The Completion of Judges: Strategies of Ending in Judges 17–21 9781575064970

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The Completion of Judges

Siphrut

Literature and Theology of the Hebrew Scriptures Editorial Board

Stephen B. Chapman Tremper Longman III Nathan MacDonald

Duke University Westmont College University of Cambridge

 1. A Severe Mercy: Sin and Its Remedy in the Old Testament, by Mark J. Boda  2. Chosen and Unchosen: Conceptions of Election in the Pentateuch and JewishChristian Interpretation, by Joel N. Lohr  3. Genesis and the Moses Story: Israel’s Dual Origins in the Hebrew Bible, by Konrad Schmid  4. The Land of Canaan and the Destiny of Israel: Theologies of Territory in the Hebrew Bible, by David Frankel  5. Jacob and the Divine Trickster: A Theology of Deception and Yhwh’s Fidelity to the Ancestral Promise in the Jacob Cycle, by John E. Anderson  6. Esther: The Outer Narrative and the Hidden Reading, by Jonathan Grossman  7. From Fratricide to Forgiveness: The Language and Ethics of Anger in Genesis, by Matthew R. Schlimm  8. The Rhetoric of Remembrance: An Investigation of the “Fathers” in Deuteronomy, by Jerry Hwang  9. In the Beginning: Essays on Creation Motifs in the Bible and the Ancient Near East, by Bernard F. Batto 10.  Run, David, Run! An Investigation of the Theological Speech Acts of David’s Departure and Return (2 Samuel 14–20), by Steven T. Mann 11.  From the Depths of Despair to the Promise of Presence: A Rhetorical Reading of the Book of Joel, by Joel Barker 12.  Forming God: Divine Anthropomorphism in the Pentateuch, by Anne Katherine Knafl 13.  Standing in the Breach: An Old Testament Theology and Spirituality of Intercessory Prayer, by Michael Widmer 14.  What Kind of God? Collected Essays of Terence E. Fretheim, edited by Michael J. Chan and Brent A. Strawn 15.  The “Image of God” in the Garden of Eden: The Creation of Humankind in Genesis 2:5–3:24 in Light of the mīs pî pīt pî and wpt-r Rituals of Mesopotamia and Ancient Egypt, by Catherine L. McDowell 16.  The Shape of the Writings, edited by Julius Steinberg and Timothy J. Stone 17.  A Message from the Great King: Reading Malachi in Light of Ancient Persian Royal Messenger Texts from the Time of Xerxes, by R. Michael Fox 18.  “See and Read All These Words”: The Concept of the Written in the Book of Jeremiah, by Chad L. Eggleston 19.  Identity in Conflict: The Struggle between Esau and Jacob, Edom and Israel, by Elie Assis 20.  I, You, and the Word “God”: Finding Meaning in the Song of Songs, by Sarah Zhang 21.  The Completion of Judges: Strategies of Ending in Judges 17–21, by David J. H. Beldman

The Completion of Judges Strategies of Ending in Judges 17–21

David J. H. Beldman

Winona Lake, Indiana Eisenbrauns 2017

© 2017 by Eisenbrauns All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. www.eisenbrauns.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Beldman, David J. H., 1977– author. Title: The completion of Judges: strategies of ending in Judges 17–21 / David J. H. Beldman. Description: Winona Lake, Indiana : Eisenbrauns, [2017]  |  Series: Siphrut : literature and theology of the Hebrew Scriptures ; 21  |  Includes bibliographical references and index.  |  Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed. Identifiers: LCCN 2017012585 (print)  |  LCCN 2017012721 (ebook)  |  ISBN 9781575064970 (ePDF)  |  ISBN 9781575064963 (cloth : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Bible. Judges, XVII–XXI—Criticism, Redaction. Classification: LCC BS1305.52 (ebook)  |  LCC BS1305.52 .B45 2016 (print) | DDC 222/.32066—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017012585

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48–1984. ♾™

Contents Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii Abbreviations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1. The Composition of Judges: A Selective Survey . . . . . . . 10  1.1. Introduction  10   1.2.  Surveying the Landscape  10  1.3. Lilley (1967)  15   1.4.  Gros Louis (1974)  17  1.5. Polzin (1980)  17  1.6. Gooding (1982)  22  1.7. Gunn (1987)  24  1.8. Webb (1987)  25  1.9. Klein (1988)  28 1.10.  Amit (1992)  29 1.11.  O’Connell (1997)  33 1.12.  Block (1999)  35 1.13.  Schneider (2000)  36 1.14.  Wong (2006)  38 1.15.  Ryan (2007)  42 1.16.  Butler (2009)  45 1.17.  Counterpoint: Andersson (2001)  48 1.18. Conclusion  50

2. The End of Narrative: Emplotment and the Configuration of Time in Narrative Theory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

52

 2.1. Introduction  52   2.2.  Theory of Endings: Key Resources  54  2.3. Narrative Theory  58  2.4. Threefold Mimesis  61   2.5.  The Structure of Narrative: Emplotment  64   2.6.  The Time of Narrative  68   2.7.  Narrative Theory: Conclusion  77

Interlude: Strategies of Ending . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 Introduction 78 Strategy of Completion  79 Conclusion 83

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3. The Strategy of Circularity in Judges 17–21 . . . . . . . . . 84  3.1. Introduction  84   3.2.  Israel Asks God Who Should Lead in War, and Judah Is Chosen (1:1–2 and 20:18–28)  87   3.3.  Tribes Return to Their Inheritance (2:6 and 21:24)  91   3.4.  Israel “Weeping” (2:4 and 21:2)  92   3.5.  Israel’s Application of ‫( חרם‬1:17 and 21:11) and Their “Striking” Towns and Cities “with the Edge of the Sword” (‫ ;ויכום לפי־חרב‬1:8, 25 and 20:37, 48)  94   3.6.  Spies and Their Missions (1:22–26 and 18:2–31)  96   3.7.  Reference to Jebus, That Is, Jerusalem (1:21 and 19:10–13)  97   3.8.  Death of Joshua and “No King in Israel” (1:1; 2:8, 21 and 17:6; 18:1; 19:1; 21:25)  98   3.9.  Women on Donkeys (1:14 and 19:28)  99 3.10.  Human Mutilation (1:6 and 19:29)  100 3.11.  Arranged Marriages (1:11–15 and 21:1–23)  102 3.12.  Fathers, Daughters and Sons-in-Law (1:11–15 and 19:1–10)  103 3.13.  Father/Daughter and Mother/Son (1:11–15 and 17:1–5)  105 3.14.  Strategy of Circularity: Conclusion  107

4. The Strategy of Entrapment in Judges 17–21 . . . . . . .

108

 4.1. Introduction  108   4.2.  Cult in Judges 17–18  109   4.3.  Cult in Judges 19–21  110   4.4.  Kingship in Judges 17–21  114   4.5.  Kingship of Yahweh, Cult, and the Strategy of Entrapment  122   4.6.  The Strategy of Entrapment: Conclusion  125

5. Narrative Temporality and the Strategy of Ending in Judges . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126  5.1. Introduction  126   5.2.  Temporal Configuration in the Composition of Judges  127   5.3.  Dischronology in the End Section of Judges  131   5.4.  The Rhetorical Effect of Nonlinearity in Judges  134   5.5.  Narrative Temporality in Judges: Conclusion  143

Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 144 Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

147

Index of Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161 Index of Scripture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

164

Acknowledgments Only at the end of a project like this does one really reflect on how many people have invested in it. I want to take this opportunity to mention just a few to whom I am especially indebted. This volume is a revision of my doctoral dissertation, which was accepted by the University of Bristol. My thanks to Professor Gordon Wenham, who supervised my research from the beginning—I am thankful for his grace and charity. I am grateful as well to my second supervisor, Dr. Trent Butler, whose penetrating questions and attention to detail have been of inestimable help. To have access to an expert on all things related to Judges and a conversation partner just as passionate about the book has been a delight. Professor Craig Bartholomew has been a mentor, a friend, and more recently a colleague. I cannot say how many times we have discussed Judges or other aspects of biblical interpretation for hours on end. I am grateful that he read and made comments on chapter two, allowing me to tap into his expertise in philosophy and hermeneutics for this complex chapter. I wish to express my thanks also to Dr. David Firth and Dr. John Bimson, who read and engaged with an earlier version of chapter three for my upgrade viva. Their feedback improved that chapter and the project as a whole. I am thankful to the staff at Trinity College, particularly Sam Hands, Knut Heim, Su Brown, and others, who work away behind the scenes but whose labors are crucial. The academic context of Trinity proved to be fertile ground to cultivate ideas and research. A special thanks to the participants of the postgraduate research seminar and to my good friends who made up the Pipe Club. Many thanks to my parents and parents-in-law, who have given us love and support over the years. Special thanks to Mom Korvemaker for being such a willing and gracious host whenever I needed a quiet retreat. I am grateful to Jim Eisenbraun and the editors of the Siphrut series for taking on this volume and helping improve it. Part of a grant that I received from the Stanford and Pricilla Reid trust helped me to carve away some time to make the necessary revisions of my dissertation for publication. And a grant from Redeemer University College helped to get the final manuscript into the publisher’s format—special thanks to Ashley Bootsma for her hard work and attention to detail! I cannot begin to express my gratitude to my wife Elsie and our four children. No one has sacrificed more in the making of this book than they

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have. Their love and prayerful support is humbling. It is to these amazing individuals I dedicate this volume with the hope that it makes them proud. Above all, I thank the Lord God, who speaks in a diversity of ways, including through the book of Judges, and who has revealed himself fully in his son King Jesus.

Abbreviations AASF ATANT AThR BBB BSac BT BWA(N)T BZAW HThKAT JBL JETS JSOT JSOTSup LHBOTS NICOT OBT OTL RB SJOT TOTC VT VTSup WBC WUANT ZAW

Annales Academiae scientiarum fennicae Abhandlungen zur Theologie des Alten und Neuen Testaments Anglican Theological Review Bonner biblische Beiträge Bibliotheca sacra The Bible Translator Beiträge zur Wissenschaft vom Alten (und Neuen) Testament Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Herders theologischer Kommentar Alten Testaments Journal of Biblical Literature Journal of the Evangelical Theological Society Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplements Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies New International Commentary on the Old Testament Overtures to Biblical Theology Old Testament Library Revue biblique Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament Tyndale Old Testament Commentaries Vetus Testamentum Supplements to Vetus Testamentum Word Biblical Commentary Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Alten und Neuen Testament Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft

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Introduction The end of a narrative is the goal or telos of reading. One critic explains: “We expect endings, much more than beginnings, to show what the story was about, what special effect was to be achieved.” 1 Endings lend significance to elements of the story along the way. 2 Especially in longer forms of literature, the limits of human recollection require that endings shape and give sense to the entire work. 3 Without being entirely conscious of it, readers­have an intuitive sense of the importance of endings. We can observe evidence of this intuitive sense in the following ways: •  when we prematurely flip to the end of a book, giving in to the unbearable desire to know how it all turns out •  our experience of disappointment when someone inadvertently “gives away the ending” •  the feeling of dissatisfaction at a particularly dissonant ending 4

Authors have noted the psychological and even physiological importance of endings in literature. 5 Unlike art forms such as painting or sculpture, literary art is experienced over a period of time rather than all at once. 6 The implication, notes Amit, is that “the mental absorption of a linear work demands time and effort. Consequently, the artist who is aware of this devotes much thought to the starting point and the conclusion of the process—that is, the beginning and end of the work—which constitute its framework and are thus of special significance. There is no doubt that in every text the beginning and end are painstakingly worked out and given special prominence.” 7 Arguably, the importance of the beginning and end in representations of “art in time” is compounded when the medium is audible (music or drama) or in texts that may have had an oral prehistory and/or that are intended to be read aloud to an audience. 1. H. Bonheim, The Narrative Modes: Techniques of the Short Story (Cambridge: Brewer, 1982), 118. 2. M. Torgovnick, Closure in the Novel (Princeton: Princton University Press, 1981), 3. 3.  Ibid., 4. 4.  Of course what constitutes a good or bad ending is not straightforward and shifts with different times and different cultures. 5.  See B. H. Smith, Poetic Closure: A Study of How Poems End (Chicago: University of Chicgo Press, 1968), 2–3; and especially F. Kermode, The Sense of an Ending: Studies in the Theory of Fiction (New York: Oxford University Press, 1967). 6.  The 18th-century writer Gotthold Lessing distinguishes between “the art of time” (literature, music, etc.) and the “art of space” (sculpture, painting, etc.); cited in Y. Amit, “Endings: Especially Reversal Endings,” Scriptura 87 (2004): 213. 7. Ibid.

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Introduction

Modern biblical scholarship often found reason to question the value or meaning of literary endings in biblical narrative, poetry, wisdom, and so on. This is not to say that endings have been neglected in modern biblical studies; in fact, endings have been a source of enduring critical debate. For example, the genealogy that concludes the book of Ruth (4:18–22) has “most often been claimed” to be a secondary addition. 8 The “miscellaneous” material that makes up the last chapter of the books of Samuel (2 Sam 24:1–25) is, we are told, supplementary and not fully integrated into the overall narrative. 9 The tension between the happy ending of Job and the poetic core of the book seems to some as artificial and the result of a complex history of composition. 10 The ending of Malachi is made up of appended material, which “is unrelated to anything that has gone before.” 11 These are just a few instances of the many controversial endings in the Bible. The literary turn that began in biblical studies during the 1970s and 1980s with the emergence of literary criticism and so-called final form approaches challenged some commonly held opinions about the compositional history of Old Testament literature in particular and assumptions of modern biblical criticism in general. Some of the best of this literary work has emerged from scholars determined to etch out a poetics of biblical literature. Through inductive analysis of the Old Testament/Hebrew Bible itself, Sternberg, Alter, Berlin, and Bar-Efrat, and others have advanced the knowledge of how biblical narrative and poetry work and their major characteristics. 12 In spite of the significant advances this new wave of scholarship has made in developing literary approaches in biblical studies, a general lack of research remains on endings as a literary concept (that is, their types, characteristics, function, and so on). A few exceptions are worth noting. The extant research on endings in Old Testament literature divides into two broad categories. In the first are studies devoted to the literary function of endings of individual books. The second includes studies examining one or more endings but with the more ambitious aim to say something about how endings function in general in Old Testament literature. One could say that this second group is interested in contributing to a poetics of endings. The first group consists of shorter studies. Book chapters or journal articles exist on the endings of Genesis, Deuteronomy, Joshua, 2 Kings, Job, 8.  F. W. Bush, Ruth, Esther, WBC 9 (Dallas: Word, 1996), 13. 9.  A. A. Anderson, 2 Samuel, WBC 11 (Dallas: Word, 1989), xxxv. 10.  K. N. Ngwa, Hermeneutics of the “Happy” Ending in Job 42:7–17, BZAW 354 (New York: de Gruyter, 2005), 2. 11.  R. L. Smith, Micah-Malachi, WBC 32 (Waco, TX: Word, 1984), 340. 12. M. Sternberg, The Poetics of Biblical Narrative: Ideological Literature and the Drama of Reading, Indiana Literary Biblical Series (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1985); R. Alter, The Art of Biblical Narrative (New York: Basic Books, 1981); idem, The Art of Biblical Poetry (New York: Basic Books, 1985); A. Berlin, Poetics and Interpretation of Biblical Narrative, Bible and Literature 9 (Sheffield: Almond, 1983); A. Berlin, The Dynamics of Biblical Parallelism (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1985); S. Bar-Efrat, Narrative Art in the Bible, Bible and Literature Series 17 (Sheffield: Almond, 1989).

Introduction

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Ecclesiastes, Isaiah, Ezekiel, Amos, Jonah, and Zechariah. 13 Notable booklength studies on endings of biblical books include Douglas on Numbers, Olson on Deuteronomy, Klement on 1–2 Samuel, and Ngwa on Job. 14 13.  Genesis: P. D. Miller, “The End of the Beginning: Genesis 50,” in The Ending of Mark and the Ends of God, ed. P. D. Miller and B. R. Gaventa (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2005), 115–26. Deuteronomy: J. H. Tigay, “The Significance of the End of Deuteronomy,” in Texts, Temples, and Traditions: A Tribute to Menahem Haran, ed. M. V. Fox et al. (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1996), 137–45; D. T. Olson, “Between Disappointment and Hope at the Boundary: Moses’ Death at the End of Deuteronomy,” in The Ending of Mark and the Ends of God: Essays in Memory of Donald Harrisville Juel, ed. P. D. Miller and B. R. Gaventa (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2005), 127–38. Joshua: C. Brekelmans, “Joshua XXIV: Its Place and Function,” in Congress Volume: Leuven, 1989, ed. J. A. Emerton, VTSup 43 (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 1–9. 2 Kings: J. J. Granowski, “Jehoiachin at The King’s Table: A Reading of the Ending of the Second Book of Kings,” in Reading Between Texts: Intertextuality and the Hebrew Bible, ed. D. N. Fewell, Literary Currents in Biblical Interpretation (Louisville: Westminster John Knox), 173–88. See also the study by Markl that concludes not only that 2 Kgs 25 constitutes “the end of the most extensive narrative complex of the Bible” (that is, Genesis to Kings) but that it is also a surprise ending that opens out into the prophetic literature (especially Isaiah and Jeremiah); D. Markl, “No Future without Moses: The Disastrous End of 2  Kings 22–25 and the Chance of the Moab Covenant (Deuteronomy 29–30),” JBL 133 (2014): 711–28. On the ending of Kings, its connection to the ending of Genesis and its function in the Enneateuch, see M. J. Chan, “Joseph and Jehoiachin: On the Edge of Exodus,” ZAW 125 (2013): 566–77; and I. D. Wilson, “Joseph, Jehoiachin, and Cyrus: On Book Endings, Exoduses and Exiles, and Yehudite/Judean Social Remembering,” ZAW 126 (2014): 521–34 (which additionally considers the ending of Chronicles in light of the endings of 2 Kings and Genesis). S. Joo, “A Fine Balance between Hope and Despair: The Epilogue to 2  Kings (25:27–30),” Biblical Interpretation 20 (2012): 226–43, compares the ending of Kings with the ending of Rohinton Mistry’s novel A Fine Balance. The comparison highlights the hopeful ending to an otherwise despairing narrative. Job: A. R. Prideaux, “Job 32:7–17, and the God of the Happy Ending,” Reformed Theological Review 71 (2012): 170–84. Arnoff presents a view of the ending of Job put forward by a Polish rabbi and Hebraist named Rabbi Meir Leibush, who was known as Malbim (1809–1879). Malbim maintained that the children Job received at the end of the book were his original children who had not died but were held captive by Satan and then released unharmed; see G. Aranoff, “Malbim on Job Chapter 42: The Happy Ending,” Jewish Biblical Quarterly 39 (2011): 129–46. Ecclesiastes: M. V. Fox, “Frame Narrative and Composition in the Book of Qohelet,” Hebrew Union College Annual Cincinnati 48 (1977): 83–106. Isaiah: W. A. M. Beuken, “Isaiah Chapters LXV–LXVI: Trito-Isaiah and the Closure of the Book of Isaiah,” in Congress Volume: Leuven, 1989, ed. J. A. Emerton, VTSup 43 (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 204–21. See also R. E. Clements, “Isaiah: A Book without an Ending?” JSOT 97 (2002): 109–26, which also tackles the question of the ending of Isaiah. Ezekiel: J. P. U. Lapsley, “Doors Thrown Open and Waters Gushing Forth: Mark, Ezekiel, and the Architecture of Hope,” in The End of Mark and the Ends of God: Essays in Memory of Donald Harrisville Juel, ed. P. D. Miller and B. Gaventa (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2005), 139–55. Amos: D. G. Firth, “Promise as Polemic: Levels of Meaning in Amos 9:11–15,” Old Testament Essays 9 (1996): 372–82. Jonah: W. B. Crouch, “To Question an End, to End a Question: Opening the Closure of the Book of Jonah,” JSOT 62 (1994): 101–12. Zechariah: K. R. Schaefer, “The Ending of the Book of Zechariah: A Commentary,” RB 100 (1993): 165–238; K. R. Schaefer, “Zechariah 14 and the Composition of the Book of Zechariah,” RB 100 (1993): 368–98. 14. M. Douglas, Thinking in Circles: An Essay on Ring Composition, Terry Lectures (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007); D. T. Olson, Deuteronomy and the Death of Moses: A Theological Reading, OBT (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1994); H. H. Klement, II Samuel

