217 Ruth 3:1–5

19:12 19:13 21:10 21:13

155, 156–57, 175 157 171 171

2 Kings 2–8 20 2:23–24 202 3 99 3:26–27 77, 107 4:1 167 4:1–7 167 5 21 5:1–19 21 6:24–31 169, 193 6:26–30 182 23:10 107 25:1–11 187

78

1 Samuel 1–3 207 1:11 94, 133 1:20 75 1:22 134 1:22–24 95 1:24 55 2:1–10 169 2:17 134 3 207, 217 4:21 134 16–17 21 17 74, 217 17:53 171 18:17–21 78 30:17 140 2 Samuel 3:3 164 18:5 140 1 Kings 1–2 217, 218 2:2–9 213 3 217, 218, 219 15:2 164 15:10 164 15:13 164 17 21

1 Chronicles 2:48 164 3:2 164 7:15–16 164 8:29 164 12:29 140 Ezra 9–10

218

Nehemiah 11:1 326 11:18 326 13:25 330 Esther 1:11–2:4 129 2:1 129 2:5–7 118–19, 120 2:6 119 2:7 128 2:10 119 2:11 119 2:15 129 3:1–4 122 4 117, 120, 124, 125, 128 4:1–2 121 4:2 121 4:13–14 121, 124 4:14 117, 121, 122, 129

Scripture Index 4:16 117, 124 5:1 125, 129 9:13 125 9:16–17 125 Job 1:5 1:11 1:19 1:21 2:5 2:9 8:4 19:17 42:10

140, 171 171 135, 140 133 171 171 148 133 148

Psalms 9 168 9:19–20 168 10 167–74 10:1 168,171 10:2 169, 171 10:3 171 10:4 171 10:5 172 10:6 [LXX 9:27] 172 10:7 172 10:8 [LXX 9:29] 172 10:8–10 169, 172 10:9 172 10:10 172 10:11 172 10:12 172 10:13 172 10:14 158, 168, 173, 175 10:14b 168, 173 10:15 173 10:16 173 10:17 173 10:18 169, 173 104:24 [103:24 LXX] 250 109:9 167 127:3–5a 76 131:2 158 148:7 390 Proverbs 1–9 142, 145, 146, 147, 149 1:1 131, 133, 139, 140

1:1–6 137 1:1–7 138 1:4 134, 140 1:6 137 1:8 131, 132, 133, 134, 139, 148, 153 1:8–19 143,144 1:9 148 1:10 131,132, 134, 139, 146 1:10b 148 1:10–12 146 1:10–18 131 1:10–19 147 1:11 133 1:15 131, 132, 134, 148 1:19 149 1:20–21 131 1:20–33 147 2:1–5 132 2:10–12 151 3:1 132, 153 3:11 132 3:11–12 153 3:18 149 3:21 132 4:1 131, 153 4:3 131, 132, 133, 134, 135, 137, 139, 142 4:5 153 4:10 131, 132, 153 4:20 153 5:1 132, 153 5:7 153 5:20 131 6:1 131, 142 6:3 131, 142 6:20 131, 132, 134, 142 7:1–5 132 7:4 132, 154 7:4–5 133 7:20 132 7:24 153 8 140 8–9 250 8:1–8 142 8:2 146 8:22 139 8:30 131, 158, 174–75 8:30a 156

449

450 8:31 131 8:32 153 9:1 146 9:1–6 147 9:2 146 9:5 146 9:13 146 9:13–18 147 9:14 146 9:17 146, 149 9:18 149 10–31 136 10:1 131, 136, 141, 150, 151 10:5 131, 141, 150 13:1 152 13:3 142 13:13 151 13:22 131 13:24 131, 153 14:21 151 15:5 151 15:20 136, 150, 151 15:29 151 16:5 151 17:2 150 17:6 131, 140 17:25 136, 151 18:8 133 18:12 151 19:13 136, 151 19:13–14 150 19:18 131 19:26 131, 132, 136 19:27 136 20:7 151 20:11 134 20:20 132, 151 20:27 133 20:30 133 21:14 151 22:6 134, 135, 140, 142 22:15 132, 134, 142 23:13 131, 134 23:14 153 23:15–18 136 23:19 136, 153 23:22 132, 136, 151 23:24 136 23:25 132