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Works in the second category of studies on Old Testament endings are not necessarily focused on one ending in particular but attempt to contribute to an understanding of endings more broadly. Amit has been a pioneer in raising awareness about the importance of endings in the Old Testament/Hebrew Bible. Her interest in endings first appears in her extensive study of the art of editing in Judges in the late 1980s and early 1990s. 15 In The Book of Judges: The Art of Editing she includes sections in which she distinguishes between an appendix, an appended unit, and an ending. 16 Her 2001 book, Reading Biblical Narratives: Literary Criticism and the Hebrew Bible, contains a chapter titled, “Beginnings and Endings,” 17 though most of the chapter is devoted to the function of beginnings, a fact that she later admits. 18 Her 2004 article “Endings—Especially Reversal Endings” is perhaps an attempt to remedy that shortfall. In this essay, Amit articulates the importance of endings in literature in general and in the Hebrew Bible in particular. She contributes to an understanding of a particular type of ending (namely, the reversal ending) by analyzing the ending of a story (Gen 38), a book ( Judges), and a psalm (Ps 104). Presumably, the reversal ending represents only one type of ending, suggesting that other kinds of endings in biblical literature could be identified and examined. In her 2010 dissertation called “Endings in Short Biblical Narratives” (2010), Zeelander focuses on the endings of shorter narratives in the book of Genesis. 19 The study makes good use of the available literature from both inside and outside the guild of biblical studies. The result is a fascinating study on the topic of endings in biblical narrative. Her study reveals that often rituals and etiologies and, to a lesser extent, proverbs appear at the end of the narratives that make up Genesis. These function to bring closure to the narratives in which they appear. Zeelander is continuing her creative work exploring the important function of endings in biblical literature, including ending patterns in the priestly narratives in Numbers. 20 21–24: Context, Structure, and Meaning in the Samuel Conclusion, Europäische Hochschulschriften 23, Theologie 682 (New York: Peter Lang, 2000); Ngwa, Hermeneutics of the “Happy” Ending 15. Y. Amit, The Book of Judges: The Art of Editing, trans. J. Chipman, Biblical Interpretation 28 (Leiden: Brill, 1999 [originally published in Hebrew in 1992]). 16.  Ibid., 310–17. 17. Y. Amit, Reading Biblical Narratives: Literary Criticism and the Hebrew Bible (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001), 33–45. 18.  Amit, “Reversal Endings,” 214 n. 6: “I have to admit that in the fourth chapter of my book (Amit, Reading Biblical Narratives, 33–45), where I examine openings and endings, I deal mainly with the openings and only briefly with the endings.” 19.  S. B. Zeelander, “Endings in Short Biblical Narratives,” (Ph.D. diss., University of Pennsylvania, 2010) now published as S. B. Zeelander, Closure in Biblical Narrative, Biblical Interpretation 111 (Leiden: Brill, 2012). 20.  S. B. Zeelander, “The End of Korah and Others: Cosural Conventions in Priestly Narratives of Numbers,” in Current Issues in Priestly and Related Literature: The Legacy of Jacob Milgrom and Beyond, ed. R. E. Gane and A. Taggar-Cohen (Atlanta: SBL, 2015), 325–46. Cf. M. Broida, “Closure in Samson,” Journal of Hebrew Scripture 10 (2010): 2–34, which

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Another notable work on endings is Crouch’s monograph Death and Closure in Biblical Literature. Crouch accounts for and interacts with several key resources from general literary theories of ending/closure. He aims to understand the closing strategies in the biblical books he examines and in the Bible in general. 21 The book consists of examinations of the relationship between human closure (death) and narrative closure (the ending) in the Gospel of John, the book of Job, and the book of Jonah. Although a number of idiosyncrasies prevent Crouch’s work from being as helpful as it could be toward a poetics of ending, it is evidence of the sense of the importance of endings in biblical literature. 22 In his article “Sof Davar: Biblical Endings,” Gottlieb provides a valuable, if brief, overview of the motifs and vocabulary that repeatedly recur at the end of Old Testament books and psalms. 23 The article collates more than 40 endings according to four patterns: endings that (1) refer to a death, (2) refer to the cyclical nature of time, (3) contain words that mean “end” or “conclusion,” and (4) include the term or theme “return.” Gottlieb’s study is basically limited to the use of vocabulary but is indicative of the fecundity of this area of study, of which his own research is but a beginning. In a more recent essay, Gottlieb has further contributed to this area of study by examining formulaic expressions regarding “beginning” and “end” in Hebrew and Aramaic and their placement at the beginnings and endings (respectively) of literature from the ANE. 24 In his 2002 dissertation entitled “As the Lord Commands: Narrative Endings and Closure Strategy in Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers,” Ashlock uses Torgovnick’s literary work on closure in 19th and 20th century novels and Childs’s canonical approach to examine closely Exod 40, Lev 27 and examines the sense of closure in the Samson account as a whole ( Judges 13–16) and in the individual narrative units. 21.  W. B. Crouch, Death and Closure in Biblical Narrative, Studies in Biblical Literature 7 (New York: Peter Lang, 2000), 6. 22.  Crouch takes as an assumption Freud’s conception that the most basic of human instincts is the death-instinct, and from that he deduces that literature (including the Bible) reflects the human struggle to come to grips with death: “Literature is humankind’s commentary on death, a way of humanizing our ends” (p. 6). The linking of death and endings is an important insight and is worth exploring in Old Testament books in which the two unite (for example, Deuteronomy, Joshua, 1 Samuel, and 1 Chronicles). However, the Freudian notion of the human death-instinct is debatable and that all literature represents the human struggle to reconcile the reality of death seems reductionistic. Moreover, Crouch’s decision to treat the book of John alongside Job and Jonah creates a degree of tension in the book. One would expect that Old Testament Hebrew literature and New Testament Greek literature (and their endings) would require reading strategies that are appropriate to their kind (not to mention that the Old and New Testaments contain different views on death and the afterlife). All this is not to say that Crouch’s work is invalid or altogether unhelpful, but appropriating his insights for an understanding of endings in Old Testament literature is not without challenges. 23.  I. B. Gottlieb, “Sof Davar,” Prooftexts 1 (1981): 213–24. 24.  I. B. Gottlieb, “From Formula to Expression in Some Hebrew and Aramaic Texts,” Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society 31 (2009): 47–61.

6

Introduction

Num 36. 25 In a 2005 dissertation “Poetic and Editorial Closure in the Book of Psalms: A Discourse Analytic Perspective,” Wyckoff focuses on closure in biblical poetry (specifically psalms). 26 He aims to understand how the authors (and editors) of the psalms marked the boundaries of poetry and how readers perceive and experience closure in the psalms. 27 Dawes’s article “Shapes, Endings and Theology in the Hebrew Bible” is a reflection on the openness of each ending of the three major sections of the Tanak and the theological implications of this shape. 28 Additionally, House explores a pattern in the prophetic books that make up the Book of the Twelve. He observes that themes related to repentance, returning to the Lord and/or seeking the Lord appear early in many of the Minor Prophets. These themes that emerge at the beginning of the books “develop as the text unfolds, then merge at the end of individual books to form a resolution to the problems that they have introduced. As they do so they produce a cumulative effect of stressing endings as new beginnings that marks the Book of the Twelve as a whole.” 29 House examines this phenomenon in all of the 12 books of the Minor Prophets. 30 Finally, in his monograph on the ending of the book of Mark, Magness devotes a chapter each to “suspended endings” in ancient literature and in Old Testament literature. The latter consists of analyses of endings of shorter narratives in the Old Testament as well as endings of books. Magness cursorily considers the degree of openness/ closure in Genesis, Exodus, Numbers, Deuteronomy, Joshua, Ruth, 2 Kings, 2 Chronicles, Esther, Song of Songs, and Jonah. 31 Although most (but by no means all) of these studies employ a synchronic approach to a given ending, they do not all adopt the same methodology. For example, Ngwa and Klement use an exegetical/literary approach with little (if any) resort to modern theories of closure. Crouch adopts a Freudian model for death and literary closure in biblical literature, though he makes good use of material from the wider field of literary studies. Amit draws from historical and literary criticism and poetics as a means for un25.  R. O. Ashlock, “As the Lord Commands: Narrative Endings and Closure Strategy in Exodus, Leviticus and Numbers” (Ph.D. diss., Baylor University, 2002). 26. C. Wyckoff, “Poetic and Editorial Closure in the Book of Psalms: A Discourse Analytic Perspective” (Ph.D. diss., Brandeis University, 2005). See also his article C. Wyckoff, “Have We Come Full Circle Yet? Closure, Psycholinguistics, and Problems of Recognition with the Inclusio,” JSOT 30 (2006): 475–505. 27.  See also the study on the beginning and endings of Pss 106 and 150: A. R. Ceresko, “Endings and Beginnings: Alphabetic Thinking and the Shaping of Psalms 106 and 150,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 68 (2006): 32–46. 28.  S. B. Dawes, “Shapes, Endings and Theology in the Hebrew Bible,” Epworth Review 22 (1995): 95–100. 29.  P. R. House, “Endings as New Beginnings: Returning to the Lord, the Day of the Lord, and Renewal in the Book of the Twelve,” in Thematic Threads in the Book of the Twelve ed. P. L Reddit and A. Schart, BZAW 325 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2003), 314. 30.  Ibid., 313–38. 31.  J. L. Magness, Marking the End: Sense and Absense in the Gospel of Mark (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2002).

Introduction

7

derstanding endings, whereas Gottlieb focuses on key words or formulaic language to identify patterns among individual endings. The plurality of approaches indicates that a poetics of ending for biblical literature is a long way off. 32 Moreover, apart from a few (particularly recent) exceptions, the scholars identified in this brief survey do not engage with the research of others who have done work on endings. However, this limited (albeit growing) body of literature on endings in biblical literature does demonstrate a growing awareness of the importance of endings in biblical literature. Outside the realm of biblical studies, the last 50 years has seen a veritable explosion in research on endings, including narrative endings, poetic endings, dramatic endings, cinematic endings, and so on. This theoretical work, however, is by and large neglected in biblical studies. In 2002, Brettler sounded a clarion call to remedy this lacuna in biblical studies. He wrote, “There is a tremendous need to write the equivalent of Barbara Herrnstein Smith’s Poetic Closure (Smith 1968) for biblical studies.” 33 Brettler correctly identifies the need for a full-orbed poetics of biblical ending. Though the present study is much more modest than that, it aims to contribute to the pioneering work that has already been done on endings in biblical literature and toward a more integrated poetics of ending. The book of Judges, particularly the end section of Judges (17:1–21:25), provides an appropriate entry point into the question of endings in biblical literature. The end section of Judges exemplifies what is common to the endings of many other biblical books: it appears at first glance to be incongruous or even at odds with what precedes it. The fact that many commentators regard these incongruent endings as supplementary is evidence of this apparent disharmony. However, an unusual ending to a narrative is not unusual at all. 34 Substantial 20th-century research on the theory of endings in the study of classical literature, fiction, and drama isolates many different kinds of literary endings which function in distinct ways. We should expect no less in the area of biblical literature. In light of the progress accomplished by the studies mentioned above, this volume aims to explore some basic questions regarding Judg 17–21: to what extent do chs. 17–21 constitute the ending of the book of Judges? What is the rhetorical purpose at work in these chapters? What is the relationship between these ending chapters and the equally unusual opening 32.  Jonker attempts to forge a “multidimensional” or “integrational” theory of biblical exegesis that accounts for a number of methods and approaches, using Samson as a testing ground; see L. C. Jonker, Exclusivity and Variety: Perspectives on Multidimensional Exegesis, Contributions to Biblical Exegesis and Theology 19 (Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1996). 33. M. Z. Brettler, The Book of Judges, Old Testament Readings (London: Routledge, 2002). The work by Smith that Brettler refers to is devoted, as the subtitle suggests (“A Study of How Poems End”), to the strategies of endings in poetic literature; see Smith, Poetic Closure. 34. C. G. Bartholomew, Ecclesiastes, Baker Commentary on the Old Testament Wisdom and Psalms (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2009), 88, notes: “strangeness is not alien to endings.”

8

Introduction

chapters? How can we make sense of some of the surprising content of chs. 17–21? How do the interests in chs. 17–21 relate to that of the preceding narratives in Judges? A number of subsidiary questions arise from these basic questions, including: How has past scholarship understood these chapters in relation to the book as a whole? What would prevent one from regarding these chapters as a proper ending to the book? What constitutes an ending? Is it possible to identify strategies of ending? If so, how might one discern the strategies of ending at work in Judges? The method this study will employ in exploring these questions is as follows. Chapter one will explore the basic contours of the history of the interpretation of Judges, with a focus on modern interpretation and an emphasis on literary readings. This selective survey will identify some of the broad trends in Judges scholarship and reveal that in the heyday of source and redaction criticism scholars found chs. 17–21 to be discordant. But even among more recent research employing synchronic literary approaches, the nature and function of these chapters have prompted much debate. Chapter two begins with the assertion that assumptions regarding the nature and function of narratives in general and of narrative endings in particular are always at work in the interpretation of narrative texts. These assumptions, however, if they are acknowledged at all, are rarely declared and presented for critical examination. This chapter wades into the philosophical and theoretical discussions of narrative and narrative endings. Paul Ricoeur’s three-volume Time and Narrative provides an appropriate entry point into and framework for the discussion of narrative; however, this chapter also draws on a broader corpus of reflection on narratives and their endings. The aim of this chapter is not to provide theory for its own sake but to allow the theory to illuminate the key challenges of reading the book of Judges. Thus, this chapter attempts to demonstrate concretely the implications of this theoretical reflection on narrative and narrative endings for the interpretation of Judges. The interlude, chapters three and four, proceed logically from the previous chapter on theory (chapter two). These chapters identify and explore concretely and in detail what I refer to as “strategies of ending” that are at work in Judg 17–21. I have identified three chief strategies of ending, each of which receives specific attention. The interlude considers the strategy of completion in Judg 17–21 (in a briefer manner than the other two strategies). According to this strategy of ending, themes and motifs that thread through a narrative are drawn together and brought to completion at the end. There are far too many themes and motifs in Judges to cover them all and to cover them in detail, so this chapter identifies a number of major and minor themes/motifs that function in this way. Chapter three focuses on the strategy of circularity evident in chs. 17– 21. This chapter identifies and examines the many ways that the ending

Introduction

9

of Judges refers back to elements at the beginning of the book, including vocabulary, phrases, events, scenes, themes, and so on. This chapter draws out the significance of the circular ending for the interpretation of the book. Chapter four examines the strategy of entrapment at work in the ending of Judges. Readers are tipped off to this strategy by the introduction of topics or issues at the ending that are not clearly present in the beginning and main body of the narrative (or are presented in new or more focused ways). Scholars and commentators have long noted that issues of cult and kingship emerge rather unexpectedly in chs. 17–21. This has given rise to speculation regarding the provenance of these chapters in relation to the rest of the book. Rather than resorting to diachronic speculation to explain this apparent anomaly, this chapter will explore the possibility that the late interest in matters of cult and kingship indicates a deliberate strategy of ending. The chapter will postulate what implications this might have for the interpretation of Judges as a whole. Rather than being marginal to the author/editor’s concerns, cult and kingship may be more central to the concerns of Judges than they at first appear. Chapter five focuses on the temporal dimension of Judges. Narratives configure time in ways that often deviate from straightforward linear chronology. Judges is no different. Narrative temporality in Judges has not received the attention it is due. This chapter examines how time is configured in Judges and how the unique configuration of time may contribute (in a surprising way) to the overall strategy of ending in the book of Judges. Finally, the conclusion will bring together the various threads of my argument and summarize the conclusions. I hope that the results of this research will contribute not only to Judges scholarship but also to the emerging discussion of endings in Old Testament literature and perhaps to a poetics of ending for Old Testament narrative.

Chapter One

The Composition of Judges: A Selective Survey 1.1. Introduction One of the most contested issues in contemporary Judges studies regards the book’s composition. Is Judges an anthology of loosely connected stories with a complex editorial history? Is it a carefully crafted narrative, the product of a creative author with a clear and coherent purpose? Or does the composition of Judges exist somewhere between these two poles? Many proposals regarding the composition of Judges have emerged in the history of the interpretation of Judges. A key issue in this scholarly debate focuses on the nature and function of chs. 17–21 in the composition of Judges. This chapter provides an overview of modern theories about the composition of Judges. It identifies general trends in the understanding of Judges’ composition and focuses especially on research that has been done in the wake of the literary turn in biblical studies. Thus, the survey in this chapter is deliberately selective and does not aim to be comprehensive, 1 nor does it attempt to improve on the excellent surveys that already exist. 2

1.2.  Surveying the Landscape Research on Judges has undergone three discernible shifts, movements that track with general trends in the history of biblical studies. In the premodern era, the study of Judges was for the purpose of discerning what instruction the book has to offer in the spheres of moral/spiritual, political and social life. 3 From the end of the Middle Ages to the 18th century, 1.  According to Craig, 40 commentaries, 68 monographs and 184 articles on Judges appeared between 1950 and 1990; K. M. Craig, “Judges,” Currents in Biblical Research 1.2 (2003): 159. A plethora of further publications have appeared since then, and Craig surveys those published between 1990 and 2003 (ibid., 159–85). 2. See, among others, the surveys by P. Guillaume, Waiting for Josiah: The Judges, JSOTSup 385 (New York: T&T Clark, 2004), 5–14; G. T. K. Wong, Compositional Strategy of the Book of Juges: An Inductive, Rhetorical Study, VTSup 111 (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 1–16; R. H. O’Connell, The Rhetoric of the Book of Judges, VTSup 63 (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 345–68; K. Spronk, “Het boek Richteren: Een overzicht van het recente onderzoek,” Amsterdamse Cahiers voor Exegese van de Bijbel en zijn Tradities 19 (2001): 1–36. 3.  See D. M. Gunn, Judges through the Centuries, Blackwell Bible Commentaries (Oxford: Blackwell, 2005); Origen, Homilies on Judges, trans. E. A. D. Lauro, Fathers of the

10

The Composition of Judges: A Selective Survey

11

it is possible to discern a gradual change in the way that scholars interpreted the Bible. To simplify a very complex evolution, we could say that the change involved reconceptualizing the Bible from a holy and distinct book that provides spiritual and practical instructions for people of faith to a book like any other book, a cultural artefact that can and should be subjected to the rigors of critical scholarship. 4 According to Enlightenment approaches to biblical interpretation, reason and empirical analysis devoid of religious faith commitments constitute the only legitimate approach to biblical studies in the academy. 5 This relatively novel way of doing biblical studies spawned a number of new methods. The now-common methods to discover the literary prehistory of biblical books or sections were products of this shift in biblical interpretation (for example, source, tradition and redaction criticism). The Pentateuch was the primary testing ground for these diachronic methods, but in the 19th and 20th centuries scholars applied these approaches with rigor to the book of Judges. 6 Although agreement regarding which particular passages in Judges belonged to which sources was (and still remains) the subject of much debate, scholars generally agreed that the J and E sources stretched beyond the hexateuchal narratives to include stories from the period of the judges. Consequently, scholars of this time postulated a pre-Deuteronomistic book of Judges consisting of early stories from J and E (that is, the tales of the judges themselves). Subsequently, one or more Deuteronomistic redactors imposed their ideology on these narratives by supplying the cyclical framework and the interpretive introduction (2:6–3:6). A postexilic redactor, perhaps from the priestly caste, provided various glosses and reintroduced older material that the Deuteronomistic redactor(s) omitted (e.g., 1:1–2:5; chs. 17–18, and 19–21). Thus, scholars Church: A New Translation 119 (Washington: Catholic University of America Press, 2010). 4.  For an analysis of the rise of historical criticism in biblical studies and the larger intellectual/ideological context in which that rise took place, see C. G. Bartholomew, Reading Ecclesiastes: Old Testament Exegesis and Hermeneutical Theory, Analecta Biblica 139 (Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1998). 5.  This view is clearly articulated in Fox’s 2006 article in the SBL Forum: M. V. Fox, “Bible Scholarship and Faith-Based Study: My View,” SBL Forum (2006): “In my view, faithbased study has no place in academic scholarship, whether the object of study is the Bible, the Book of Mormon, or Homer. Faith-based study is a different realm of intellectual activity that can dip into Bible scholarship for its own purposes, but cannot contribute to it.” 6.  For example, see A. Kuenen, Historisch-Kritisch Onderzoek naar het onstaan en de verzameling van de Boeken des Ouden Verbonds, vols. 1–3 (Leiden: Engels, 1861–65); published in English as A. Kuenen, An Historico-Critical Inquiry into the Origin and Composition of the Hexateuch, trans. P. H. Wickesteed (London: Macmillan, 1886); J. Wellhausen, Die Composition des Hexateuchs und der historischen Bücher des Alten Testaments, 4th ed. (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1963); K. Budde, Das Buch der Richter, Kurzer Hand-Kommentar zum Alten Testament (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1897); G. F. Moore, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Judges, International Critical Commentary (Edinburg: T&T Clark, 1949); C. F. Burney, The Book of Judges, with Introduction and Notes (London: Rivington, 1918).

12

Chapter One

identified the same sources ( J, E, D, and P) in Judges that, according to the Documentary Hypothesis, made up the Pentateuch. 7 By the middle of the 20th century, diachronic approaches had taken hold in Judges scholarship, and the first major shift—from accepting Judges as a coherent, kerygmatic document to a multi-layered text with a complex literary prehistory—had been completed. 8 Martin Noth’s Deuteronomistic History theory 9 (hereafter, the DH) constitutes the second major shift in the interpretation of Judges. 10 The premise 7.  I summarize here Moore’s understanding of the composition of Judges as a way of illustrating a concrete example of this approach; see Moore, Commentary on Judges, xxxii–xxxvii. According to Moore, the earliest source of Judges, the J source, consists of a collection of writings from the ninth century that recount the invasion and settlement of Western Palestine and the stories of Israel’s heroes and leaders in this struggle. The E source, from approximately a century later, recounts some of the same material, bearing the distinct impression of the “prophetic movement” of the eighth century. In other words, E, according to Moore, adheres “less closely to historical reality” but rather bears the mark of the prophet’s interpretation and judgment of the events for moral purposes (xxxiii–xxxiv). J and E were brought together in the seventh century by an individual Moore refers to as Rje. The result was JE, consisting of all the judges stories, with the exception of Othniel (3:7–11). The next stage in the evolution of Judges, according Moore, involved the editing of members of the Deuteronomistic school in the early sixth century. D’s book includes 2:6–16:31 (though Moore supposes the book may have ended at 15:20). D excluded 17–21 and the narrative of Abimelech (9:1–57). It is possible, but not certain, that D excluded the minor judges (10:1–5; 12:8–15) as well as perhaps ch. 16. Thus, D was responsible for the general introduction (2:6–3:6), the narrative of Othniel (3:7–11), and the cyclical framework that runs through the narratives of the judges. In the fifth or fourth century, the present form of the book took shape. An editor reintroduced the material from JE that D excluded (i.e., 1:1–2:5; 9:1–57; 17:1–21:25). The final editor may have produced minor glosses throughout the book. 8.  This is not to say that there was no resistance to this kind of approach to Judges. O’Connell notes, “Many commentaries appeared contemporaneously that, while thoroughly analytical, nevertheless resisted treating Judges as part of a comprehensive sourcecritical theory”; O’Connell, The Rhetoric of the Book of Judges, 347–48. O’Connell holds out the commentaries by Keil and Delitzsch as an example. 9.  See M. Noth, The Deuteronomistic History, trans. D. Orton, JSOTSup 15 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1981). Originally published in German as M. Noth, Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Studien (Halle: Max Niemeyer, 1943). 10.  Römer supposes that Noth’s Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Studien “turned out to become one of the most influential contributions to Hebrew Bible scholarship”; T. C. Römer, The So-Called Deuteronomistic History: A Sociological, Historical and Literary Introduction (New York: T&T Clark, 2005), 23. Moreover, Römer and de Pury maintain that it constitutes a “major turning point” for modern exegesis of the historical books—they divide the history of research on the historical books into the periods before and after Noth; Römer and de Pury, “Deuteronomistic Historiography (DH): History of Research and Debated Issues,” in Israel Constructs Its History, ed. A. de Pury, T. Römer and J.-D. Macchi, JSOTSup 306 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000) 24–25. For helpful overviews of the background and origins, development, and subsequent revisions of the DH, see Römer and de Pury, “Deuteronomistic Historiography,” 24–141; Römer, The So-Called Deuteronomistic History, 13–43. For the significance and legacy of the DH theory on Judges see especially M. A. O’Brien, “Judges and the Deuteronomistic History,” in The History of Israel’s Traditions: The Heritage of Martin Noth, ed. S. L. McKenzie and M. P. Graham, JSOTSup 182 (Sheffield:

The Composition of Judges: A Selective Survey

13

of the DH theory is that Deuteronomy, and not the other books of the Pentateuch, provides the foundational vocabulary and theology that guided the writing of the history in Joshua, Judges, 1–2  Samuel, and 1–2  Kings. Noth held that the narrative in Joshua through 2 Kings constitutes a unified history (the DH), essentially the product of a single author who wrote in the 6th century, trying to make sense of the fall of Jerusalem and the Babylonian captivity. According to the DH theory, which became the standard theory regarding the composition of these biblical books and is still influential today, 11 the author of the DH creatively organized existing material into a coherent history with a consistent chronological framework. This is not to say that other sources are not discernible and that subsequent redactional activity did not take place. Indeed, one of the implications­of the DH theory for Judges is that Judg 1:1–2:5 and chs. 17–21 are apparently post-Deuteronomistic because they interrupt the chronological flow from Joshua through to the books of Samuel. Although Noth’s DH theory was widely accepted, subsequent scholars have gone on to posit up to three preSheffield Academic Press, 1994), 235–57; and Bartelmus, “Forschung am Richterbuch seit Martin Noth,” Theologische Rundschau 56 (1991): 221–59. 11.  Some of the key scholarly works that build on or interact specifically with Noth’s DH theory include W. Richter, Traditionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zum Richterbuch, BBB 18 (Bonn: Hanstein, 1963); idem, Die Bearbeitungen des “Retterbuches” in der deuteronomischen Epoche, BBB 18 (Bonn: Hanstein, 1963); R. Smend, “Das Gesetz und die Völker: Ein Beitrag zur deuteronomistischen Redaktionsgeschichte,” in Probleme biblischer Theologie, ed. H. W. Wolff (Munich: Chr. Kaiser, 1971), 494–509; F. M. Cross, Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic: Essays in the History of the Religion of Israel: From Its Beginnings to the Babylonian Exile (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1973); T. Veijola, Die ewige Dynastie: David und die Entstehung seiner Dynastie nach der deuteronomistischen Darstellung AASF B 193 (Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1975); T. Veijola, Das Königtum in der Beurteilung der deuteronomistischen Historiographie, AASF B 198 (Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1977); H. D. Hoffmann, Reform und Reformen: Untersuchungen zu einem Grundthema der deuteronomischen Geschichtsschreibung, ATANT 66 (Zurich: Theologische Verlag, 1980); R. D. Nelson, Double Redaction of the Deuteronomistic History, JSOTSup 18 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1981); A.  D. H. Mayes, The Story of Israel between Settlement and Exile: A Redactional Study of the Deuteronomistic History (London: SCM, 1983); J. Van Seters, In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983); B. Halpern, The First Historians: The Hebrew Bible and History (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1988); I. W. Provan, Hezekiah and the Book of Kings: A Contribution to the Debate about the Composition of the Deuteronomic History, BZAW 172 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1988); M. A. O’Brien, The Deuteronomistic History Hypothesis: A Reassessment, Orbis biblicus et orientalis 92 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprech, 1989); U. Becker, Richterzeit und Königtum: Redaktionsgeschichtliche Studien zum Richterbuch, BZAW 192 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1990); N. Lohfink, “Gab es eine deuteronomistische Bewegung?” in Jeremiah und die “deuteronomistische Bewegung,” ed. W. Gross, BBB 98 (Weinheim: Athenäum, 1995), 313–82; R. J. Coggins, “What Does ‘Deuteronomistic’ Mean?” in Words Remembered, Texts Renewed: Essays in Honour of John F. A. Sawyer, ed. J. Davies, G. Harvey and W. G. E. Watzon, JSOTSup 195 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995), 135–48; and Römer, So-Called Deuteronomistic History. See also the collections of essays in L. S. Schearing and S. L. McKen­zie, Those Elusive Deuteronomists: The Phenomenon of Pan-Deuteronomism, JSOTSup 268 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999); and K. Schmid, T. Römer, and T. B. Dozeman, eds., Pentateuch, Hexateuch, or Enneateuch? Ancient Israel and Its Literature 8 (Atlanta: SBL, 2011).

14

Chapter One

Deuteronomistic layers and two or more Deuteronomistic editions, with additional post-Deuteronomistic redactions so that the fragmentation of the text that the DH theory was initially working against has reestablished itself. 12 A recent German commentary on Judges posits ten redactional layers­in Judges. 13 The sustained theorizing regarding the Deuteronomistic editing has caused some scholars to become disillusioned with the diachronic movement in Old Testament/Hebrew Bible studies. The palpable frustration of Polzin is symptomatic of the way that many scholars felt at the end of the 20th and the beginning of the 21st century: “almost two centuries of research on Deuteronomy and the other books it introduces—research that began with de Wette’s ground-breaking work on Deuteronomy (1805) and culminated in Martin Noth’s modern classic (1967)—have produced no hypothesis that can be described as historically or literarily adequate.” 14 This growing dissatisfaction with diachronic approaches combined with the increasing influence of narrative criticism in biblical studies, among other things, has contributed to the recent interest in Judges as an integrated, coherent literary composition in its own right. Thus, the third major shift in the interpretation of Judges assumes the basic compositional unity of the book, with sensitivity to the function of literary techniques, unifying motifs and themes, and so on. One of the earliest examples of this new shift is Lilley’s 1967 article “A Literary Appreciation of the Book of Judges,” in which Lilley approaches 12. For examples of three layers, see Richter, Traditionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zum Richterbuch; Richter, Die Bearbeitungen des “Retterbuches” in der deuteronomischen Epoche. For examples of two or more editions, see Cross, Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic. For additional redactions, see Nelson, Double Redaction of the Deuteronomistic History; G. N. Knoppers, Two Nations under God: The Deuteronomistic History of Solomon and the Dual Monarchies, Harvard Semitic Monographs 52 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993). See also Römer’s three redactional layers which correspond to the Assyrian, the Babylonian and Persian periods: Römer, The So-Called Deuteronomistic History, 45–178. For fragmented text, see Wong, Compositional Strategy of the Book of Judges, 10. See also the helpful survey by P. T. Vogt, Deuteronomic Theology and the Significance of Torah: A Reappraisal (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 10–14. 13.  See W. Gross, Richter, HThKAT (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2009). I am indebted to Trent Butler for alerting me to this. According to Webb, Gross’s commentary is the first commentary in German in nearly 50 years; see B. G. Webb, The Book of Judges, NICOT (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans), 51. 14. R. Polzin, Moses and the Deuteronomist: A Literary Study of the Deuteronomic History, part 1: Deuteronomy, Joshua, Judges (New York: Seabury, 1980), 13. It should be noted that Polzin is not categorically opposed to historical criticism. In fact, he expresses his conviction that “historical critical analysis is essential to an adequate scholarly understanding of the Deuteronomic History” (p. 13). In a different take on the issue of the compositional history of Judges, Guest questions the very notion of sources in Judges and thinks it much more likely that the unity of the book demonstrates that Judges as a whole is the creative fabrication of “one overarching mind”; see P. D. Guest, “Can Judges Survive without Sources?” JSOT 78 (1998): 43–61.

The Composition of Judges: A Selective Survey

15

Judges with the assumption that an author (as opposed to an editor/redactor) is responsible for the composition of Judges. 15 In this phase, scholars examined specific narratives or narrative cycles in Judges with sensitivity to the literary features of the book. Furthermore, research began to emerge in which the whole book underwent detailed literary analysis. Some of the most sustained examples include the monographs by Webb, Klein, O’Connell, and Amit. 16 This work is bearing fruit in full fledged commentaries that draw out the literary artistry in Judges by means of extensive literary analysis, notable examples being the commentaries by Schneider, Block, Butler, and Webb. 17 Although the literary turn in Judges scholarship has received some active resistance, 18 the growing corpus of research emerging from this turn and the quality of this research demands to be taken seriously in subsequent Judges scholarship. The remainder of this chapter will survey some of the key works emerging out of the literary turn in Judges scholarship. The aim is to highlight the areas of consensus and the points of disagreement. The end of this chapter will indicate lacunas in the literary studies of Judges that will receive further attention in the subsequent chapters of this volume.

1.3.  Lilley (1967) It seems that Lilley was the first modern scholar in the wake of historical-­ critical scholarship on Judges to take the whole book of Judges seriously as 15.  J. P. U. Lilley, “A Literary Appreciation of the book of Judges,” TynBul 18 (1967): 94–102. 16.  B. G. Webb, The Book of Judges: An Integrated Reading, JSOTSup 46 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987); L. R. Klein, The Triumph of Irony in the Book of Judges, JSOTSup 14 (Sheffield: Almond Press, 1988); O’Connell, The Rhetoric of the Book of Judges; Amit, The Book of Judges; T. C. Butler, Judges, WBC 9 (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2009). 17. T. Schneider, “Achsah, the Raped Pîlegeš, and the Book of Judges” in Women in the Biblical World: A Survey of Old and New Testament Perspectives, ed. E. A. McCabe (Lanham: University Press of America, 2009), 43–57; D. I. Block, Judges, Ruth, New American Commentary 6 (Nashville: Broadman & Holman, 1999); Butler, Judges; Webb, The Book of Judges. 18.  Most notably G. Andersson, The Book and Its Narratives: A Critical Examination of Some Synchronic Studies of the Book of Judges, Örebro Studies in Literary History and Criticism 1 (Örebro: Universitetsbiblioteket, 2001). This is not to suggest that some scholars remain deeply entrenched in diachronic approaches without any apparent acknowledgment that a movement within the guild of biblical studies is well underway. I was reminded of this at a recent annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature (Chicago, 2012) in the Deuteronomistic History group, which took as its theme “Judges and the Breakdown of the Deuteronomistic History.” Various papers were given outlining proposals for the redactional stratification of Judges, without reference to the growing body of academic literature on Judges which implicitly challenge some of the assumptions and findings of diachronic approaches. Some of the papers in this session included Reinhard Müller, “The Book of Judges: Date and Meaning”; Uwe Becker, “The Redactional Framework of Judges”; and Marc Brettler, “When There Were No Appendices in the Book of Judges: A Reexamination of the Transmission History of Judges 19–21.”

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Chapter One

an integrated literary composition. 19 The thesis of his article is that approaching Judges as a literary work has the potential “to lead to a more satisfying interpretation of the book than is to be found in the standard commentaries, and could help to resolve some of the major problems which have been raised.” 20 Lilley boldly proceeds with the assumption of authorship as opposed to redaction. Though he does not deny the possibility of additions and editing, much less of sources, he is determined to look for maximum unity of design as his primary motivation. If this unity proves not to exist, he expresses his willingness to entertain the possibility of a more complex theory of composition. Lilley considers in turn each of the three sections of the book. 21 His analysis consists of refuting past interpretations and offering new interpretations. According to Lilley, the introduction demonstrates the failure of Israel to complete the conquest. It attributes that failure to Israel’s unfaithfulness to God, which is evident after the death of Joshua and which progressively deepens through the course of “divine discipline and mercy.” 22 The deterioration of Israel, summarized in the introduction, is demonstrated specifically in the main part of the book. Lilley holds that “without chapters 17–21 the end of the book would display neither the literary skill nor the sense of history which characterize its earlier portions. There would be neither climax nor summing up, nor pointing forward.” 23 The episodes recounted in these chapters demonstrate the religious and moral collapse that underlies Israel’s political disasters. These chapters provide further evidence of the author’s motivation for writing Judges. The refrain (“There was no king in Israel”), which Lilley regards as “integral with the narrative as it stands,” 24 provides a forward thrust, functioning, at least in part, to justify the emergence of monarchy. 25 Although he was one of the first to attempt an integrated reading of Judges in the aftermath of historical-critical study of the book, Lilley was able to identify key issues and insights that continue to be explored to this day. They include the progressive deterioration of Israel over the course of the book, the coherence of the principle parts of the book (that is, the introduction, the main section of the book, and the closing chapters), the rhetorical importance of chs. 17–21 as the conclusion to the book, and so on. Although his article is limited in scope, it represents an important forerunner for subsequent literary examinations of Judges. 19.  Lilley, “A Literary Appreciation of the Book of Judges,” 94–102. 20.  Ibid., 95. 21.  According to Lilley, they are the “introductory sections” (1:1–3:6), the “central part of Judges” (3:7–16:31), and the “closing chapters” (17:1–21:25). 22.  Lilley, “A Literary Appreciation of the Book of Judges,” 101. 23.  Ibid., 100. 24. Ibid. 25.  Lilley infers from this that the final compilation of Judges occurred at a time when the monarchy was still issuing effective rule and good religious leadership (ibid).

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1.4.  Gros Louis (1974) Gros Louis’s essay on the book of Judges represents another early attempt to highlight the compositional unity of the book. 26 He draws attention to the fact that the stories in Judges have been the source of artistic inspiration in Western art but laments the fact that this reality has been disconnected from the narrative of Judges as a whole. The book clearly fills the historical gap between the exploits of Joshua and the emergence of Samuel, but assuming that the hand responsible for the book of Judges as we have it had access to other historical sources for the period, Gros Louis is keen to ask such questions as “Why these heroes? Why these particular stories? Why in this particular order?” 27 Gros Louis demonstrates particularly well that the prologue (consisting of a recapitulation of the failed conquest and the paradigm for understanding the period as given by the angel of Yahweh) sets forth a theory of history for the period of the judges. This theory becomes the paradigm for the accounts of the greater judges in the main section of the book. The unifying pattern, according to Gros Louis, is clearly the cycle (that is, Israel does evil, God’s anger is aroused and he sends foreign enemies to punish Israel, Israel cries out to God, God raises up a deliverer, and there is a period of peace). However, for Gros Louis, “God’s abiding love for Israel and his determination that Israel shall love him impose an even larger pattern on the cycles.” 28 The purpose that the unifying pattern emphasizes is to implore the Israelites to abandon their harlotry and to return to God. 29 Unfortunately, Gros Louis does not mention chs. 17–21 or how they might cohere with his understanding of the overall narrative purpose of Judges.

1.5.  Polzin (1980) Polzin’s classic study, Moses and the Deuteronomist: A Literary Study of the Deuteronomic History, part 1: Deuteronomy, Joshua, Judges, is an early attempt to read the books of the so-called Deuteronomic History with attention to its narrative form. 30 Polzin, acknowledging Hans Frei’s oft-referred to “eclipse of biblical narrative” in modern biblical studies, notes, From the eighteenth century onwards, historical analysis of the kind that Frei documents has been unable to handle realistic or historylike narrative, and the result has been the standard commentary that misses the narratological dimension of the text in an erudite, indeed encyclopaedic, search for ostensive or ideal reference. But something happens to a 26.  K. R. R. Gros Louis, “The Book of Judges,” in Literary Interpretations of Biblical Narratives, ed. K. R. R. Gros Louis, J. S. Ackerman, and T. S. Warshaw, The Bible in Literature Courses (Nashville: Abingdon, 1974), 141–62. 27.  Ibid., 142. 28.  Ibid., 145. 29.  Ibid., 162. 30.  Polzin, Moses and the Deuteronomist.