Scripture Index 23:26 136, 148 24:21 136 25:1 133 25:2 142 26:4–5 141, 144, 148 27:11 131, 136 28:24 151 29:15 131, 132, 134, 151, 153 29:17 131 29:27 142 30:1 131, 133, 139 30:1–4 154 30:1–33 142 30:4 131, 139 30:11 151 30:21–23 151 31:1 131, 139 31:1–2 131, 139 31:2 133, 135 31:10–31 142, 143, 147 Ecclesiastes 3:4 248, 260 7:8 148 Isaiah 11:9 326 19:1 386, 388, 391, 396 19:19 394 20:4 77 26:19 246 30:27–33 77 35:5–6 246 40:18 252 40:25 252 42 148 42:7 246 42:13–14 158 46:3–4 158 47 186 49:26 169 61:1 246 63:3 172 63:6 172 63:16 157 64:8 157 65:25 390 66:12–13 158

Scripture Index 4:5

Jeremiah 3:4 157 6:11 77 7:31 77 15:10 203 19:5 77 19:9 169, 182 26:11 203 31:9 157 32:35 107 51:13 171

Ezekiel 1:26 159 5:10 169, 182 16:4–5 103 20:21 95 20:25–26 95, 106 30:17 394

158

Joel 3:3 [4:3 MT] Micah 5:1 7:6 Haggai 2:11–14

324

Zechariah 8:5 168 Malachi 1:6 2:10

168

153 305

157 157

247

Deutrocanonical Books

Lamentations 2 193, 194, 195 2:20 169, 170, 194 3:1 153 4 193, 194 4:3 195 4:10 169, 170, 182, 195 5:3 167 5:11 194

Hosea 11:3–4

451

Tobit 1:9 210 1:18–19 211 2:1–4 211 2:3 209 2:10 211 2:11–14 211 4 212 4:4 209 4:5 209 5 215 5:2–3 211 5:3 213, 216 5:5 212, 216 5:7 212, 216 5:7–16 211 5:10 213, 216 6–12 201, 208, 214–16, 218, 219 6 210, 215 6:1 209, 210 6:2 213 6:3 209, 210 6:4 210 6:6 210 6:7 210 6:14–15 213 6:18 212 7 201, 210, 211, 212 7:1 209, 212 7:2 209, 212 7:7 209 7:9 212 7:11 212 7:11–13 211 7:15 213 8 210 8:1 210 8:2 210 8:3 218 8:21 213 9:1–4 212 9:6 210 10:7 212 10:8 210 10:9 212

452

Scripture Index

10:12 209 11 201, 215 11:9 209, 215 11:11 213, 215 12:2 212, 215 14 212, 213 14:2 200, 209 14:2–3 209 14:3 209, 210 14:4 213 14:8 209, 213 14:11 219 Judith 16:22

56

Wisdom of Solomon 3:11 250 9:9 250 14:5 250 Sirach 4:2 171 24 250 38:16 171 1 Maccabees 14:30 56 2 Maccabees 7:27 55 4 Maccabees 193, 206, 219 8–18 195 11:24 219 14:11 219 I Enoch 42:2

250

New Testament Matthew 1–2 233 1:17 247 1:23 234 1:27 234 2 245, 261 2:8 233

2:9 233 2:11 233 2:13 233, 234, 385, 391 2:13–15 380, 387 2:14 233 2:16 234 2:18 234, 248 2:19–20 380, 391, 392, 395 2:19–21 380 2:20 233 3:2 246, 272 3:12 246 4:17 272 5–7 250 5:16 250 7:9–11 296, 308 8 302 8–9 250, 301 8:5–13 236, 296 8:6 236, 301 8:8 301 8:9 301 8:13 301 8:21–22 296 9:1–8 235 9:14–15 249 9:18–26 235, 260 9:20–22 235 9:24 260 10 250 10:7 272 10:19 299 10:34–36 296 10:35 308 10:37 296, 308 10:42 234 11:2 246, 250 11:2–19 246 11:16 247, 248, 252 11:16–17 296 11:16–19 245 11:17 248 11:19 250 12:27 296 12:39 247 12:41 247 12:42 247 12:45 247 13:24 247