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Chapter One story’s­meaning when an exegete, for the sake of philological or conceptual analysis, removes the serpentine skin of a text that makes it coherent as a narrative. Narrative meaning slips away. 31

Polzin goes on to refer to the “crisis of biblical scholarship.” The debate over diachronic or synchronic approaches to biblical interpretation, according to Polzin, is not the crisis that the guild is facing. 32 For Polzin, “The diachronic/synchronic question, of itself, presents us merely with a problem that in no sense approaches the monumental dimension of the crisis.” 33 The real crisis is that scholars, whether they are historically or literarily oriented, agree that the proper approach to understanding the Bible on its own terms is a disinterested, objective approach to the text, when in fact that presumption is falsely naive and is undermined by the biblical message itself. 34 In support of this claim, Polzin turns to the texts of Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic History themselves. He notes that in Deuteronomy, Moses is the preeminent and authoritative interpreter of God’s words and that he was careful to contextualize past events and words historically. Moses’s role is hermeneutical: “he is the book’s primary declarer (maggîd) and teacher (melammed) of God’s word. He not only declares what God has said, he teaches or interprets what the divine words mean for Israel.” 35 Subsequently, the narrator of the DH takes on the role of authoritative interpreter and teacher of the words of Moses as they apply to the unfolding history of Israel. The significance of the interpretation of words and events by Moses and subsequently by the narrator of the history in Joshua–2 Kings is the way in which they are considered important for the lives of the original audience. The interpretations, thus, are not objective and disinterested. Rather, history is shaped and retold to form the identity of the readers. What is the implication of all of this for modern biblical scholarship? For Polzin, The manner in which Moses is described as interpreting God’s words in the Book of Deuteronomy, and the manner in which the narrator interprets Moses’ words in Joshua–2  Kings, seems to be at odds with the manner in which many scholars “interpret” the narrator’s words in the Deuteronomic History. There is, of course, no a priori necessity for scholars to accept the biblical view on how the word of God is to be interpreted, but let them at least recognize that the impersonal and uninvolved interpretation does not in fact “hear the biblical message in the sense it had for its writer and first audience.” 36 31.  Ibid., xi. 32. Though Polzin is clear that literary analysis should receive “operational priority”; ibid., 16. 33.  Ibid., 2 (emphasized by Polzin). 34.  Ibid., 9. 35.  Ibid., 10. 36.  Ibid., 11.

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Polzin has identified a crucial insight that has received more attention in recent research, namely, that the ongoing debate over diachronic versus synchronic approaches should not be reduced to methodological differences. Rather, at the core of the debate are differences at the level of presuppositions. What is the nature and purpose of the biblical text? How one answers that question will necessarily influence one’s approach to the interpretation of these texts. Polzin’s creative reading of Judges represents the most detailed literary analysis of the book up to that point. His attention to minute detail, repetition (and its variation), variations in naming (divine and other), shifts in perspective (for example, psychological, spatial, and temporal), modes of narration, common motifs and themes, and so on were unprecedented in the study of Judges. He clearly employs the kind of linear reading that takes seriously the twists and turns of the narrative as the reader encounters them. 37 Because Polzin is keen to interpret what he calls the “Deuteronomic History,” he reads Judges not as a discrete text on its own but as a text in dialogue with Deuteronomy and, especially, Joshua. For example, he notes similarities between the beginning of Judges and the beginning of Joshua. In the same way that Joshua 1 repeats utterances and ideas from Deuteronomy applied to the period following Moses, so Judges (1:1–36) recapitulates key aspects of Joshua as a basis on which to proceed to tell its own story. Whereas Joshua assumes that Israel will occupy the land and is concerned with how much or how little they will possess, Judges is concerned with the key question left in the wake of Joshua, namely, why did Israel not fully conquer the land? The mystery, it seems, with which Judges attempts to grapple, is why Israel survived at all in the time of the judges. Polzin writes, “Nothing in Israel’s history is more remarkable than that they continued to exist in spite of their sustained apostasy in the days between Joshua’s death and the establishment of kingship. . . . Each of the traditional stories selected and fashioned for this period explores and deepens the mystery of Israel’s existence.” 38 For Polzin two persistent ideologies are inadequate to make sense of Israel’s predicament, and the purpose of Judges is to undermine these ideologies. The first ideology is authoritarian dogmatism, which holds that disobedience and apostasy will yield divine punishment. This view makes sense of the foreign oppression that plagues Israel when they “do evil in the eyes of Yahweh,” but it cannot explain God’s persistent protection of Israel and the disproportional years of peace that they experience. The second ideology is critical traditionalism. This ideology subtly challenges the dogmatic view that obedience leads to flourishing 37. A result of this approach is that he does not initially identify the purpose and theme of Judges in summary fashion but discusses emerging themes when they are encountered in the narrative itself. 38.  Polzin, Moses and the Deuteronomist, 161.

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and disobedience­to punishment. This ideology has the potential to make sense of the enduring divine mercy toward the wayward Israelites, but this ideology too is inadequate on its own. Admittedly, God typically provides deliverance when Israel cries out for mercy, but Polzin points out that Israel’s repeated crying out is not specified in the text as repentance, and the one place in the whole book where they do cry out in repentance (10:10), Yahweh is said to have grown weary of their voice (10:11–14). 39 Thus, for Polzin, “The chaotic period of the judges is surveyed by the Deuteronomist in a sustained reflection on the limitations of any ideology to test reality or to understand the historical vicissitudes man encounters in his lifetime. Man’s overreliance on belief-systems in all their religious, theological, and hermeneutical dimensions results in the dissolution of the systems themselves.” 40 Israel’s inability to understand who they are, what god they are serving, and essentially what is happening to them in the period of the judges is the dominant theme of the book. Moreover, their confusion regarding these matters increases as the book progresses. Polzin charts throughout the narrative of Judges various motifs and themes that contribute to the main theme of the limitation of ideologies. The theme of testing frequently appears in the narratives, from beginning to end. Moreover, the shifting of names contributes to the sense of ambiguity and uncertainty. Polzin regards what seems to be a deliberate pattern in the shifting of divine names. For Polzin, the use of divine name, whether Yahweh or Elohim, signals the perspective of the speaker who utters­the name. The use of Elohim indicates that the “god” in question is either clearly not Yahweh or a deity that is not clearly to be identified with Yahweh. 41 Furthermore, Polzin identifies the theme of the unknowing judge, which develops from Ehud to the ultimate unknowing judge Samson. Polzin’s treatment of chs. 17–21 is rather brief. 42 Though he analyzes the story of Micah and the Danites (chs. 17–18) and that of the Benjaminite outrage (chs. 19–21) separately, he notes that ch. 17 serves both as background to the Danite migration and as “an introduction to the entire last section of the book (17:1–21:25).” 43 The careful choice of language and the repeated shifting of names (not untypical in other parts of Judges) demon39.  Polzin is not alone in highlighting the fact that Israel’s crying out in the book is not a crying out of repentance but one of distress; see the discussion in L. R. Martin, “Where Are All His Wonders?’ The Exodus Motif in the book of Judges,” Journal of Biblical and Pneumatological Research 2 (2010): 88–89. 40. Ibid., 210–11. Polzin goes so far as to suggest that the author even calls into question the ideology of the narrator. 41.  See ibid., 175–76. 42.  Polzin does not indicate whether or not he regards chs. 17–21 as post-­deuteronomic additions, but his repeated reference to the “Deuteronomist” and “Deuteronomic narrator” in the context of these chapters suggests that he does not; see ibid., 100, 200, 202, and 204. 43.  Ibid., 195.

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strate the ambiguity (moral and religious) of Israel’s situation. If the reader is confounded by the actions and the main characters in these chapters, this, according to Polzin, is because the narratives are designed to have this effect. This confusion culminates in chs. 19–21, which Polzin titles “The Benjaminite Outrage and Israel’s Moral (Dis-)solution.” 44 He refers to these chapters as the books “finale”: Since we are at the finale of our stories about Israel’s exploits during the period of the judges, we would expect that it provide us with a fitting climax to the major themes so brilliantly worked out by the Deuteronomist in the course of this book, and we are not disappointed. If the book’s first chapter began with an effective psychological portrait of the process whereby Israel, after Joshua’s death, progressively went from certainty to confusion concerning the high expectations of victory guaranteed her by the Mosaic covenant, the book’s finale now completes with a flourish the paradoxical picture of confusion within certainty, obscurity in clarity, that has occupied its pages from the start. 45

The unmistakable irony of Micah, the self-professed devotee of Yahweh, securing divine blessing by making an idol is deepened as the Israelites, together invoking the name of Yahweh, coldly slaughter and kidnap their own kin to ensure the survival of the tribe of Benjamin. The scornful judgment against the Levite, the Benjaminites and all of Israel remains only just below the surface of the narrative. Polzin does not comment at length on the “no king in Israel” refrain of chs. 17–21 except to say that this phrase “looks forward in hope toward Israel’s kings, and backwards toward their judges in sadness. . . . It remains to be seen whether the narrator’s apparent optimism about the coming monarchy is borne out in the subsequent books of the Deuteronomic History.” 46 Polzin’s reading of Judges is sophisticated in terms of his literary sensitivity and his command of literary criticism. His handling of the end section, however, is less than satisfactory. He maintains that chs. 17–21 are the book’s finale but apart from indicating that these chapters show the nadir of Israel’s moral and spiritual degeneration, he does not comment on the positive message of the book. Granted, his consideration of Judges is in the context of the wider Deuteronomistic History. For Polzin, the reader must look ahead into the books of Samuel and Kings to fully understand the message of Judges. 47 44.  Ibid., 200. 45. Ibid. Contra S. Frolov, Judges, Forms of the Old Testament Literature 6B (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2013), 91, who holds that the finale does not arrive until Samuel defeats the Philistines in 1 Sam 7. For Frolov 1 Sam 7 brings resolution to the narrative series that starts in Judg 3:7. 46.  Polzin, Moses and the Deuteronomist, 204. 47. Thus, Polzin it seems resists seeing Judges as more of a chapter in a larger work rather than a literary work in its own right.

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1.6.  Gooding (1982) If a sense of frustration with the state of Judges scholarship emerges in the seminal work of Lilley and Polzin, this sense is blatant in Gooding’s subsequent article. 48 Gooding begins by exposing some of the implied presuppositions which undergird many of the “observations” of modern critical scholars, showing that in many cases these are questionable at best. Consider a few examples regarding chs. 17–21. Scholars have noted that the theme of Israel’s forsaking of Yahweh is absent from these chapters, and they have deduced from this that these chapters must have been added by a different editor. However, Gooding points out that the presupposition must also be true “that if an author or compiler has a dominant theme, he could not, or would not, have included in his book any other material which, however relevant, did not explicitly mention the dominant theme. The presupposition is manifestly less than compelling.” 49 Another example is the belief that the editor responsible for 1:1–2:5 and chs. 17–21 is a not a Deuteronomist but a post-Deuteronomistic Judean because of the prominence of Judah and Bethlehem in these sections. The presupposition, which Gooding finds highly unlikely, is “that any compiler was of course bound to be motivated by narrow-minded tribal vainglory, and never humbly­concerned to record what happened simply because it happened and because it illustrated this or that trend in Israelite history, regardless of which tribe appeared most prominently.” 50 Gooding holds that contradictions, unfounded presuppositions, and questionable conjectures plague the theories about the composition of Judges. He maintains that even if source critics were unanimous in their results, which they clearly are not, strong evidence that a unifying mind was responsible for the composition of Judges would prove the theory (or theories) wrong. Gooding sets out to provide just such evidence. According to Gooding, the composition of Judges reveals a dynamic unity from beginning to end. He discerns a pattern of symmetry in which the first half of the book corresponds to the second half, pivoting on the two halves of the Gideon narrative. Formally, the symmetry appears in table 1. Gooding’s study is helpful for a number of reasons. First, although Gooding seems to force some of the parts of Judges into the symmetrical pattern (for example the so-called minor judges do not fit well with this paradigm), it is hard to deny that he has discovered a general pattern that makes sense of the basic contours of the whole book. Second, he takes seriously the downward spiral which characterizes the book. The two halves of the book do not merely mirror each other. Rather, 48.  D. W. Gooding, “The Composition of the Book of Judges,” Eretz Israel 16 (1982): 70–79. 49.  Ibid., 71. 50. Ibid.

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Table 1. Symmetry in Judges according to Gooding A.  Introduction Part 1 (1:1–2:5) a.  Israel inquires “who should go up” against foreign enemies, and Yahweh elects Judah. b.  Story of how Othniel gets a wife c.  Benjaminites fail to drive out Jebusites from Jebus (i.e., Jerusalem). d.  Bochim: God’s covenant; Israel’s unlawful covenant with Canaanites; Israel weeping B.  Introduction Part 2 (2:6–3:6) Degeneration of generation after the death of Joshua; God leaves nations to test Israel C.  Othniel (3:7–11) Set in contrast to Israelites who took Gentile wives; marriage to Achsah is incentive for capturing Kiriath-Sepher; his wife presses him to ask her father for a field; Othniel is ideal deliverer. D.  Ehud (plus Shamgar) (3:12–31) Announces message from the Lord; takes fords of Jordan; defeats enemies with the Ephraimite army E.  Deborah, Barak, and Jael (4:1–5:31) Woman delivers Israel by murdering enemy commander with a tent peg. F.  Gideon (6:1–8:32) a.  His stand against idolatry b.  His fight against the enemy b′.  His fight against his own nationals a′.  His lapse into idolatry E′.  Abimelech (plus Tola and Jair) (8:33–10:5) Woman delivers Israel by crushing Abimelech’s head with a millstone D′.  Jephthah (plus Ibzan, Elon and Abdon) (10:6–12:15) Sends messenger to the king; takes fords of the Jordan and defeats the Ephraimite army C′.  Samson (13:1–16:31) Becomes involved with Gentile women; his wife/lover presses him to reveal his secret B′.  Epilogue Part 1 (17:1–18:31) A mother dedicates silver to make an idol; her son makes the idol and establishes a shrine with his son as priest; Moses’s grandson and his progeny become priests at the Danite shrine. A′.  Epilogue Part 2 (19:1–21:25) a.  Israel inquires “who should go up” against Benjaminites; Yahweh elects Judah. b.  How the Benjaminites get their wives. c.  A Levite carefully avoids Jebusites in Jebus and terrible atrocities ensue in Gibeah. d.  Bethel (Bochim?): mention of the ark of the covenant; Israel weeps and fasts before Yahweh.

the second half of the book represents a distorted reflection of the first half, highlighting the disintegration of Israel over the course of the book. Thus, with regard to chs. 17–21, Gooding writes, “In the number of their constituent parts, therefore, the introduction and the epilogue balance each

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other. But they do more than that. Each part of the epilogue presents a serious decline in, or worse example of, the state of Israel’s affairs as presented in the corresponding part of the introductions.” 51 Third, Gooding helpfully highlights the fact that the prologue, main section, and end section are dynamically related. For example, the prologue is clear that the Israelites’ dwelling among the nations led to intermarriage with foreigners, which in turn led to religious apostasy. The first story in the main section is of Othniel, whose marriage to Caleb’s daughter, Achsah, is an exemplary marriage, and so it is no surprise that he turns out to be an exemplary deliverer. Israel’s first deliverer, Othniel, is sharply contrasted with Israel’s last deliverer, Samson. Thus, according to Gooding: Othniel’s wife was his incentive to drive out the Gentiles, Samson’s wives were his incentive to live among, rather than drive out, the Philistines; Othniel’s wife pressed him to ask of her father extra inheritance, Samson’s wives pressed him to reveal his secrets (15:17 and 16:16). And whereas the introduction says that intermarriage led to Israel’s serving the Gentiles’ gods (3:6), Samson is the only judge in the series who, far from delivering the people, was captured and celebrated by the enemy as a remarkable instance of the triumph of their god, Dagon (16:23–24). 52

The full weight of the contrast between Othniel and Samson, however, depends on the information provided in the introduction: the circumstances of Othniel’s marriage to Achsah and what followed from that, as well as the introduction’s note about the problem of intermarriage with foreigners. For Gooding, the evidence that each source material was carefully chosen and arranged to produce a coherently designed whole is overwhelming. The coherence of the book could not have been produced by a multiplicity of compilers. Although not all are convinced by his palistrophic structure for the book, many subsequent scholars work with an altered version of this.

1.7.  Gunn (1987) Gunn’s essay titled simply “Joshua and Judges” was published in Alter­ and Kermode’s now-classic collection of essays titled The Literary Guide to the Bible. 53 Gunn challenges the description of Judges as a “randomly assembled anthology of tales” and the notion that it reflects “an editorcompiler’s rigidly determinative theology of reward and punishment.” 54 Three salient features of the book, according to Gunn, work against such perceptions. First, Judges lacks a determinative pattern of response by God. 51.  Ibid., 76. 52.  Ibid., 73. As an aside, Gooding’s reference to Delilah as Samson’s wife is not precise. The text does not indicate that the two were married. 53.  D. M. Gunn, “Joshua and Judges,” in The Literary Guide to the Bible, ed. R. Alter and F. Kermode (London: Collins, 1987), 102–21. Gunn also refers often to Judges in his co-authored book D. M. Gunn and D. N. Fewell, Narrative in the Hebrew Bible, Oxford Bible Series (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993). 54.  Gunn, “Joshua and Judges,” 103–4.

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Second, the narrator intertwines shared motifs and themes throughout the stories. Third, models of leadership and community become progressively distorted as the book wears on. This third feature reveals a potential plot that carries throughout the book and prompts the question: “Will the promise of the Land be revoked and the people cast out?” 55 Gunn regards the prologue as consisting of (1) a recapitulation of the conquest with an emphasis on the peoples who were not dispossessed, and (2) a “theological abstract” of what is to follow. 56 The main section of the book (3:7–16:31) consists of the accounts of the minor and major judges, increasing in length as the book progresses. The rhetorical framework (that is, the various elements of the cyclical pattern) is, according to Gunn, as diverse as it is constant because in some cases elements of the cyclical pattern are redundant. The framework “establishes a norm which can be undermined, offering us strategic interpretive clues both to the associated tales and to the work as a whole.” 57 In addition to the cyclical framework, the book adheres to a geographical pattern of north to south, which permits the unfolding of the events of chs. 17–18 (the movement of the Danites to the north). Furthermore, other connecting techniques, such as introductory formula and various motifs and wordplays exist, bringing unity to the whole. Finally, chs. 17–21, though out of chronological order, have “strong thematic links with the rest of the book and function as a coda.” 58 Gunn notes that the introductory formula “Israel did evil in the sight of Yahweh” no longer appears in chs. 17–21 but that at this point it is clearly redundant: “The narrator’s earlier refrain is now unnecessary, for these stories are the formula transformed.” 59 The formula “Israel did evil in the sight of Yahweh” is not verbalized but embodied in the actions of the characters. Thus, for Gunn, chs. 17–21 represent in horrifying specificity the moral and spiritual decline of the nation.

1.8. Webb (1987) Webb’s Sheffield dissertation, published as The Book of Judges: An Integrated Reading, is the first book-length literary analysis of Judges as a whole. 60 Webb begins by surveying the various theories regarding Judges’ compositional history. He also evaluates the “synchronic” studies of Judges which had recently emerged (Lilley, Gros Louis, Polzin, and Gooding). Though he is not uncritical of the latter, he expresses his confidence that “the data presented and the provisional conclusion reached do, in my judgment, 55.  Ibid., 104. 56. Ibid. 57.  Ibid., 105. 58.  Ibid., 106. Gunn shares with Webb (who he indicates in a footnote was his doctoral student and to whom he owes “a major debt”) the opinion that chs. 17–21 function as a coda; Gunn, “Joshua and Judges,” 120 n. 2. 59.  Gunn, “Joshua and Judges,” 119. 60.  Webb, The Book of Judges: An Integrated Reading.

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constitute sufficiently strong prima facie evidence of overall literary design in Judges to justify a more detailed literary analysis of the book in its final form.” 61 His aim, then, is to demonstrate “that the work in its final form is a more meaningful narrative work than has generally been recognized.” 62 Webb lists the kinds of questions that he brings to Judges (for example, questions of literary structure and plot, characterization, the use of humour and irony, theme, etc.), which indicate that he is continuing the trend of taking the study of Judges in a new direction. Webb uses an analogy from the realm of music to make sense of the three sections of the book. He holds that the three sections of Judges correspond to three movements in a musical composition, namely, overture (1:1–3:6), variations (3:7–16:31), and coda (17:1–21:25). 63 The overture contains the information one would expect from expositional material: the failure of Israel to drive out the nations, which leads to Israel’s attraction to the gods of the Canaanites, provoking Yahweh’s anger and judgment on the one hand and his pity for Israel on the other. As the period progresses, according to 2:6–3:6, this cycle intensifies. Thematically, Judges portrays the nonfulfilment of the promise of the land sworn to the patriarchs because of Israel’s persistent apostasy and in spite of Yahweh’s repeated intervention. 64 Webb notes that the narratives in the “variations” section (3:7–16:31) of Judges consist of the accounts of the judges-figures and are schematized along a general chronological ordering. 65 These features unify this section of the book and distinguish 3:7–16:31 from the other two sections. The redactional framework (1) Israel does evil, (2) Yahweh gives them over to foreign oppressors, (3) Israel cries to Yahweh, (4) Yahweh raises up a deliverer, (5) the foreign oppressors are overcome, and (6) the land has rest brings unity to the main section of Judges, and this unity is not affected by the minor variations (that is, the omission of one or more of these elements) in the framework. For Webb, “the editorial framework of these episodes is not a fixed grid into which the narrative material is forced, regardless of its content. The framework pattern is varied in such a way as to reflect the changing state of Israel as seen in the succession of episodes. The change is one of progressive deterioration in Israel’s condition, in relation to Yahweh, in relation to Israel’s enemies, and in relation to Israel’s own internal stability.” 66 61.  Ibid., 35–36. 62.  Ibid., 39. 63. Cf. Frolov’s use of “movements” in his commentary; Frolov, Judges. 64.  One can perceive echoes of Clines The Theme of the Pentateuch in Webb’s articulation of the theme of Judges; see D. J. A. Clines, The Theme of the Pentateuch, JSOTSup 10 (Sheffield: Sheffield University Press, 1978). Webb acknowledges Clines as one of his supervisors in the preface to his book; see Webb, The Book of Judges: An Integrated Reading, 7. 65.  The exception is the Abimelech account in ch. 9 which Webb regards as an appendix to the Gideon account; Webb, The Book of Judges: An Integrated Reading, 174. 66.  Ibid., 175–76.

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Moreover, Webb holds that the successive episodes are hinged together by means of motifs, producing a kind of triptych, or rather a polytych structuring. This design causes readers to consider each episode in light of previous episodes. 67 The themes and motifs of the central section culminate in the narratives of Samson, whose activities and character become analogous to Israel’s own history, “especially in his nazir (separate) status, his going after foreign women, and his calling on Yahweh.” 68 Finally, chs. 17–21 are distinct as they stand outside the redactional framework of 3:7–16:31. They contain no judge-figures, and they themselves are shaped by the “no king in Israel” refrain. Yet these chapters resonate and develop the major themes of the rest of the book, as well as several minor themes. Minor themes and linkages include the reference to doing what is “right in [an individual’s] eyes” (14:3, 7 and 17:6; 18:1; 19:1; 21:25); the theme of knowing and not knowing (in the Samson narratives and chs. 17–18 and to a lesser extent 19–21), the phrase “go out . . . as at other times . . . not knowing (16:20 and 20:31–34); Yahweh’s response to Israel’s calling (throughout 3:7–16:31 and 20:18–25); vows that lead to the exploitation of women ( Jephthah’s vow in 11:31 and the Israelites’ vow not to provide Benjamin with wives in 21:12); the fashioning of an ephod by both Gideon and Micah (8:27 and 17:5); left-handed Benjaminites (3:15 and 20:16); the mention of Zorah and Eshtaol (13:25; 16:31 and 18:2); the reference to 1,100 units of silver (16:5 and 17:3); a husband’s attempt to reconcile with his partner (15:1 and 19:3); and the appearance of idols (3:19, 26 and 17:3, 4). This “quality of post-climactic resonance” influenced Webb’s “coda” analogy. 69 Structuring as it does the final chapters of Judges, the “no king in Israel” refrain primarily functions to bring closure to the book. These chapters resonate with the initial chapters and complement the narratives of the main section and “so complete the literary treatment of an era.” 70 The refrain signals the next phase in Israel’s history, thus closing one era and opening another. Webb maintains that the author of the refrain saw kingship emerge and then recede in Israel, and so the apology for kingship is not the primary aim of the coda (chs. 17–21). Rather, for Webb, “the clear message of the two narratives brought together in these chapters is that no institution can make Israel proof against divine chastisement, and paradoxically, that it is that very chastisement which preserves Israel, not its institutions.” 71 The point of the coda is, in other words, to highlight Israel’s hopeless future apart from a right relationship with Yahweh.

67.  For a summary, see ibid., 177–78. 68.  Ibid., 179. 69.  Ibid., 198. 70.  Ibid., 201. 71. Ibid.

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Twenty-five years have passed since Webb’s dissertation was published. His continued work on Judges has culminated in his recently published commentary in Eerdmans’s NICOT series. 72 His commentary demonstrates the same kind of literary sensitivity and insightfulness of his earlier seminal work, but in a more detailed, systematic approach.

1.9.  Klein (1988) Klein’s The Triumph of Irony in the Book of Judges represents the second book-length treatment of Judges as a literary whole. 73 In the preface she indicates that the book is her attempt “to set forth the ironic and literary structure of the book and to show how they function in the text.” 74 Klein does not deny that many hands may have contributed to Judges, but she regards the work as a carefully crafted entity and proceeds to treat the book as if it were produced by a single author. She too perceives three sections in the book, though the parameters and breakdown of each differs slightly from previous formulations. The three sections include the “exposition” (1:1–3:11 75), the “main narrative” (3:12–16:31), and the “resolution” in three parts (17:1–18:31, 19:1–30, and 20:1–21:25). Klein is keenly aware of the subtlety of literary techniques in Judges. For example, in her treatment of the “exposition” she distinguishes between what is narrated and what is dramatized. Moreover, she is sensitive to shifts in point of view and aware of chronological and time-ratio shifts and their significance. In Judges, the protagonist is Israel and the antagonist God. Israel’s judges have the potential to bring Israel closer to Yahweh by promoting the covenant, law and/or Yahwistic practices. However, in reality the succession of judges widens the gap between Yahweh and his people by encouraging Baalism/idols, plunder and/or anti-Yahwist practices. The fact that Yahweh’s oppression through foreign nations draws Israel (at least super­ficially) toward Yahweh, and that their deliverers increasingly lead them away from Yahweh is deeply ironic. The social and spiritual cohesion of Israel collapses as the book plods forward. The use of irony in the book reflects the decline that it recounts: “I submit the book of Judges may be perceived as a tour de force of irony, touching on every level from non-ironic to multi-layered irony, and that this ironic development is progressive.” 76 The opening section is more-or-less “nonironic in content.” 77 The main section begins with irony and over the course 72.  Webb, The Book of Judges. 73.  Klein, The Triumph of Irony in the Book of Judges. In an endnote Klein acknowledges that she was unable to consult Webb’s book before the publication of her book on Judges (see 213 n. 1). 74.  Ibid., 7. 75.  Notice that, unlike most other scholars, Klein regards the narrative of Othniel as part of the first section. 76.  Klein, The Triumph of the Irony in the Book of Judges, 20. 77.  Ibid. (italicized by Klein).

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of this section the irony intensifies. The irony is thickest in chs.  17–21: “After the last of the judges, the Israelites intensify their evil practices. They are so far from Yahweh that they build idols to him and believe that they— and the idols—are Yahwist. They slaughter a peaceful town and build a temple to Yahweh, complete with forbidden idols—made of silver stolen twice over. Finally, they maintain the tribal number by trickery, abduction, and rape.” 78 Chapters 17–21, then, represent the book’s “resolution.” According to Klein, “The resolution depicts the consequence of the main narratives of the book of Judges as anti-Yahwism in the name of Yahweh.” 79 Klein follows Talmon’s minority view that ‫ מלך‬in the “no king in Israel” refrain refers not to a king but rather to the judges. 80 The refrain according to this view is meant to emphasize the failure of the judges to maintain social and cultic order and not to promote the institution of kingship. The latter represents a further estrangement between Yahweh and the Israelites. 81 Throughout the book, Klein argues persuasively that irony is a pervasive and dynamic feature in the composition of the book. Triumph of Irony in the Book of Judges is another important work in exposing the literary art in the book and how that functions in its overall rhetorical purpose.

1.10.  Amit (1992) Amit’s The Book of Judges: The Art of Editing is a translation of her dissertation published originally in Hebrew in 1992. Amit approaches the book of Judges with the assumption of editorial or redactional layers (“the present text is a composite, having a long and complex history” 82). She aims “to uncover the compositional principles which served many of the book’s editors.  .  .  . The uncovering of these principles may explain, not only the choice and organization of the majority of those materials which were gathered within this editorial framework, but also the manner of their fashioning, clarifying their contribution to the construction of meaning.” 83 The reality of extensive editorial activity should not prevent a prima facie presumption of the unity of the work. In fact the presumption of unity prevents readers from becoming stuck in the “infinite possibilities of seeking levels of editing and their sources.” 84 For Amit, then, the “implied editor” is responsible for the overall unity of biblical narrative. 85 78.  Ibid., 15. 79. Ibid. 80. S. Talmon, “In Those Days There Was No King in Israel,” in Proceedings of the 5th World Congress of Jewish Studies, ed. P. Peli and A. Shin’an ( Jerusalem: World Union of Jewish Sutides, 1973), 135–44. 81.  Klein, The Triumph of Irony in the Book of Judges, 141. 82.  Amit, The Book of Judges, xv. 83. Ibid. 84.  Ibid., 15. 85. Nevertheless, Amit notes that readers should not ignore the editorial “divergences” or “aggregations” that exist and harm the unifying principle of composition (ibid., 18–22).

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Readers experience the impression of unity from at least two perspectives. First, one generates hypotheses and tests them as the narrative—its plots, characters, motifs, and so on—unfolds sequentially. Second, at the end of this first reading, one gets a perspective of the unity or perhaps disunity “from above” (a perspective of the whole). Thus, readers perceive unity from within and “from above.” 86 The book of Judges covers a broad but defined historical period, but the two most decisive guidelines in the implied editorial shape of the book, according to Amit, are (1) signs and (2) leadership. In Judges, the means Israel had at its disposal for attaining knowledge of Yahweh was by “seeing” his great works on their behalf (see especially Judg 2:6–10). The repetition of similar events in a similar sequence, as appears in the cycle of the judges, transforms mere history into a sign. For Amit, “with every additional act of salvation, the effect of the decisive role played by God grows, and the reader becomes convinced that the acts of deliverance performed by the judges are a revelation of the great acts of the Lord.” 87 The incorporation of the acts of deliverance into the series of cycles summons the reader to see God at the very center of history and indeed all of reality. The judges, therefore, are means by which Yahweh reveals himself to his people. The book of Judges and the period of the judges are shaped to reveal the character of Yahweh in the way he directs the pattern of history. Leadership is the second of the two central editorial guidelines in the book of Judges. From the absence of a fixed leadership structure at the beginning to the suggestion of monarchy as the solution to Israel’s leadership problem at the end and including everything in between, leadership is a unifying principle in the composition of Judges. The cycle of the judges demonstrates Israel’s propensity to disloyalty to God in the absence of leader­ship, in spite of the signs of Yahweh. This reality implies an advantage to monarchy that is characterized by stability. The central place of the Abimelech narrative (that is, an early experiment with monarchy) serves to present monarchy as a compromise and not the ideal—in other words even monarchy can go badly wrong. Nevertheless, Judges provides the backdrop for a change in Israel’s political structuring toward more centralized, royal rule. According to Amit, the various parts of the book attest to this editorial interest. In her treatment specifically of chs. 17–21, Amit begins by making distinctions between an ending and an appendix, and between an appendix and an appended unit. According to Amit, “An appendix is a section added to a book, article, etc., that can be dispensed without harming the understanding of the main issues.” 88 She notes that the generally accepted view is that chs. 17–21 were appended to the book—the sequence of events and 86.  Ibid., 25. 87.  Ibid., 37. 88.  Ibid., 313.

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contents of these chapters do not cohere with the rest of the book. Amit does not deny that these chapters deviate from the sense of chronological flow in the book. 89 She rightly questions whether chronology is one of the primary compositional principles in Judges. 90 If chronology is not a compositional principle, is it then logical to deem chs. 17–21 as appended on these grounds? 91 Amit holds that the narration in Judges is not ordered exclusively on the basis of chronology. Rather, these chapters, and especially the pro-­ monarchy refrain, must be interpreted as “the final chord” on the subject of leadership. 92 For Amit, the “no king in Israel” refrain elicits a reexamination of what the book has to say on the subject of kingship, indicating that monarchy emerges as the solution to the failure of the judges. The chronology is not insignificant, however. For Amit, the fact that the end of the book recalls (negative) events from the beginning of the period contributes to the sense that the period of the judges lacked movement and is circular. This is a vital insight and one that is almost universally overlooked among scholars. 93 There is a significant caveat to Amit’s understanding of chs. 17–21. According to Amit, chs. 17–18 and 19–21 reflect different editorial purposes. She concludes on this basis that chs. 17–18 are the proper ending of the book and that 19–21 constitute an appended unit (an “editorial digression”). 94 Chapters 17–18 typify the shortcomings of the period of the judges and offer, via the “no king in Israel” refrain, a solution to that problem. These chapters “are thus not an appendix. Rather, they serve the role of a well-planned and well-shaped ending to the compositional system of the book of Judges. This ending leads the reader to conclusions regarding the shortcomings of the age of the judges and to expectations from the monarchy.” 95 The thematic connections between chs. 17–18 and 1–16 are consistent. The proposed solution to the leadership problem, that is, monarchy, provides a crucial perspective on the subject of monarchy that emerges in the Gideon story and Jotham’s parable. Although chs. 19–21 were deliberately edited to bring them into conformity with some of the editorial principles of chs. 17–18, they clearly, according to Amit, betray a different overall function. For example, while 89.  Though even the main section lacks a straightforward linear chronology, as I will argue below. 90.  On the chronology of Judges, see §5.2 below. 91.  Amit, The Book of Judges, 313–14. 92.  Ibid., 316. 93.  Although she does not flesh this out, Amit is one of the few commentators who have hinted at the possible significance of the deviation from chronology, though she does not belabour the point. I will return to this issue below in my treatment of the temporality of Judges. 94.  Amit, The Book of Judges, 16. 95.  Ibid., 336.

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the “no king in Israel” refrain does appear in chs. 19–21, in the context of these accounts the judgmental refrain is artificial and not integrated into the literary context of chs. 19–21 as is the case in chs. 17–18. Amit’s primary reason for regarding chs. 19–21 as an appended unit is that the situation implied by these chapters is inconsistent with the refrain and with the general thematic and editorial thrust of the book. According to Amit, the tribes in chs. 19–21 are functioning as an organized nation, they are upholding justice, and they are in control of the cultic and moral situation. 96 Amit maintains that the way that the Israelites are operating in these chapters demonstrates that they do not in fact need a king. The function of these chapters is a hidden anti-Benjamin polemic which serves to justify the transfer of the kingdom to David. Although this later editor used sophisticated means to obscure the fact of its appending, these chapters are inconsistent with the implied editing of Judges as a whole. The ease at which Amit draws from literary criticism and her detailed literary analyses of the various narrative units in Judges are outstanding. Also, her work on the whole resists extreme tendencies on both sides of the spectrum regarding the debate over synchronic or diachronic approaches. She demonstrates that evidence of editorial activity does not necessarily rule out unity of design. At times, she does seem to overinterpret pieces of the book in order to fit her overall understanding of the purpose and design of the book. This is evident in my opinion in her handling of what she terms the “consecutive judges” (Tola, Jair, Ibzan, Elon, and Abdon), who she argues provide a positive example of stable, continuous rule and thus prepare the way for monarchy. She is convinced that the book as a whole is an apology for monarchy, and I cannot help but think that this influences the way she interprets these judges. 97 Moreover, her classification of chs. 19–21 as an editorial digression hinges to a large extent on her argument that in these chapters Israel is acting as a unified nation to combat injustice. The conduct of Israel in these chapters certainly can be (and often has been) interpreted differently so that Israel is understood as perpetrating a further injustice (almost annihilating the tribe of Benjamin, planning the 96. This is based on a particularly positive reading of chs. 19–21, and a particular understanding of what is implied by the refrain. On the former, it seems at least plausible that the mobilization of Israel against Benjamin is ironic. It is true that Israel seems to be functioning more as a nation than at any other time in Judges but to what end? The near annihilation of Benjamin is not obviously justice but looks more like blood-thirsty revenge. The tribal council in the aftermath of the war against Benjamin to determine a way to circumvent the vow against providing Benjamin with wives and the proposed solution borders on ridiculous. So, while it is true that Israel is finally acting like a nation, the result of this is perhaps even worse than anarchy! 97.  Of course, this is not entirely problematic and does not necessarily invalidate her interpretation. I believe there are other (better) ways of understanding these judges. The limited information in the accounts of the minor judges does make it difficult to discern with certainty how they function in the book.

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destruction of Jabesh-Gilead and encouraging the kidnap of six hundred women) in the name of justice. This would fit well with the editorial unity of the book, providing further evidence of (national) anarchy. Nevertheless, Amit’s work is exceptional and cannot be ignored.

1.11.  O’Connell (1997) O’Connell’s 1997 monograph represents the most detailed literary examination of the book of Judges up until that time. 98 It is a tour de force with regard to the rhetoric (“the ideological purpose or agenda of the Judges compiler/redactor” 99) of the book of Judges. Like Amit, O’Connell approaches Judges presuming editorial layers, but his stated aim is to offer­a coherent reading of Judges in its present form. For O’Connell, “The rhetorical purpose of the Judges compiler/redactor is inferred from formal structures and motivic patterns that recur throughout the narrative framework of the book as well as from patterns of plot-structure and characterization that recur amongst the plot-based narratives of Judges’ deliverer stories and its closing double dénouement.” 100 O’Connell perceives a pro-Judah and anti-Benjamin strategy at work throughout Judges that amounts to an apology for Davidic monarchy and a polemic against Saul and his kingship. The “tribal-political schema” of prologue A (1:1–2:5) provides a south-to-north pattern which structures the body of the book and serves to validate Judah as preeminent among the other tribes. Prologue B (2:6–3:6) provides a deuteronomic schema against which the religious-historical events of the judges cycle (3:7–16:31) are measured. Plot-structure and characterization in the various deliverer accounts serve the rhetorical purpose of the Judges compiler/redactor. In chs. 17–21, the “double dénouement,” one gets the sense of continuity and discontinuity with the narratives of the main section. The content of these chapters seems to epitomize the book’s main themes of cultic apostasy and social disintegration (though more on the tribal than the individual scale). However, the introduction of new complications resists regarding chs. 17–21 as a simple resolution to the book. How do the tribalpolitical and deuteronomic schemata relate to the monarchic statement of the refrain in 17:6; 18:1; 19:1; 21:25? Why do both sections feature a Levite and conclude with references to Shiloh when neither Levites nor Shiloh appear earlier in Judges? Why, given the lack of reference to the ark in the main narratives in spite of the various holy wars, does the ark of Yahweh appear only in these chapters (20:27 and perhaps 18:30)? For O’Connell, “This ‘dénouement’, rather than unravelling the complications of the 98. In Block’s review he states that it is “the most thorough literary analysis of the book of Judges available in English”; see D. I. Block, “Review of Robert H. O’Connell The Rhetoric of the Book of Judges,” JETS 42 (1999): 106. 99.  O’Connell, The Rhetoric of the Book of Judges, 1. 100. Ibid.