Scripture Index 14:1–12 235, 260 14:13–21 364 14:21 236 15:21–28 235 16:4 247 17:14–21 235 17:17 247 18:1–5 254 18:3 234 18:6 296 18:23 247 19:1–6 234 19:6 316 19:13 49 19:13–15 26, 234, 254, 269 19:14 271 19:14–15 234 22:2 247 22:30 343 23:1–5 250 23:3 250 23:5 247, 250 23:7 247 23:36 247 24:22 386 24:34 247 25:1 247 26:10 250 26:75 248 Mark 2:1–10 235 2:5 235 3:34–35 196 4:30 247 5:21 235 5:21–43 235 5:25–34 235 5:38 248 5:39 248 6:17–29 235 6:30–44 364 7:24–30 26, 235 9:14–29 26, 235 9:33–37 234 9:36 234 9:43–44 234 10:13–15 234, 269 10:13–16 25, 26, 205, 234, 269

10:14 205, 270 10:14–16 234 10:17–22 196 10:28–30 196 10:46 389 12:25 343 13 195 13:1 195 13:1–4 187 13:7 195 13:8 195 13:12 196 13:14 196 13:17 196 13:34 250 14:6 250 14:66 236 14:66–72 236 14:69 236 14:72 248 16:10 248 Luke 1–2 233 1:7 234 1:27 234 1:32–33 268, 271, 273 1:33 271 1:36 385 1:36–45 233 1:44 233 1:46–55 169, 271, 280 1:48 247 1:57–66 233 1:59 234 1:62 277 1:66 234 1:76 234 1:76–77 274 1:80 234 2:7 285 2:11 276 2:12 233, 273 2:16 233, 234 2:17 234 2:22–24 383 2:27 234 2:30 275, 276 2:34 273

453

454

Scripture Index

2:40 234 2:41–42 383 2:41–52 27 2:43 234 2:44 389 2:48 234 2:49 234, 277 Q 3:7 301 3:8 296 3:17 246 3:21–22 296 4:3 296 4:9 296 4:21 276 4:43 272 5:17–26 235 5:33–34 249 6:17–49 261 6:20 266, 270, 271, 273, 275, 278, 281 6:20–25 270 6:21 261 6:24–26 287 6:25 261 6:27–28 296 6:35 296 6:35c-d 296 6:36 277 7 302 7:1–10 236, 296 7:2 301 7:7 236, 301 7:8 301 7:10 301 7:13 261 7:18–35 246 7:20 246 Q 7:22 303 Q 7:24 301 7:28 262 Q 7:29–30 307 7:31 247, 248, 252 7:31–32 296, 297, 296 7:31–35 245 7:32 248, 251, 262 Q 7:34 307 7:35 250, 251, 296 7:44–46 286 8:21 265, 278, 288

8:40–56 235 8:43–48 235 8:52 261 9:2 262 9:10–17 364 9:26 277 9:27 275 9:35 277 9:37–42 235, 262 9:41 262 9:42 277 9:46 283 9:46–48 234, 254 9:46–50 254, 278 9:47 234, 288 9:48 262 9:57 296 Q 9:57–58 297 9:59 277, 298 9:59–60 296 9:61 308 9:61–62 296 9:62 275 10:2–16 298 10:8–11 272 10:9 275 10:21–22 277, 296 Q 10:21–24 299 10:34 285 11:2 277 11:2b–4 296 Q 11:9–13 299 11:11 299 11:11–13 296, 308 11:13 277 11:14 246, 277 11:16 273 11:19 296 Q 11:19–20 292 11:20 272, 275, 280 11:27–28 294 11:28 265, 278, 288 11:29–32 247 Q 11:31–32 307 11:48 250, 251 11:50–51 247 12:30–32 277 12:32 272 12:49–53 296