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book’s intriguing design, only entangles the reader with the need to make a reassessment of first impressions and binds upon the reader the conviction that he or she has been subjected to a rhetorical strategy of entrapment. Thus, as for the book’s characters so for its readers: things are not as right as they at first appear.” 101 In other words, the compiler/redactor of Judges has utilized traditional hero stories and embedded them within the framework of the prologue and end section. The effect is to misdirect readers­of Judges so that the heroes of Judges become anti-heroes. When readers reach chs. 17–21 the trap is set for a reversal of their original understanding of Israel’s heroes. Proleptic narrative analogies in Judges with narratives of Saul and David in 1 Samuel serve to idealize Davidic rule and vilify Saulide reign. Thus, for O’Connell chs. 17–21 are an essential key to understanding the rhetorical purpose of the book as a whole. Few modern scholars writing before or after O’Connell, have given such interpretive weight to these chapters as has O’Connell. The assessment that the rhetorical thrust of Judges is pro-Davidic and anti-Saulide propaganda certainly has supporters, but also has critics. 102 Particularly perplexing is O’Connell’s view on the Sitz im Leben of Judges. He argues that the moment in Israel’s history when the battle of succession between David and Ish-bosheth occurred (recorded in 2 Sam 1–4) is most likely the context in which Judges was written. He maintains that narrative analogies between Judges and 1 Samuel suggest that Judges was written in such a way as to foreshadow the struggle for succession and bolster the Davidic claim on the throne. This would appear to require some form of a literary text for 1 Samuel before David’s rise to the throne in order for the author/editor of Judges to draw the narrative analogies. The direction of dependency between Judges and Samuel is not straightforward, but O’Connell’s theory would imply the existence of a version of 1 Samuel contemporaneous with the time period that the books of Samuel cover. Nevertheless, his understanding of the technique of entrapment at work in Judges is creative and compelling and remains to be explored further. 101.  Ibid., 6. 102. Supporters include S. Dragga, “In the Shadow of Judges: The Failure of Saul,” JSOT 38 (1987): 39–46; M. Z. Brettler, “The Book of Judges: Literture as Politics,” JBL 108 (1989): 395–418; Y. Amit, “The Saul Polemic in the Persian Period,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period, ed. O. Lipschits and M. Oeming (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 647–61; J. E. Tollington, “The Book of Judges: The Result of Post-Exilic Exegesis?” in Intertextuality in Ugarit and Israel: Papers Read at the Tenth Joint Meeting of the Society for Old Testament Study and Het Oudtestamentisch Werkgezelschap in Nederland en België, Held at Oxford, ed. J. C. de Moor (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 186–96; M. A. Sweeney, “David Polemics in the Book of Judges,” VT 47 (1997): 517–29; cf. the recent article that examines the motif of left-handedness as foreshadowing the rise and fall of Saul as king: S. Park, “Left-Handed Benjaminites and the Shadow of Saul,” JBL 134 (2015): 701–20. Irwin argues that the final form of the book is a polemic against the northern monarchy in general; see B. P. Irwin, “Not Just Any King: Abimelech, the Northern Monarchy, and the Final Form of Judges,” JBL 131 (2012): 443–54. Crtics include G. T. K. Wong, “Is There a Direct Pro-Judah Polemic in Judges?” SJOT 19 (2005): 127–38; Block, Judges, Ruth, 57–58.

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1.12.  Block (1999) Block’s 1999 commentary is the first commentary written in light of the literary turn in Judges scholarship. Having surveyed the various scholarly opinions regarding the composition of the book, Block concludes that, though Judges contains links with the rest of the books in Noth’s “so-called Deuteronomistic History” the evidence suggests that it is an “independent literary composition.” 103 According to Block, The theory of a separate literary work is reinforced by the independent literary integrity of the Book of Judges itself. While signs of disjunction among the respective parts of the book are obvious, it is apparent to me that a single mind has deliberately selected, arranged, linked, and shaped the sources available to him to achieve a specific ideological agenda, which has yielded a coherent literary work. 104

Block goes so far as to assert that “Few biblical compositions present a plot as tightly knit as that found in the Book of Judges.” 105 In accordance with its inclusion among the Former Prophets in the Hebrew canon, Block considers Judges as prophetic literature in historiographical form, in which the author drew on and shaped data to support his rhetorical agenda. 106 What is the rhetorical agenda of the author/compiler of Judges? Block regards the increasingly popular attempts to see Judges as political rhetoric in support of Davidic monarchy as wrong-headed because Judges is “a prophetic book, not a political tractate.” 107 The purpose of the book is to urge the recalcitrant people of God to return to the covenant. The theme of the book, which carries not only in the individual units but in the overall structure as a whole, is “the Canaanization of Israelite society during the period of the settlement.” 108 By arranging the historical data to expose this theme, the author is urging a denunciation of all forms of paganism and advocating a return to Yahweh. Furthermore, the book shows the devastating results of paganism on the one hand and the gracious intervention of Yahweh without which the covenant people would undoubtedly have self-destructed on the other. The prologue (1:1–3:6) roots the Canaanization of the Israelites in their unwillingness to drive out the native population in the promised 103.  Ibid., 49. 104. Ibid. 105. Ibid. 106.  Ibid., 54. 107.  Ibid., 57–58. I tend to agree with Block that those who argue that Judges is proDavid propaganda do not deal sufficiently with some of the evidence to the contrary in the text (for example, Block identifies several texts in which Judah is portrayed in a bad light; see Block, Judges, Ruth, 57 n. 156). However, in my opinion, Block makes too much of a distinction between the sacred and the secular (or to use his terms, the prophetic and the political). The OT in general and Judges in particular indicate that the kingship of Yahweh extends not only over the realm of the religious and cultic but also in the political, agricultural, social, familial, marital, and juridical realms. 108.  Block, Judges, Ruth, 58 (emphasized by Block).

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land. The main section of Judges (3:7–16:31) demonstrates progressively the evidence and consequences of the Canaanization of Israel over the sequence of the cycle so that by the time we reach the end of the “hero stories” we are confronted with “anti-heroes.” 109 The end section (chs. 17–21) represents the completion of Israel’s religious and social decline. Given that Judges was written after the establishment of monarchy in Israel, the notion that the “no king in Israel” refrain at the end of Judges implies an apology for the monarchy (Davidic or otherwise) seems unlikely, according to Block. Israel’s kings were, after all, the cause of Israel’s demise during the period of the monarchy. The refrain in chs. 17–21 indicates that they did not in fact need a king to lead them into sin. The apostasy that the kings of Israel advanced (recorded in the books of Kings) is democratized in the period of the judges. The phrase “Everyone did what was right in his own eyes” at the end of Judges (cf. the same phrase used by Samson in 14:3 and 7) seems to correspond to the refrain that appears in the body of the book, namely, “everyone did what was evil in the eyes of Yahweh” (3:7, 12; 4:1; 6:1; 10:6; 13:1). This being the case, the idea that the refrain in chs. 17–21 is pro-monarchy is very unlikely because “doing evil in the eyes of Yahweh” is the oft-repeated indictment leveled at Israel’s kings in Samuel–Kings (the phrase appears 27 times in these books, most often referring to kings). 110 Block sustains the argument that not human but divine kingship is held out as the solution to Israel’s Canaanization in the period of Judges. 111 Block’s commentary evidences sensitivity to historical, literary, and theological dimensions in biblical interpretation. Block is one of the few to consider seriously the idea that the refrain is alluding to divine and not human kingship, a view that I will consider in more detail below. Moreover, he creatively puts a name to the progressive deterioration of Israel, which scholars before him had increasingly recognized. He calls this the “Canaanization” of Israel over the course of the Judges period. This seems a fitting nomenclature and has been adopted by many subsequent scholars.

1.13.  Schneider (2000) In Schneider’s commentary, she expresses her interest “in how the entire book of Judges functions as a unified literary whole.” 112 She notes how modern scholarship has fixated on historical matters to the detriment of appreciating the literary artistry of the book. Moreover, while she regards tracing the prehistory of the text of Judges (source and redaction history) 109. Ibid. 110.  Ibid., 484. 111.  This makes sense of the stance of kingship in Judges itself. Moreover, Block argues that the notion of divine kingship is rooted early in Israel’s history, citing as examples Exod 19:6, Deut 33:5, and the whole of Deuteronomy, which is fashioned after ANE suzerainty treaties; ibid., 476. 112. T. Schneider, Judges, Berit Olam (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2000), xiii.

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as a worthwhile endeavor, she feels this sort of activity is irrelevant to her aim, which is to analyze Judges as a literary whole. 113 Schneider focuses her efforts on tracing themes that thread their way throughout the book of Judges, including “the search for, as well as an examination and critique of, differing forms of leadership, the role of women as the barometer of how society functions, the polemic regarding ongoing north/south tensions among the tribes of Israel as well as that related to David and Saul, and Israel’s relationship to its deity.” 114 The text of Judges utilizes various means (key words and phrases, motifs, intertextual references, structure, and so on) to disclose these themes and to maintain its overall purpose from the beginning, through the judges cycle, to the end of the book. What is the main purpose of the book? Schneider actually gives two different answers to this question, though perhaps she sees the two as related. First, she states that “The book of Judges is concerned with seeking an answer to a straightforward question, ‘Who is going to lead Israel?’” 115 The book opens and closes with this question and along the way tests various leaders and leadership models. According to Schneider, the leaders in Judges are assessed by at least three criteria. The first criterion regards the actions and character of the leaders: how they came into their leadership position, what motivated them to lead, how they conducted themselves as leaders, how their leadership affected their relationship to Yahweh, what lasting result their leadership had, and so on. The second criterion is the role of women in the lives of the leader. With some exceptions, “the stories of the individual judges contain some reference to a woman, either by name or description of relationship to them, who heavily affect the judge’s character and actions.” 116 The third criterion for evaluating the leaders in Judges has to do with the north/ south tension (representing a Saul versus David polemic) in the book. Thus, for Schneider the theme of leadership is intricately connected to other, less prominent themes running through the book. While Schneider maintains that the book is singularly focused on the question of leadership, she also states that the previously mentioned themes “reaffirm the central insight that the book of Judges is most fundamentally concerned with the relationship of Israel to its deity.” 117 The progressively worsening relationship between Israel and Yahweh bears itself out not only in Israel’s interactions with Yahweh but also in Israel’s understanding of their predicament and how it ought to be resolved. Like many of the commentators in this survey, Schneider is convinced Judges is organized according to a pattern of “degenerative progression,” 113.  Ibid., xix. 114.  Ibid., xiii. 115.  Ibid., xiv. 116. Ibid. 117.  Ibid., xv.

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a reality that she feels modern historical approaches are not equipped to uncover. 118 The themes and motifs that Schneider examines demonstrate this gradual decline of Israel over the course of the book. For Schneider, a range of rhetorical techniques carry the argument of the book to its bitter end. The end of the book proffers the solution to the progressive decline of Israel, namely, kingship. Thus, for Schneider, Themes which recur throughout the book, use of terminology as leit­ motifs, and irony reveal that one encounters in Judges an integrated text which constantly reinforces the theological argument of the book, that Israel’s leaders do not follow the commandments of the deity, do not destroy the surrounding nations, and, as a result, adopt their customs. Israel’s deteriorating leadership leads the people to a worsening situation so that towards the end of the book the Israelites do things for the deity which are expressly forbidden. Israel’s moral compass is lost through lack of leadership, establishing the need for monarchy in Israel. 119

As one of the first major commentaries to treat Judges as an integrated, literary whole and to engage in sustained literary analysis of the stories of Judges, Schneider’s commentary is significant. As I mentioned above, she states in one place that the concern of Judges is with the question of leader­ ship and in another that the concern is Israel’s relationship to Yahweh. Perhaps the two are related in terms of a primary and secondary concern; hints in Schneider’s writing would suggest that the latter is primary and the former is secondary. Moreover, in an (admirable) attempt to stay focused on a synchronic reading of Judges, Schneider does at times bracket questions of history, even when these may have an impact on the interpretation of the book or details in the book. 120 This, however, is not meant to take away from the significance of Schneider’s commentary in the history of Judges scholarship and the insights in it.

1.14.  Wong (2006) Wong’s 2006 monograph, Compositional Strategy of the Book of Judges: An Inductive, Rhetorical Study, begins by surveying the scholarly positions regarding the composition of Judges. 121 Wong briefly considers the application of source criticism to Judges under the influence of Wellhausen’s Documentary Hypothesis. He covers in more detail the influence of Noth’s 118.  Ibid., xii. 119.  Ibid., xvi. 120.  For example, she notes that the redaction history of Judges is beyond the scope of her study, which is certainly justifiable. However, that need not have prevented her from having an explanation, however brief, about her understanding of the dating of Judges, particularly because she perceives that the book is promoting kingship as the answer to Israel’s infidelity as it is presented in Judges (which assumes a Sitz im Leben when this would be a reasonable argument). 121.  Wong, Compositional Strategy of the Book of Judges, 1–22.

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Deuteronomistic History theory on Judges research and subsequent reworkings of Noth’s hypothesis. He then recounts the rise of synchronic studies in Judges research, eventually focusing primarily on the work of Webb, Klein, O’Connell, and Amit. Wong is clearly unsatisfied with these works, chiefly because they assume the literary unity of Judges without demonstrating that a unified reading is in fact justified. 122 Wong notes, The question for Judges, then, is whether the narratives in the book in fact demonstrate the kind of significant relationships with each other that justify their being read as an integrated whole in the first place. Unfortunately, this is a question that none of the four major synchronic works have directly addressed. For as much as all four major synchronic works analyse Judges with the assumption that the book can and should be read as an integrated whole, no direct attempt has been made to first justify this assumption of unity on the basis of significant relationships between narratives. 123

For Wong, it seems, one must approach the book of Judges assuming its disunity, and until sufficient evidence is presented to warrant the book’s unity, holistic literary readings will remain unjustified. Wong identifies the need for an “inductive approach” that demonstrates “significant rhetorical links” throughout the major sections of the book before any such attempts at integrated readings of the book in its final form can take place. 124 Wong offers his study as an attempt to fill this lacuna in Judges research. He takes as his starting point the division of the book into three sections (for Wong these sections consist of the prologue [1:1–2:5], the central section [2:6–16:31], and the end section [17:1–21:25]) and attempts to discover significant links between these sections. 125 Some reflection on Wong’s assessment and approach is in order before considering his analysis of the book and his conclusions. Wong’s assessment of Judges scholarship and especially the section in which he outlines the goal of his study and his method are, unfortunately, rather brief. 122.  In fact, Wong begins his critique of synchronic approaches to Judges by pointing out that, although these studies adopt a common approach (that is, a synchronic, literary approach), they yield different conclusions. Positing lack of consensus as an argument against a particular approach is, in my opinion, somewhat tenuous. If this is to be regarded as a serious criticism of synchronic approaches, it should apply equally to the approaches taken before Noth’s DH theory as well as to the DH theory itself, both of which produced a wide diversity of conclusions. Wong does backtrack somewhat on this criticism; see ibid., 18. 123.  Ibid., 19–20. 124.  Ibid., 24. 125.  Wong’s decision to take as a given the delineation of the book of more traditional (that is, historical) scholarship is peculiar. Most synchronic literary approaches regard 2:6–3:6 as part of the exposition or introduction. Wong does not acknowledge this discrepancy, nor does he justify why he takes it as a given that 2:6–3:6 should be included in the main section.

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Therefore, it seems necessary to tease out some of his assumptions which although not necessarily stated, do seem to be implied. I hope I am doing justice to Wong’s own thoughts on these matters. First, Wong seems to imply that one must approach Judges either “neutrally” (without assumptions regarding its unity) or else with the assumption of disunity. Perhaps Wong is implying that on the basis of the tradition of historical-critical scholarship it is no longer viable to assume unity, but this would be to concede that previous source-critical analysis of the book is persuasive. It may indeed be persuasive, but Wong does not seem to indicate that this is the case. I am not convinced he has made the case that it is better to assume the disunity of Judges rather than its unity. Second, Wong’s argument for an “inductive approach” is circular. He claims that he makes no assumption of unity, but the very fact that he attempts to find rhetorical links seems to assume that they do in fact exist. 126 Furthermore, he is vulnerable to the criticism that what he sets out to look for he will indeed find. Would an “inductive approach” that set out to find contradictions within the book be successful? If so, would it be legitimate to conclude on that basis that the book is not unified? The studies of Webb, Klein, O’Connell, and Amit offer readings of Judges which highlight the unity of the book. Are not these “integrated” interpretations of the book themselves evidence of the book’s unity? Third, Wong in my opinion overstates the case against these synchronic literary readings. Their aim may not be to discover links between the major sections like Wong’s study does (though their work provides ample evidence of such activity), but they do offer implicit evidence for the unity of the book. On the one hand, these readings offer proof of the pudding in the actual eating. Though their aim may not be to collate textual links, the legitimacy of their approach should be judged on the coherence of their readings and on their handling of the textual data. On the other hand, the synchronic studies do offer evidence of rhetorical links, consistency of plot structures, and so on, so that Wong’s indictment against them is unwarranted. 127 For example, the more-recent synchronic readings almost 126.  Frolov argues that an examination of structural markers, syntactic layout, variations of genre and subject matter, and composition do not yield the irrefutable conclusion that Judges is a literary entity of itself.; see S. Frolov, “Rethinking Judges,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 71 (2009): 24–41; idem, Judges, 4–6, 11–29. Though some of Frolov’s observations could be explained by the fact that the author/editor of Judges wrote/compiled the book after Joshua and Samuel to fill the gap between them, deliberately tying Judges to these other works; see, for example, K. Spronk, “From Joshua to Samuel,” in The Land of Israel in the Bible, History, and Theology: Studies in Honour of Ed Noort, ed. J. van Ruiten and J. C. de Vos, VTSup 124 (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 137–49. 127.  See for example Polzin and Gooding. Polzin often makes links between the various judges accounts and the prologue and he notes that the final chapters provide an appropriate culmination of the major themes of the book. See Polzin, Moses and the Deuteronomist, 146–204; for the latter, see especially p. 200. Gooding argues that the contrasts within the book’s central section (3:6–16:31; e.g., between the first and last judges, Othniel

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universally agree 128 that the book as a whole projects a pattern of progressive degeneration over the course of the prologue, the main section and the end section. Remarkably, Wong does not acknowledge this trend even though he concludes at the end of his study that the author’s portrayal of this period in Israel’s history can be summarized as “progressive deterioration” and that this theme is carried dynamically through the book’s structure and content. 129 Previous synchronic literary readings have identified overall thematic coherence, motifs, plots, formulaic phrase and vocabulary. Thus, Wong has unfairly overstated the lack of attention to significant literary relationships across the book of Judges. Nevertheless, Wong’s research does provide further impetus and evidence for studying Judges as an integrated whole. Wong holds that the compositional unity of Judges can be demonstrated if significant links exist between the three major sections of the book. Thus, he devotes a chapter each to discovering these links between (1) the prologue and end section, including a shared dependency on Joshua (ch. two); (2) the end section and the main section (ch. three); and (3) the prologue and the main section (ch. four). A further chapter covers the issue of kingship in the end section and how it might cohere with the idea of monarchy elsewhere in the book (ch. five). The final chapter considers some of the implications of Wong’s study for understanding the rhetorical purpose of Judges. According to Wong, significant links do exist between the three sections of Judges on the level of structure, theme, and plot. The theme of Judges is the progressive deterioration of Israel during the period preceding the monarchy under the leadership of the judges. What is the cause of this deterioration? The deterioration is a result of Israel’s disobedience to Yahweh. This is clear from the prologue, which indicates that Israel’s apostasy would result in foreign oppression. The cause of deterioration is also demonstrated in the increasingly Canaanized behaviour of Israel’s leadership in the main section of the book. 130 For Wong, the cause of the deterioration is made absolutely clear in the end section, in which appears the “no king in Israel” refrain, referring to “Israel’s refusal to recognise Yhwh’s ultimate kingly authority,” 131 coupled with the most devastating effects of the rejection of Yahweh in the narratives themselves. and Samson) depends on information provided in the prologue; Gooding, “The Composition of the Book of Judges,” 73. Other examples of scholars’ recognition of the importance of these linkages could be multiplied. 128.  A notable exception in this case is R. J. Ryan, Judges, Readings: A New Biblical Commentary (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2007). 129.  Wong, Compositional Strategy of the Book of Judges, 249. Wong does qualify this criticism by noting that Webb does seem to deal with the discovery of “significant relationships,” but he thinks Webb defers to the tenuous (in his opinion) work of others (e.g., Gross Louis and Gooding) and does not develop these relationships sufficiently. 130.  Wong, Compositional Strategy of the Book of Judges, 253–54. 131.  Ibid., 252.

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Like Block, Wong makes a good case for seeing the “no king in Israel” refrain as making a statement about Yahweh’s kingship and not the institution of human kingship. Although one might quibble with his method and some of his argumentation, his identification of key links throughout the book and his reflection on the purpose of those links do provide further stimulus for regarding Judges as an integrated literary work.

1.15.  Ryan (2007) Although Ryan’s commentary on Judges in Sheffield Phoenix Press’s Readings series is not itself an academic commentary, it is based on Ryan’s doctoral thesis at St Peter’s College, Oxford. 132 Ryan conveniently provides what he refers to as a “scholarly introduction” in the “afterword.” There Ryan acknowledges the move from diachronic to synchronic approaches. While he approaches Judges as an integrated literary work, he finds the current consensus among synchronic readings of Judges to be problematic. In his own words, Ryan states that his reading of Judges “uniquely presents the view that the characters who are raised up to deliver Israel from oppressors neither participate in, nor contribute to, what scholars refer to as Israel’s moral and religious decline. The focus of the reading is therefore to give positive evaluations for judge-deliverers who ‘are the pride of their countrymen.’” 133 Ryan holds that Judges presents Israel not as declining morally and spiritually over the course of the book but that Israel is consistently bad throughout the whole book, with periodic interludes when the judge-deliverers bring peace to the land. 134 The judge-deliverers, in Ryan’s view, have been unfairly evaluated by recent interpretations of Judges. Ryan holds that the narrator does not negatively evaluate any of Israel’s judges. He writes, “I have noted that the narrative is relentlessly critical of Israel but the storyteller is not concerned with the alleged character­ faults and flaws of Israel’s heroes. The narrative informs listeners about the honour of judge-deliverers and the independence they achieved for an oppressed Israel.” 135 Ryan bases his reassessment of the judges/deliverers on a list of evaluation criteria, 136 including: 1. Does the character accept Yahweh’s commission, or is Israel abandoned to the mercy of oppressors? 2. Do characters risk their lives for the community? 3. Does the character go beyond “popular morality” and natural impulse to serve a “higher purpose”? 132.  R. J. Ryan, “A Positive Reading of Judge-Deliverers in the Book of Judges: Challenging the Consensus, ” (Ph.D. diss., St. Peter’s College, 2005). 133.  Ryan, Judges, 171. The quote within the quote is from J. Wellhausen, Prolegomena to the History of Israel, 4th ed (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1963 [1876–77]), 234. 134.  Ibid., 171. 135.  Ibid., 187. 136.  Ibid., 194–97.

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4. Is the character successful? 5. Does the character act in his own self-interest? 6. Does the character attack other Israelite tribes without cause? 7. Does the character raise himself up and act independently? 8. Does the character [deliberately] contribute to Israel’s apostasy? 9. Is the character a tyrant? By these criteria, Ryan maintains that the narrator is not critical of any of the key characters, with the exception of Abimelech. Ryan argues that Judges was written to Israelites who were exiled to Babylon and so living outside the land of Israel. He identifies three primary aims of the storyteller of Judges. First, the book provides reasons for the exiled Israelites to be ashamed of their behavior. Rebellion and apostasy resulted in Yahweh expelling the Israelites from the land. The story of Judges is in a sense the story of the exiled people. Thus, the judgment against the Israelites in the period of the judges is also an indictment against those enduring the Babylonian exile. Second, the book of Judges is meant to impress the exilic audience with the admirable exploits of Israel’s deliverers in the period of the judges. These stories would inspire hope that Yahweh can still respond to the cries of the exiled people and that deliverance from exile may yet come, perhaps in the form of a deliverer such as Deborah, Jephthah, or Samson. Finally, the book of Judges aims to urge the exiled Israelites to resist the temptation to assimilate to the culture and religion of their pagan captors. The captives should remain faithful to Yahweh and his covenant and resist the trap that their forebears fell into during the period of the judges. According to Ryan, the ending of Judges does mark a shift in the overall narrative, though for Ryan the shift is not so much in the characterization of Israel (who Ryan suggests may actually be cast in a more favorable light than in previous narrative sections) but in the characterization of Yahweh. Ryan notes, in the closing chapters Yahweh barely makes an appearance and is rarely mentioned; he no longer appears to be concerned with Israel’s conduct and only speaks to give permission for Israelites to fight among themselves. Even though these chapters contain harsh and brutal episodes, Israelites may be thought of more positively because they are not negatively evaluated by the storyteller with any of the blunt criticisms used in the theological introduction and the central narratives. 137

Ryan goes so far as to suggest that the book closes in the form of “ancient protest literature,” subtly criticizing in story form a God who fails to speak and act in the face of injustice. It is possible to debate the particular details of Ryan’s reading of the individual judges stories. However, I will limit myself to two concerns of 137.  Ibid., 172.

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a more general nature. First, Ryan’s belief that the narrator is uncritical of Israel’s judges/deliverers is unsustainable and exposes a naive understanding of characterization in Hebrew narrative. He is correct that the narrator in general does not provide overtly negative statements with regard to the judges, but Ryan seems unaware of the sophisticated expositions of the art of characterization that have emerged from the likes of Sternberg, Berlin, Alter, Bar-Efrat, and others. This work on characterization reveals that overt evaluative statements are rare in biblical narrative and that narrators achieve more by allowing characters’ speech and actions to contribute to their characterization. 138 The result is that readers must actively assess the words and actions of characters to evaluate their character. However, Sternberg holds to a view of the “foolproof composition” of biblical narrative even in the midst of ambiguity so that the narrator provides the necessary clues to make a proper evaluation of characters and events. 139 Thus, we should not need a statement such as “And the thing that Jephthah did was evil in the eyes of Yahweh” to determine that his sacrifice of his daughter is wrong. 140 On top of Samson’s repeated liaisons with foreign women and his violation of his Nazirite status, readers should not require an overtly negative statement to conclude that Samson is a morally dubious character. The second concern is with regard to Ryan’s reading of the ending of Judges. Ryan sees Yahweh as increasingly aloof, silent, and inactive in the closing chapters of Judges. He implies, from silence, that Yahweh is in some 138.  For example, see the discussion of “narrative reticence” in Alter, The Art of Biblical Narrative, 114–30. 139.  Sternberg, The Poetics of Biblical Narrative, 230–37. Sternberg notes, “[The narrator’s] statements about the world—character, plot, the march of history—are rarely complete, falling much short of what his elliptical text suggests between the lines. His ex cathedra judgments are valid as far as they go, but then they seldom go far below the surface of the narrative, where they find their qualification and shading”; Sternberg, The Poetics of Biblical Narrative, 51. 140.  Though see A. Logan, “Rehabilitating Jephthah,” JBL 128 (2009): 665–85, who admits that the narrator of the Jephthah cycle seems “neutral” but that the narrator actually defends Jephthah’s act of (literally) sacrificing his daughter. See also R. E. DeMaris and C.  S. Leeb, “Judges—(Dis)Honor and Ritual Enactment,” in Ancient Israel: The Old Testament in Its Social Context, ed. P. F. Esler (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006), 177–90. Few commentators would argue that Jephthah’s daughter is blameworthy in this narrative, Ryan and Reis being two notable exceptions. Ryan maintains that Jephthah’s daughter volunteers herself for sacrifice: “she willingly offers herself as her father’s vow-victim. . . . She is more than submissive to her father; she is submissive to the idea of sacrifice.” For his complete argument see Ryan, Judges, 88–92. P. T. Reis, “Spoiled Child: A Fresh Look at Jephthah’s Daughter,” Prooftexts 71 (1997): 279–98, is more biting in her criticism of Jephthah’s daughter. From the few sentences that Jephthah’s daughter speaks Reis surmises that she is disrespectful (p. 286) and rude (pp. 288, 293). According to Reis, she is a spoiled child, the “archetypal ‘daddy’s girl’” (p. 291). Reis even perceives evidence that Jephthah’s daughter is a worshiper of heathen idols (p. 286). For Reis, Jephthah’s only fault with regard to his daughter is his overindulgence: “He speaks to her with the allembracing parental love of even an errant child, but she does not return his affection in equal measure” (p. 288).

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way complicit in the atrocities perpetrated in these narratives. He writes, “It is to be noted, therefore, that in these closing chapters it is the character of Yahweh that is most problematic.” 141 As I have stated in the introduction and will argue in subsequent chapters, endings are most significant in the interpretation of literary works. It would seem a strange ending indeed if the final chord that the narrative of Judges strikes characterizes Yahweh as aloof, disinterested, and perhaps passively complicit in the destruction of his own people. Ryan’s interpretation of the ending of Judges actually undermines his understanding of the overall aims of the book. If Yahweh is indeed disinterested in face of the horror of chs. 19–21, if he is unmoved in the face of injustice, what hope is there for those in the captivity and of what value is covenant fidelity to Yahweh?

1.16.  Butler (2009) Butler’s recent commentary is perhaps the most comprehensive commentary on Judges to date and is a welcome resource for the study of Judges. In the midst of extensive surveys of scholarly opinions on the range of hermeneutical challenges that Judges raises, Butler also engages in careful literary analysis of the text of Judges. Butler regards Judges as a book of riddles. 142 Readers of the book of Judges, therefore, are faced with the task of engaging in some detective work and, so far as is possible, solving the riddles that they encounter. What are some of these riddles? They include: What is the nature and function of the judges/deliverers? Why were these stories, wrought with deficient characters and aberrant behavior, collected and preserved? What is the relationship between the stories in Judges and actual historical events? What is the structure of the book and how does that contribute to its theological purpose? And the list could go on. How one goes about solving these riddles influences one’s understanding of the overall purpose of the book. Butler maintains that the complexity of Judges resists attempts to reduce it to a single purpose statement. 143 Therefore, he identifies four main issues that Judges grapples with in a sustained way. First, leadership—or better yet, “the crisis of leadership”—is the most apparent issue with which the book of Judges deals. 144 The failed leaders and leadership models presented in Judges lead, according to Butler, to the inevitability of monarchy. However, the promotion of kingship in Judges does introduce some tension. On the one hand, Gideon and Abimelech already provide a preview of kingship in Israel, demonstrating the hazards of this kind of leadership. On the other hand, Israel already has a king, Yahweh, but in Judges the Israelites prove again and again their patent rejection of his kingship. Judges points 141.  Ryan, Judges, 166. 142. See Butler, Judges, xxxvi–xxxix. 143.  Ibid., lxxvii. 144. Ibid.

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to kingship as the answer to Israel’s woes in the judges period but leaves open the question of what kind of king the future holds for Israel: one who serves the divine king or one who serves his own interests. Second, Judges deals with obedience. The aim of the book in this regard is to urge obedience to Yahweh and his moral standard. It does so by providing example after example of the Israelites doing “evil in Yahweh’s eyes” and “what is right in their own eyes.” The negative examples and their dire consequences are meant to induce obedience from the audience. Third, the book deals with tribal-political matters. Although the narrator does not present Judah as the paragon of virtue, Judah does stand out, according to Butler, as the most virtuous among the other tribes. In contrast, the narrator includes events involving the tribes of Benjamin, Ephraim, and Dan in such a way that undermines the integrity of these tribes. Another dimension to this political interest is how the book features various cultic places, particularly Bethel and Dan. Butler holds that the author/editor­of Judges subtly uses subsequent Israelite history in order to shape the telling of events in the settlement period. Butler writes, “Why these three tribes? Ephraim and Bethel became the center of northern Israelite worship and political power. Dan and Bethel became the center of northern Israel’s cult. And Benjamin was the home of Saul, the first king of Israel. The authors who collected the materials of Judges into a final ‘book’ apparently wanted Judah to go first ahead of the shameful trio of Benjamin, Ephraim, and Dan.” 145 Fourth, Judges deals with God, albeit in a subtle way. Butler maintains that Judges is lacking theological statements about Yahweh. 146 References exist to the angel of Yahweh, false gods, and a range of (false) conceptions about Yahweh on the part of characters. Butler states, Only frameworks point to the one major statement that Judges wants to make about God. Yahweh deserves worship for all that Yahweh has done for Israel. No other god should share any part of that worship. The framework shows that part of that worship is obeying commandments, but this is seldom repeated in the book. The framework has one statement about divine pity or compassion or relenting before Israel’s groaning but makes no other statements about God’s reasons for consistently sending deliverers to Israel. To understand the nature of this God one must read the larger story of God and Israel, a story told in Torah and especially in Joshua and Samuel. 147

Butler notes that commentators are (too) quick to speak of God’s mercy, even though the expected vocabulary is absent in the book. 148 Judges is clear, as the larger story verifies, “that Israel is one people under God created for 145.  Ibid., lxxx. 146.  Ibid., lxxxiii. 147. Ibid. 148.  Ibid., lxxx. For examples of this tendency of scholars, see, among others, T. E. Fretheim, Deuteronomic History (Nashville: Abingdon, 1983), 98; J. C. McCann, Judges, Inter-

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the one purpose of worship.” 149 However, the book depicts an increasingly fragmented Israelite “nation” and a propensity among the people of God to worship anything but Yahweh. Butler may be overstating the matter­when he expresses that Judges does not help to understand Yahweh’s nature. 150 Nevertheless, readers must carefully work out Yahweh’s character on the basis of his actions in the narrative of Judges, actions that are not always easy to interpret. Perhaps the complex nature of Yahweh is another riddle to add to the list of riddles that readers encounter in Judges. 151 From these four main preoccupations of the book of Judges (leadership, obedience, tribal politics, and God), Butler maintains that a possible Sitz im Leben can be postulated. He explains that the moment in Israel’s history when the united monarchy split provides a compelling context in which to understand some of the key aspects of Judges. During the reign of Rehoboam, the Judahite descendant of David, Jeroboam led the northern tribes out of the tribal confederacy. Jeroboam, an Ephraimite, established Bethel and Dan as the cultic centers in the Northern Kingdom. Butler suggests that the pro-Judah perspective in Judges and the negative portrayal of Ephraim could be an attempt to win support for Rehoboam over against Jeroboam at a time in Israel when loyalties were divided. Moreover, the negative portrayals of Bethel and Dan in the book would provide further fodder for condemning Jeroboam’s later shrines in those cities and offering support for the legitimacy of Jerusalem as the cultic center in Israel. This context would also explain the negative evaluation of Benjamin in Judges as the tribe of Benjamin and the supporters of Saul’s dynasty would have garnered suspicion from the supporters of the Judahite claimant to the throne during the division of the kingdom. Thus, Butler writes, “the working hypothesis of this commentary is that Judges represents an artful narration of the period of the Judges for an audience experiencing the opening years of the divided monarchy and having to decide which king to follow and which sanctuary to recognize as the true center of worship. The writer of Judges obviously places Judah first and condemns Bethel and Dan—and the entire northern kingdom with them—because of their idolatrous worship.” 152 pretation (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2002), 138–39; R. B. Chisholm Jr., “Yahweh Versus the Canaanite Gods: Polemic in Judges and 1 Samuel 1–7,” BSAC 164 (2007): 166. 149.  Butler, Judges, lxxxiii. 150.  Butler does, however, at one point say that commentators “must step carefully through the bits and pieces of evidence to come to a complex presentation [regarding the subject of God]”; ibid., lxxx. 151. In this regard, L. R. Martin, “Hearing of the Book of Judges: A Dialogue with Reviewers,” Journal of Pentecostal Theology 18 (2009): 41, notes, “More recent studies have recognized the intricacies and subtleties woven into the fabric of Judges, but they have not yet acknowledged the nuanced presentation of God in the book.” Among other things, Martin holds that commentators have not accounted for the character development of Yahweh in Judges. 152.  Butler, Judges, lxxiv.

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Butler carefully teases out the way these issues and aims feature in the particular narratives while being sensitive to the way they contribute to Judges as a whole and also to the larger story of Israel’s history. However, Butler shows reluctance to affirm that Judges evidences a “unified writing plan.” Butler writes, “The author produces a whole that communicates more through the feelings and impressions it produces than through any unified writing plan.” 153 Butler thinks that Judges, like the book of Joshua, may reveal more of a thematic structure than a literary structure. Read in light of the book of Joshua, Judges dismantles and undermines what was established under the leadership of Joshua: “[Judges] has disassembled the structure of Joshua, destroyed the unity Joshua created, ransacked the cultic loyalty Joshua renewed, and ignored the Mosaic law Joshua so carefully followed and taught. Everything Joshua created politically, literarily, theologically, religiously, and geographically, Judges has done away with.” 154 Even if Butler does not discern a unified writing plan, he treats Judges as a whole and works out the purpose of the book from its beginning, through its middle, to the end. 155

1.17. Counterpoint: Andersson (2001) Not surprisingly, resistance to synchronic literary approaches has emerged in the scholarly literature. Andersson’s 2001 published dissertation The Book and Its Narratives: A Critical Examination of Some Synchronic Studies of the Book of Judges represents perhaps the most sustained critique of literary approaches applied to Judges. 156 Andersson’s critique is leveled not at synchronic readings of individual narratives but of larger narrative units (that is, books or collections of books) and particularly the book of Judges. His primary concern is that, in the search for a “meaningful and interpretable text,” those who adopt a synchronic literary approach to biblical texts posit interpretations that are in conflict with what he calls “natural” or “intuitive” readings. 153.  Ibid., lix. I wonder if Butler has reduced the concept of what he calls a “unified writing plan” to structural patterns. He is correct that Judges does not conform rigidly to a structural pattern, but this raises at least two questions. First, what literary work does conform rigidly to a fixed literary pattern? I will argue in chapter two that an element of literature is the purposeful deviation of patterns for rhetorical purposes. This is arguably what is happening in Judges when elements of the cyclical pattern are omitted. Second, can a literary work lack a clear literary structure and still demonstrate a unified writing plan? Indeed, one could argue that literature that, as Butler notes of Judges, “communicates through feelings and impressions” is at least as deliberately planned as (if not more so than) literature with a clearly discernible structure. 154.  Ibid., lxiv. 155. See his statement about taking seriously the opening and closing lines of the book (that is, the death of Joshua and the lack of a king respectively) in understanding the overall shape of the book: ibid., lvii. 156.  Andersson, The Book and Its Narratives; cf. Kaminsky, “Reflections on Associative Word Links,” JSOT 36 (2012): 411–34.

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What may be surprising about Andersson’s study is that he criticizes the synchronic interpretations of Judges by means of a narratological method. 157 The main thrust of his argument is the notion that narratives (particularly in Judges) are autonomous and therefore resistant to reworking. He is claiming not that all narratives are autonomous, 158 but the narratives that make up the book of Judges intrinsically resist the kind of macrostructure reinterpretation imposed on them in recent literary interpretations. I do not think Andersson denies that when individual narratives are embedded in a larger framework or plot that the narratives take on a new meaning, but it appears that his basic point is that the new meaning has to be in some way consonant with their individual function and meaning. Andersson holds that the deliverer narratives that make up the bulk of Judges resist the kind of reworking that recent synchronic literary readings posit. The judges accounts have an intrinsic meaning and function. Though it is indeed possible that they may have a meaning external to their individual narratives, this meaning must be related in some way to the intrinsic meaning. Andersson assumes that the level of the individual narrative is the primary level of meaning. He uses the Samson narrative as one example. The “synchronists,” as Andersson refers to them, are compelled to interpret Samson as a failed hero because they read the book through the grid of the book’s introduction and framework—as the last judge in a period of degeneration, Samson’s negative evaluation would seem to be predetermined. However, at the level of the individual narrative, Samson is a notable hero who, with divine help, performs remarkable feats, his death being held out as his crowning achievement. 159 The narrative of Samson, like those of Ehud and Jephthah, resist the kind of reworking on the basis of the macrostructure of the book that sees them as anti-heroes. The chief problem, in my opinion, is with Andersson’s assumption regarding narrative autonomy. One must share Andersson’s assumption of narrative autonomy to interpret the individual narratives as he does (even then his interpretations are debatable). Because the only forms that exist of individual narratives that make up Judges are those embedded in the overall narrative of Judges, narrative autonomy (at least in this case) is a theoretical construct. On what basis, then, is it legitimate to extract these narratives from the framework in which we have received them? Of course, in the final analysis, each interpreter of, for example, the Samson account has to make sense of the features of the narrative, some of which may 157.  Andersson, The Book and Its Narratives, 18–19. 158. A point that he helpfully clarifies in his response to Wong; G. Andersson, “A Narratologist’s Critical Reflections: A Response to Gregory T. K. Wong,” SJOT 21 (2007): 263–68. 159.  Even if we were to read the Samson narrative apart from its place and function in Judges this way of understanding of Samson is simplistic. Samson’s feats, including his so-called “crowning achievement” did little to bring about good for Israel or the Danites (his own tribe).