Scripture Index 12:51–53 277, 307 12:53 308 13:18 247 Q 13:18–21 307 13:20 247 13:28–29 275 13:34–35 287, 296 14:15–24 286 14:26 279, 296, 308 Q 14:26–27 307 Q 15:4–10 307 15:12 277 Q 15:53 294 16:8 247 16:27–28 277 17:1–2 234, 296 17:20 273, 281 17:20–21 272 17:21 272, 275 17:25 247 Q 17:26–30 307 17:27 343 Q 17:34–35 307 18:15–17 234, 254, 266, 267, 269, 272, 273, 274, 275, 279, 283, 288 18:16 265, 266, 269, 270, 271, 273, 278, 280 18:17 273, 274, 275 18:20 277 18:24 276 18:24–30 275 18:27 276 19:9 275 20:34–35 343 21:7 273 21:32 247 22:25–26 285 22:26 272, 280 22:28–30 271, 272 22:29 277 22:42 277 23:8 273 23:34 277 23:46 277 24:19 250 24:49 277 John 1:1–4

174

2:19–22 187 4:46–54 236 4:47 236 4:51 236 6:1–15 364 6:9 236, 364 21 236 Acts of the Apostles 2:17 269 2:38–39 269 2:38–41 274 2:42–47 266, 281, 285 2:44–47 266, 285 2:45 287 4:31 278 4:32 286 4:32–37 266, 285 6:2 278 8:12 274 8:36–38 274 9:17–19 274 9:43 324 10:2 277 10:25–26 324 10:28 324 11:14 277 16:15 274, 277 16:31–34 277 16:33 274 18:8 274, 277 19:3–5 275 Romans 1:3 237 1:4 237 1:7 317, 318, 326 1:9 237 5:5 323 5:10 237 8:3 237 8:16 237 8:17 237 8:21 237 8:22–25 195 8:27 318 8:29 237 8:32 237 9:5 311

455

456

Scripture Index

9:6 327 9:6–13 311 11:5–6 318 11:11–15 327 11:16 311, 315, 318, 325–29 11:16a 326 11:16b 326, 327 11:16–24 328 11:17–24 326, 327 11:23 327 11:26 327 11:28 327 12:13 318 14:14 324 14:17 323 15:13 323 15:16 325, 326 15:25 318 15:31 318 16:2 318 16:3 311 16:5 313 16:10 311, 313 16:13 311 16:15 318 1 Corinthians 1:2 312, 317, 318, 325, 328, 329 1:9 237 1:16 311, 316 3:1 238 3:1–2 313 4:14–21 237, 313 5:1–5 311 5:11 332 6:1–2 318 6:9–10 320 6:11 312, 320, 328, 329 6:12–20 323 6:15 320 6:16 327 6:19 323 7 238, 315, 320, 337, 341 7:1 337 7:1–16 306 7:10–11 312, 316, 319 7:12–13 312, 318, 319, 329 7:12–14 312

7:12–16 311, 312, 316, 318, 320, 330, 332, 351 7:14 28, 238, 311–19, 321, 322, 324, 325, 327–29, 332, 333 7:15 322 7:15–16 312, 319 7:16 319, 328, 332 7:25 311, 337, 338, 339, 344 7:25–31 352 7:25–38 339 7:26 337 7:28 338 7:29–31 311 7:34 325, 338 7:36 336 7:36–38 238, 335–37, 338, 341, 342, 343, 345–48, 351 7:37 340, 344, 353, 357 7:39 322, 324 8:4–7 329, 332 8:7 329 8:7–13 329 10:1 326 10:1–13 332 10:14 332 10:21–22 333 10:23–33 332 10:27–28 28, 329 10:28 332 11:27 333 11:29 333 11:30 333 12:2 329 12:3 323 13:11 311 14:16 320 14:20 238, 328 14:23 320 14:23–25 320 16:1 318 16:15 318 16:19 311 2 Corinthians 1:1 318 1:19 237 3:7 311 3:13 311

Scripture Index 6:6 323 6:11 313 6:14–7:1 324 8:4 318 9:1 318 9:12 318 12:14b–15a 313 Galatians 1:16 311 2:20 237 3:25–29 237 4 190 4:4 237, 311 4:6 237 4:7 237 4:19 237, 313 4:22 311 4:28 311 6:10 237 Ephesians 5:18–33 332 5:21–6:9 28, 238 6:1–4 315 Philippians 1:1 318 2:22 313 4:21 318 Colossians 3:18–4:1 28, 238 3:19–21 315 4:15 311 1 Thessalonians 1:5 323 1:10 237 2:7 237, 313 2:11 237, 313 3:13 318 4:8 323

457

5:23

312

2 Thessalonians 1:10 318 1 Timothy 2:8–15 238 3:4 315 3:12 315 5 28 5:1–2 238 5:4 315 5:8 315 6:1–2 238 2 Timothy 1:5 239, 315 3:15 239 Titus 1:6 315 2:1–10 238 2:4 28, 315 Philemon 2 311 Hebrews 5:13

29

1 Peter 1:14 29 3 316, 317 1 John 2

29

2 John 1

29

Revelation 11:2 386 12:1–6 195 12:14 386

458

Other Ancient Sources Ancient Near East Texts CAD D 107 80 L 45–46 80 L 46 LKA 62 r.3 S. 121 81 PBS 8/2 107

m. Ketuboth 3.8 229 m. Niddah 5:6, 7, 8 229 5:9 230

80

m. Qiddushin 2:1 321

81

Proto-Diri 73 d–f

m. Yebamoth 6:10 229 10:9 230

80

Šumma Izbu I:74 80 I:113 80

Sanhedrin 107b

380

TCL 9 57:3

Shabbat 104b

380

TIM 54

81

Toledot Yeshu 101 380

81

Dead Sea Scrolls

Early Christian Writings

Community Rule 4Q258 310 4Q259 310

Acts of Andrew 2 371 4 370 5 371 14–17 370 17–24 371 26 371 27 371 56 371 57 373

Zadokite Fragment 4Q266 310 4Q270 310 Rabbinic Works Lamentations Rabbah m. Aboth 5:21

229

195 Acts of Andrew and Matthias 13 384 28 384

459

460

Other Ancient Sources

Acts of John 34 373 47 369 48–53 369 63–83 370 88–89 374 97 384 113 370 Acts of Paul and Thecla 7 362 10 362 18 362 20 362 22 364 23 362, 363 25 364 26 362 27 364 28 365 29 365 34 362, 365 35 365 38 362 39 365 40 362 Acts of Peter BG 4, 128 BG 4, 131 BG 4, 132 BG 4, 135 17 18 20 21 34 36

371 371 374 374 370 371

Acts of Thomas 10 369 12 372 13 369 16 369 28 372 62 373 63 371 77 371

367 366 366, 371 366

79 81 108

375 371 375

Actus Vercellences 4 368 9–12 368 12 368 15 367–68 Arabic Infancy Gospel 9 387, 391 10–12 387 10–13 393 10–24 387 10:5 388 13 388 14 388 15 388 15:2 388 16 389 17 388 18 388 20 388 23 387 24 395 25 395 27 387 28 387 33 387 41 387 43 387 Armenian Infancy Gospel 1–14 389 1.9 389 15 389 15–16 390 15.3 389 15.9 389 17–22 390 23–25 390 Augustine De Bono Conjungali 11–12 346 De Bono Viduitatis 6–7 346

Other Ancient Sources De Sancta Virginitate

Jerome Epistulae 46 383 57.3 384 108 383

346

Cave of Treasures 47:4–5 386 Epiphanius Adversus Haereses 2.385 346

John Chrystostom Homily 19 on 1 Corinthians 7

Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew 17 390 18–19 390 18–24 390 18.9 390 20–21 390 22–24 391 Dormition of the Virgin

On Virginity LXXVII 1.11

Life of Shenoute 157 386

384

Origen Contra Celsum 1.28 380 Papyri P. Cairo 10735 P. Egerton 2 P. Köln 20912

Hippolytus Commentarium in evangelium Matthei 24:22 386 History of Joseph the Carpenter History of the Monks in Egypt 7 386 387

Infancy Gospel of Thomas (Greek A) 6 384 6–8 376 6:8-10 375 12 384 13–14 376 14 384 Infancy Gospel of Thomas (Greek D) 2 391 3–4 392 5–7 392

346

Justin Dialogue with Trypho 78 384

Eusebius of Caesarea Demonstratio evangelica 6.20 386 9.2 386

History of the Virgin

461

385

385 384 386

Protevangelium of James 17:3 384 18:1 384 22:3 384 25 391 Serapion Life of John the Baptist 3:9 384 Sozomen Historia ecclesiastica 5.21.8–11 386 Vision of Theophilus 392 21–23 394 24–26 394, 395 26 395 26–29 395 29–30 395 30–35 395 35 395

347

462

Other Ancient Sources Cicero Orations Philippics 13.24 253

37 395 39–40 395 Tertullian Ad Uxorem 2.5-7 332

Galen On the Doctrines of Hippocrates and Plato VIII.6.25–28 203

Theodoret Interpretatio Epistula 1 ad Corinthios Capitulus VII 345

Herodotus Historiae 2.58–60

Greco-Roman Literature Apollonius of Tyana Vita Apolloniaus

Hierocles On Duties: On Marriage 4.22.21–24 331

382

Aristotle De generatione animalium 1.728a17 203

Hippocrates 226 De Hebdomadibus 5.25–30 204

Historia animalium 7.588a31 203

Historia Augusta Severus 1.4 258

Oeconomica 33, 265, 288 I.1.1 277 I.1.5 277 I.1.10 278 I.3.1 279 Politics 306 1.1253b 190 1335a.xvi.9 204 I.ii.6-7 205 II.vi.5/1269.b.15-19 Problemata 8.20.889al5 10.45.895b30 Rhetoric III.10.7

394

Homer Odyssey 15.343

381

Josephus Jewish Antiquities 18.1.5 310 306

Jewish Wars 2.8.2 310 6.201–213 182

203 203

340

Callicratidas Peri Oikon Eudiamonias Catullus, Tibullus, Pervigilium Verneris 3.12.1-5, 14-15 331

340

Justinian Digest 23.1.9 23.1.14 23.2.4 23.2.19

240 348, 349 229, 348, 349 349 353

Marcus Aurelius Meditations 5.11 253

Other Ancient Sources

463

Masonius Rufus Oratio 14.20–32 331

Rufus apud Oribasius Collectiones medicae 18.1–2 353

Philo 225 De vita Contemplativa 52 226

Seneca De Constantia 253 12.1–2 254 Sophecles Oedepus Tyrannus 340

De congressu 78–88 225 82 226

Epistulae 118.14

De opificio mundi 103–104 225 105 203, 226

Timoleon 70d

Hypothetica 11.14 310 Philostratus Vita Apollonii 5.25–6.23 382

340

Soranus 342 Gynecology I.20 349 I.22 341 I.22.3 342 Tibullus Elegies 3.12.1–4, 14–15

Plato Epistulae 8.355C 203 Leges 4.710A 7.808DE 12.963E

253

331

Valerius Memorable Deeds and Sayings 203 203 203

The Republic

306

Pliny Naturalis Historia 5.73 310 Plutarch Moralia 140D

330, 333

Polybius Histories 36.17.7

102

Xenophon Oeconomica VII.8 331 XI.8 Late Antique and Medieval Literature (Pseudo-)Antonius of Piacenza Itinerarium 5 384 8 384 13 384 22 384 28 384 44 384 Breviarius de Hierosolyma

Praecepta Salubria 8–12 341

346

Itinerarium Egeria

383

383

464

Other Ancient Sources

(Pseudo-) Eucherius of Lyons De situ Hierusolimae 383 Itinerarium Burdigalense

383

Theodosius De situ terrae sanctae 1 384 18 384 28 384

Subject Index abandoned/abandoning children 192, 194, 332 abandonment 102–04, 106, 183 See also exposure adolescent 37, 70, 72–74, 78, 134, 140, 224, 231–32, 300, 305, 369 adoption 23, 79, 80, 81, 125 Apocrypha 200, 207, 219, 240 apocryphal 26, 31, 32 archaeology 14, 16, 33, 53–54, 67, 82, 86–89, 90, 242–43 Augustan marriage laws 348–51, 353 Bethlehem 245, 381, 384 bibliography 10, 18, 101, 383 biology 43, 68–70, 73–74, 224–33, 243 bogeret 229 boyhood 201, 203–06, 208, 210, 216, 217, 219, 229 cannibalism 77, 169 child-centered 35, 39, 40, 41, 43, 44, 46, 57, 58, 60, 61, 62, 246, 262, 292, 293, 295, 296, 308 child psychology 44–46 child sacrifice 20, 23, 77, 92–96, 104–07 childist/childist interpretations 2–4, 5, 6, 8, 10, 15, 26, 27, 35–37, 111–14, 117, 130, 156, 158, 163, 168, 175–77, 254, 266, 288, 293, 298, 360, 362, 369 diasporic childist interpretation 117 childhood history of 13, 31, 46–51 studies 1, 3, 4–5, 34, 36, 39–47, 51–52, 60–63, 189, 192, 360 See also Jesus, childhood children as priceless 50–51, 57–59 as valuable 50, 57, 76 differentiated from childhood 40–44

discipline (of children) 49, 110, 117, 131, 134, 136, 137, 151–54, 237, 239 Mishnah and 7, 228–230 skeletal remains 64, 67, 82, 87–89, 90, 242 material 70 social construction 40–43, 44, 45 vulnerable/ vulnerability of 77, 88, 119, 168, 170, 177, 187, 193, 194, 196, 197, 202, 211, 213, 282, 283–84, 371 children’s literature 51–53 Christ as child 368, 373–77 See also Jesus as a child Christianity earliest/early 14, 15, 17, 24, 29, 38, 192, 240, 292, 313, 316, 318, 336, 360 emerging/emergence of 188, 225, 310 coming of age 113, 199–201, 207–08, 213–14, 216–19, 228 consecrate(d) 315–16, 318, 325–33, 347 Constantine 348, 382 Coptic Church/Christianity 392–93 Covenant Code 91, 94, 105–07 creation 33, 75, 131, 140, 154, 158–60, 162, 174–75, 266–67, 271 cultural identity 110–11, 115–17, 121–22, 125, 126–30, 137, 152 dance 248–49 259, 260–61 dancing 235, 248, 259–60, 262 ethnicity 43, 110, 113, 126, 360, 369 ethnography 57, 58–60, 380 exposure 183, 189, 192–93 See also abandoned/abandoning/ abandonment firstborn 78, 91–93, 95, 97, 98, 104, 105, 107, 162

465

466

Subject Index

firstfruit(s) 91, 105, 318, 325–26 firstlings 91, 105 flute 248–49, 260–61, 370 folly 131, 132, 134, 136, 137, 143, 146, 147, 149, 154 gendered couplets 292, 293, 296, 298, 305–09 God as father 18, 25, 27, 157, 237, 277, 300 as helicopter parent 157 as mother 157 hegemonic masculinity 122–25 Hermopolis 386, 391, 394 Herod 245, 261, 380, 381, 384, 388, 389, 395, 386 historical Jesus 24, 25, 30, 38 holiness 106, 313, 314, 318, 323, 325, 326, 327 holy 318, 319, 320, 321, 323, 325, 326 household 19, 57, 78, 122, 123, 135, 196, 205, 265–66, 268, 277–84, 286–89, 295, 299, 308, 311, 316, 329–33 hyperakmos 335, 336, 338, 340–43, 346, 353 iconography 82–85, 90, 389, 393 image of God 23, 35, 156–63, 176, 177 impersonation 146–48, 149, 154 impure 318, 324 infanticide 102, 103, 104, 106 inscription(s)/inscriptional 189, 223, 237, 240–41, 349 intermarriage 321 intersectional/intersectionality 15, 34, 37, 42, 236, 360, 369, 376 Jerusalem 170, 195, 326, 389, 395, 396 pilgrimage to 382–84 Temple, destruction of 181–82, 186–87 Jesus and children 24–26, 38, 195–96, 205, 234–36, 245, 260–63, 265–89, 303 as a child 234, 239, 373–76, 377, 383–93, 397 childhood of 24–25, 32, 38, 375, 377 flight to Egypt 380–81, 385–86, 391–94

John the Baptist 246–47, 260–63, 384 as child 233, 245 kingdom 293 of God 26, 205, 262, 265–89, 298, 303, 307, 310 of heaven 49 kyriarchal/kyriarchy 361–62 L Source 30 M Source 30 magic 213, 380 mamzerim 321, 322 manhood 72, 145, 199, 202–06, 207–08, 210–13, 216–19 marriage 72, 73, 78, 97, 202–03, 204, 210–12, 213, 214, 218, 224, 227–29, 231, 232, 240, 241, 243, 320–22, 323, 329, 330–31, 335–55, 359, 361, 372, 373 Mary, mother of Jesus 32, 234, 384, 386–88, 390–93, 395 as child 239 masculinity 122–24, 199, 201–06, 207, 210, 217–19 maturation 70, 133, 199, 200, 201, 203, 206, 207–08, 209, 210, 213, 214–16, 217–19 menstruation 227, 342 Mesopotamia 72, 79–80, 87, 159 metaphor/metaphorical 17–18, 21–22, 27, 28–29, 41, 111, 138, 144–45, 157, 158, 173, 175, 177, 182, 197, 238, 246, 251–52, 254, 259, 273, 283, 295, 296, 307, 310, 326–27, 377, 386 methodology 14, 22, 34, 54, 67–90, 223–43 Mordecai 119–25, 127 Moses 200, 217, 218, 380, 395 as child 135, 193 non-adult 70, 209, 277, 291, 292, 296, 297, 298, 299, 300, 304, 305, 308 orphan(s) 23, 119, 128, 162, 167–74, 176, 371, 376 ownership 265–67, 270, 276–77, 286

Subject Index paidion 203, 209–10, 226, 233–34, 236, 251, 269, 340–41, 374 pais 190, 203, 209–10, 225–26, 234, 236, 237, 238, 268, 301–03, 363, 370 parable 138, 245–63, 307 parental investment 99–100 parthenos 227, 234, 236–37, 238–40, 362 personification 146–49, 154 pilgrimage itineraries 380, 383–84, 392, 396 play/playing, children 82, 140, 141, 174, 175, 245–46, 248–49, 252, 254, 255–59, 260, 263 polytheism/polytheist 312, 322, 329, 332, 333 proprietor(s)/proprietorship 265, 266–68, 271, 272, 273, 277, 280, 283, 284, 286, 287, 288 proverb(ial) performance 141, 143–46, 154 proverbial worldview 131, 138–41, 143, 145, 148 Pseudepigrapha Hebrew Bible 37, 240 New Testament 37 ptochoi 266, 267, 268, 270, 281, 282, 287 puberty 55, 56, 70, 73, 226–30, 232, 243, 340, 341–43, 344, 349, 350, 352, 353 purity 177 ritual 324–26 sexual 227, 339, 346, 349, 351 Qumran 21, 204, 209 reception history 15, 17, 24, 30–33 reproductive strategies 99, 100, 101, 103, 105, 106

467

reversal 169, 261, 266, 268, 270, 279–84, 288, 293 rites of passage 55, 56, 67, 207, 214–15 salvation 274–76, 289, 325 save(s) 125, 167, 319, 325–29, 332, 333, 365, 367 sexual renunciation 359, 361, 368, 369, 372, 376 slave(s) 37, 123, 150, 167, 189–92, 224, 225, 228, 231, 233, 236, 238–39, 242, 243, 253, 268, 282, 300–03, 330, 339, 360, 361, 362, 370, 371, 376, 377 slavery/enslavement 167, 183, 186, 189, 191, 370 social age 54, 71–74, 78–81, 90 Synoptic Gospels/Synoptics 29, 236, 245, 251, 303, 343 systematic theology 35 teknon 234, 235, 236, 237, 250, 251, 299, 308, 309, 311, 363, 365 trauma/traumatic 113, 119, 124, 126, 181–97 travel danger of 379, 397 exile and 381–85 pilgrimage and 379–80, 381–85, 397 reasons for 379–82 with children 379–80, 384, 397 welcome 266, 269–70, 280, 285, 286 Wisdom, personification of 131–32, 134, 136, 137, 140, 142, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 154, 174–77, 250–251, 261–63 Woman Wisdom 132, 134, 145, 174–76

468

469

470

471

472

473

474