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appear­ambiguous. Still it is far from apparent that, even on the level of the individual narrative, a figure such as Samson is portrayed as unequivocally heroic. 160 Hermeneutically, frame narratives in fact do affect the meaning of embedded narratives; in the case of Judges, Andersson holds that the meaning of these narratives cannot be stretched to such an extent that they fit the macrostructure. Thus, categorical and irreconcilable differences separate the way that synchronic literary readings conceive of how narratives function in Judges and the way that Andersson does. Andersson’s study also presents other challenges. At times, he is unclear about the way he uses and defines important concepts (for example, “intuitive” and “disturbing” interpretations, “fictional” and “non-fictional” narratives, and so on). The critical dialogue between Wong and Andersson in Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament is revealing in this respect. 161 In his response to Wong’s review article, Andersson takes the opportunity to clarify some salient points of his argument (he admits he may not have been entirely clear on some points but maintains that on other points Wong has misunderstood him). In the final analysis, it seems Andersson’s assumptions about the nature and function of the narratives in Judges make it difficult for a critical dialogue (such as between Wong and Andersson) ultimately to get very far.

1.18. Conclusion This survey of studies on the composition of Judges is deliberately selective, but the aim has been to give a general sense of the development of Judges scholarship and how opinions and interpretations have shifted. 162 The literary turn in biblical studies has doubtless had a significant impact on the study of Judges. From the broad strokes of Gooding’s journal article to the meticulous detail of O’Connell’s monograph, the state of Judges research and the understanding of the book seem to have been irrevocably 160.  Andersson regards the question whether Samson breaks the nazarite laws as out of play; he writes, “Who says that there are any?” See Andersson, The Book and Its Narratives, 179. 161. See Wong’s review article: G. T. K. Wong, “Narratives and Their Contexts: A Critique of Greger Andersson with Respect to Narrative Autonomy,” SJOT 20 (2006): 216–30; and Andersson’s lengthy response: Andersson, “A Narratologist’s Critical Reflections on Synchronic Studies of the Bible,” 261–74. 162. This survey does not deal specifically with the emergence of feminist readings of Judges. Scholarly interest in gender issues in Judges is often combined with literary approaches. The pioneer in this regard is Trible, whose monograph Texts of Terror: LiteraryFeminist Readings of Biblical Narratives, OBT 13 (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1984), devotes a chapter each to Jephthah’s daughter and the unnamed concubine in Judg 19; see pp. 65– 116. Judges scholarship in the last three decades has also seen an increased attention to sexuality in Judges. Recently see R. Jost, Gender, Sexualität und Macht in der Anthropologie des Richterbuches. BWA(N)T 164 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2006). S. Frolov, “Sleeping with the Enemy: Recent Scholarship on Sexuality in the Book of Judges,” Currents in Biblical Research 11 (2013): 307–27: surveys the scholarly research in this area though he finds little in the book to support such a proliferation of publications in this area.

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altered. Although a diversity of opinions regarding the interpretation and function of Judges still remains, many recent studies on the book share a common approach (a synchronic literary approach) and agree on a number of basic conclusions. These studies tend to agree that (1) Judges consists of three parts, namely, the introduction, main section, and end section (though there is some disagreement over the dividing point between the former two); (2) the introduction is an appropriate exposition for the book as a whole, providing a schematized account of battles between Israel and the Canaanite nations, and an initial hermeneutical schema that plays out in the judges accounts in the main section; (3) the book evidences a pattern of progressive deterioration or degeneration of the Israelites (and their judges) over the course of the book; 163 (4) chs. 17–21 represent the completion of the downward spiral, the events of these chapters epitomizing the moral, spiritual, and social disintegration of Israel in the time between the death of Joshua and the rise of the monarchy. Thus, on the whole, scholars regard chs. 17–21 as a fitting conclusion to the book, a coda or dénouement that brings completion to the plot and themes that are developed previously in the book. Even so, a great deal of disagreement over the interpretation and function of chs. 17–21 still remains. What precisely is the apparently promonarchic refrain communicating and how does it cohere with other statements about kingship in the book? Are these chapters pro-Davidic and anti-Saulide propaganda, and if so, does that make sense given the overall thrust of the book? What about the chronological problem in chs. 17–21? Is it incidental or does it too serve a rhetorical purpose? Why do priestly and cultic issues appear in these chapters when they are in large part absent up until this point in the book? What do we make of Amit’s argument that chs. 19–21 serve a different rhetorical purpose from chs. 17–18? In spite of good evidence for the coherence of the book, a lingering attitude that chs. 17–21 are appended material with a distinct rhetorical purpose still exists, even among some of those who advocate a synchronic approach. 164 The time seems ripe for a reexamination of the interpretation and function of these chapters in the context of the book of Judges. In my opinion, the appropriate starting point for this reevaluation of Judges 17–21 is “the ending.” In other words, in the literary composition of a narrative text, what is an ending? How do endings function? The next chapter will look to literary and narrative theory to understand better the nature and function of endings in the hope of understanding better the nature and function of the ending of Judges. 163.  A notable exception being Ryan, Judges. 164. E.g., Gross, Richter; Amit, The Book of Judges; etc.

Chapter Two

The End of Narrative: Emplotment and the Configuration of Time in Narrative Theory 2.1. Introduction The previous chapter demonstrated that for a variety of reasons modern­ biblical scholarship has regarded the ending of Judges as problematic. Scholars hold unspoken, implicit expectations of how a narrative should end, expectations that the ending of Judges apparently does not meet. However, these implicit conceptions of narrative ending which underlie research on biblical narrative rarely, if ever, get brought to the foreground in biblical studies. Moreover, because they are seldom foregrounded, they are even more seldom subjected to critical examination. Outside of biblical studies, the long history of narrative composition and the recent academic interest in endings point to a plurality of views on the nature and function of narrative endings. Reflecting on the history of critical reflection on closure, Richardson writes, “A critical synthesis of this increasingly complex, ideologically laden, and expanding field is in all likelihood a long way off.” 1 Of course, the kind of critical synthesis to which Richardson refers is beyond the scope of this volume, but this chapter will explore some of the key theoretical issues with regard to narrative, narrative composition, and the role of endings in narrative, with the aim of illuminating the narrative of Judges and its ending. What is an ending? The question seems simple enough on the surface, but further reflection reveals that defining an ending is no easy matter. A student posed just this sort of query to the American novelist Joseph Heller: “What is an ending? I mean, how do you have an ending to a story?” Heller replied wryly, “I don’t know what you mean . . . an ending is an ending. I can’t think of any stories that don’t have endings.” 2 The contemporary 1. B. Richardson, “Introduction: Openings and Closure,” in Narrative Dynamics, ed. B. Richardson, Theory and Interpretation of Narrative Series (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2002), 254. For a very helpful survey of perspectives on closure/endings, see chs. 2 and 3 of T. M. Troftgruben, A Conclusion Unhindered: A Study of the Ending of Acts within Its Literary Environment, WUANT 208 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 37–113. For a succinct survey of secondary resources on closure/endings see Richardson, “Introduction: Openings and Closure,” 252–55. 2.  Cited in C. T. Powers, “Joe Heller, Author on Top of the World,” in Conversations with Joseph Heller, ed. A. J. Sorkin ( Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1993), 141.

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literary critic Barbara Herrnstein Smith highlights the distinction “between concluding and merely stopping or ceasing.” 3 Heller was no doubt aware that the student’s concern was not about the physical ending—the stopping or ceasing in Smith’s words—of a narrative as such (that is, the final word, sentence, or page) but with the sense of an ending  4 that a piece of literature conveys and that readers experience. If the concept of endings has, with few exceptions, been neglected in biblical studies, the same cannot be said of endings in other disciplines. The 20th century brought about a keen interest in endings/closure, which resulted in a host of studies on endings in Classical and Medieval literature, poetry, drama (Shakespearian and other), film, music, and theology and literature, to name a few. 5 The journals Yale French Studies and NineteenthCentury Fiction 6 each dedicated an issue to the topic of endings. A recently published multiauthor edited volume called Narrative Dynamics: Essays on Time, Plot, Closure, and Frames explores the intricate “movement of a narrative from its opening to its end.” 7 Within this flood of research on endings, a few works stand out as particularly important, including Kermode’s The 3.  Smith, Poetic Closure, 1–2. 4. This, of course, is the title of Kermode’s 1967 book, which has arguably now reached the status of a classic: Kermode, The Sense of an Ending. 5.  On endings in classical and medieval literature, see F. Dunn, Tragedy’s End: Closure and Innovation in Euripidean Drama (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996); D. H. Roberts, F. M. Dunn, and D. Fowler, eds., Classical Closure: Reading the End in Greek and Latin Literature (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997): a multiauthor edited volume with chapters on a variety of topics related to endings in classical literature; R. P. McGerr, Chaucer’s Open Books: Resistance to Closure in Medieval Discourse (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1998); D. H. Roberts, “Beginnings and Endings,” in A Companion to Greek Tragedy, ed. J. Gregory, Blackwell Companions to the Ancient World (Malden: Blackwell, 2005), 136–48. On endings in poetry, see Smith, Poetic Closure. On endings in drama, see B. Beckerman, “Shakespeare Closing,” Kenyon Review 7 (1985): 79–95; B. Hodgdon, The End Crowns All: Closure and Contradiction in Shakespeare’s History (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991); E. J. Jensen, Shakespeare and the Ends of Comedy, Drama and Performance Studies (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1991); H. J. Schmidt, How Dramas End: Essays on the German Sturm und Drang, Büchner, Hauptmann, and Fleisser (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1992); J. Schlueter, Dramatic Closure: Reading the End (Cranbury: Associated University Press, 1995). Film: R. J. Neupert, The End: Narration and Closure in the Cinema (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1995); C. Russell, Narrative Mortality: Death, Closure, and New Wave Cinemas (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995). On endings in music, see V. K. Agawu, “Concepts of Closure and Chopin’s Opus 28: A Critical Study,” Music Theory Spectrum 9 (1987): 1–17; G. Edwards, “The Nonsense of an Ending: Closure in Haydn’s String Quartets,” The Musical Quarterly 75 (1991): 227–54; M. Anson-Cartwright, “Concepts of Closure in Tonal Music,” Theory and Practice 32 (2007): 1–17. On endings in theology and literature, see P. S. Fiddes, The Promised End: Eschatology in Theology and Literature, Challenges in Contemporary Theology (Oxford: Blackwell, 2000). 6. David Hult, ed., Yale French Studies 67 (1984); Nineteenth-Century Fiction 33.1 (1978). 7. B. Richardson, ed., Narrative Dynamics, Theory and Interpretation of Narrative Series (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2002), 1.

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Sense of an Ending: Studies in the Theory of Fiction, Smith’s Poetic Closure: A Study of How Poems End, and Torgovnick’s Closure in the Novel. 8

2.2.  Theory of Endings: Key Resources Kermode’s The Sense of an Ending is now widely recognized as a classic. 9 In this work, Kermode accounts for the ways in which humans attempt to comprehend their existence in time. Humans make sense of the apparent successiveness of time by emploting events into a meaningful whole. Because we are always living in medias res (“into the middest”), the stories we tell provide a sense of “concord” in the shadow of our own mortality and, ultimately, the end of the world. In the West the biblical story, which begins “In the beginning” and concludes with a vision of the end (i.e., the New Jerusalem), has profoundly influenced conceptions of history and human self-understanding, according to Kermode. Furthermore, literature reflects this tendency to make sense of living in the midst of the beginning and end. Thus, for Kermode, “ Men, like poets, rush “into the middest,” in medias res, when they are born; they also die in mediis rebus, and to make sense of their span they need fictive concords with origins and ends, such as give meaning to lives and to poems. The End they imagine will reflect their irreducibly intermediary preoccupations. They fear it, and as far as we can see have always done so; the End is a figure for their own deaths. 10

According to Kermode’s line of thinking then, this human tendency to derive comfort from the end suggests that the old adage “all is well that ends well” would be better stated as “all is well because it will end well.” If Kermode is right, it should come as no surprise, therefore, that with the waning of the biblical story’s influence on western culture, contemporary western literature is largely now characterized by uncertainty and openendedness. Fiddes in his work on eschatology in theology and literature takes the basic problem of closure in contemporary literature as his starting point. The initial sentence of his book is, “Many modern novelists seem to find it difficult to bring their books to an end,” and later in the book he asks, “[W]hy does an end seem more difficult to achieve today than before?”  11 In any case, Kermode posits that humans have a deep-seated desire 8.  Kermode, The Sense of an Ending; Smith, Poetic Closure; Torgovnick, Closure in the Novel. 9.  Kermode, The Sense of an Ending. On the influence of Kermode’s book, Torgovnick writes, “Frank Kermode’s fine The Sense of an Ending has probably been more responsible than any other single work for initiating renewed critical interest in narrative endings”; Torgovnick, Closure in the Novel, 7. 10.  Kermode, The Sense of an Ending, 7. 11. The basic problem of closure in contemporary literature is the starting point of Fiddes’s work on eschatology in theology and literature. The initial sentence of his book is, “Many modern novelists seem to find it difficult to bring their books to an end” (Fid-

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for concordance between beginning, middle and end. The stories we tell of the “real” world and fictive worlds reflect this desire. Kermode’s work is helpful in grounding conceptions of literary endings within a wider understanding of reality and human existence. Kermode’s own understanding of endings is rooted in his assumption about the basic human preoccupation with death. One will accept Kermode’s theorizing regarding literary endings only insofar as one accepts his view of human existence. For many, death is not understood as the end and it is not necessarily something to be feared. How might this influence an understanding of literary endings? Kermode’s reflection on endings is intriguing but should not be the final word on endings for those who disagree with his more fundamental assumptions about reality and human existence. Another important publication on endings is Smith’s Poetic Closure: A Study of How Poems End. 12 Although Smith is concerned with endings in poetry, her discussion of closure has implications beyond poetry and into literature in general (not to mention other art forms). Smith is particularly interested in how the sense of closure affects readers in their experience of both formal and thematic structures. In other words, her approach is not merely formalistic but aims to discern how readers perceive and experience closure. 13 Structure does, however, feature as a key component in Smith’s understanding of closure. She distinguishes between formal structure and thematic structure: “Formal elements are defined as those which arise from the physical nature of words, and would include such features as rhyme, alliteration, and syllabic meter.” 14 On the other hand, “The thematic elements of a poem are those which arise from the symbolic or conventional nature of words, and to which only someone familiar with the language could respond; they would include everything from reference to syntax to tone.” 15 The question of structure (“What keeps a poem going?”) is intricately bound together with the question of closure (“What causes a poem to stop going?”). Readers experience closure as the patterns of formal and thematic structure correspond to (or perhaps undermine) their expectations. Smith introduces an important concept—what she calls “retrospective patterning.” 16 Literature (in Smith’s case poetry) adheres to certain des, The Promised End, 1). Later he asks, “why does an end seem more difficult to achieve today than before?” (p. 5). 12.  Smith, Poetic Closure. 13. For Smith and many others, “closure” is a kind of shorthand for ending. Smith would readily acknowledge that an open ending is an appropriate way to end a poem. In fact, she posits that openness, or what she calls “closural weakness” or “anti-closure,” if it coheres with the design of the poem, would still successfully affect closure; see ibid., 233–60. 14.  Ibid., 6 (emphasized by Smith). 15.  Ibid. (emphasized by Smith). 16.  Ibid., 10–14.

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conventions­or patterns. In the process of reading a poem, we develop expectations about what is to come. Almost inevitably, these expectations will be foiled, causing not only a readjustment of our expectations about what is to follow but also a reassessment of our perceptions of preceding patterns. For example, when we encounter the pattern A B, we might reasonably expect C to follow. If the next element in the pattern is A, we would adjust our assessment regarding what pattern is at work. At this point, we might anticipate B to follow (thus, we have adjusted our expectation that the pattern is A B A B), but perhaps the overall pattern is A B A C A D and so on. Smith’s point is that reading poetry involves a dynamic response to patterns. As such, the end of a poem is most significant: “the conclusion of a poem has special status in the process, for it is only at that point that the total pattern—the structural principles which have been tested—is revealed.” 17 Suffice it to say at this point that Smith’s understanding of poetic structure affords the ending great significance and is confirmed in similar terms by theorists of other forms of literature. Her conception of retrospective patterning is most insightful and is something we will return to as it illuminates aspects of the book of Judges. The third important work on the theory of endings in literature is Torgovnick’s Closure in the Novel. 18 Torgovnick proceeds on the assumption that common sense and practical experience indicate that stories have “forms and meanings, and endings are crucial in achieving them.” 19 Before analyzing the endings of a selection of 19th-century novels, she lays the groundwork by positing several sets of terms to make sense of the basic strategies for closure in novels. These sets of terms concern four dimensions of closure: 1. The relationship of the ending to the overall shape of the novel 2. The relationship of the ending to the author’s preoccupations 3. The relationship of the ending to the reader’s experience 4. The relationship of the ending to the author’s own purposes and ideas 20 Torgovnick identifies five ways that the ending relates to the overall shape of the novel: (1) Circularity is the strategy whereby an ending uses various means to recall the beginning of a novel. (2) Parallelism describes the strategy whereby an ending refers not only to the beginning but also to various points in the novel. (3) Incompletion is a pattern of closure in which the ending refers to the beginning and middle but omits vital elements that prevent it from being a circular or parallel ending. (4) Tangential is the 17.  Ibid., 13. 18.  Torgovnick, Closure in the Novel. 19.  Ibid., 4. 20.  Ibid., 12.

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strategy of ending that introduces a new topic at the end. (5) Linkage is an ending technique that introduces elements in the ending which connect to the body of another novel (or other literary work), often yet unwritten. Torgovnick posits two sets of terms to describe how the ending of a novel relates to the author’s preoccupations. First, the overview ending, as the label suggests, makes sense of the overall action or purpose of the novel, providing a kind of transcendent retrospective view. An epilogue often functions as an overview ending. Second, close-up endings, unlike overview endings, provide no temporal distance from the body of the novel and often withhold clues from the reader that the story is ending at all. Often authors have a deliberate reason for employing a close-up ending. Torgovnick identifies three ways that authors and readers relate at the ending of novels. The relation between the author and reader is complementary when the reader accepts the ending and the meaning which the author intends to convey at the ending. An incongruent relationship occurs when the author must coax or persuade the reader to accept the ending. In confrontational endings, the author deliberately upsets the reader’s expectations. Finally, the relationships between the ending and the author’s own purposes and ideas are of two basic kinds: self-aware and self-deceiving. The former demonstrates the authors’ mastery of their ideas and produces a successful ending. Self-deceiving authors have inadequately communicated their ideas at the end. For Torgovnick, these sets of terms do not replace the necessary close analysis of endings in particular novels, but they do, in her opinion, provide a helpful framework and vocabulary to facilitate these analyses. 21 Some of the sets of terms are, however, more helpful than others, particularly if we are interested in their application to biblical literature. For example, her first set of terms regarding an ending’s relationship to the overall shape of a narrative is very insightful, proof of which is the fact that critics and other interpreters of narratives have identified some of these concepts independently of her work. 22 Less helpful, in my estimation, is her final set of terms regarding the authors’ mastery of their ideas at the ending. Judging an author’s competence is never straightforward and is especially difficult when it comes to interpreting biblical narrative. This literature is so foreign, in terms of language, culture, worldview, and so on, that we have very little 21.  Ibid., 19. 22. Incidentally, some biblical scholars have used Torgovnick’s framework, albeit in a modified form. For example, Crouch uses Torgovnick’s work, among other theories of endings, in his analysis of the endings of Job, Jonah, and the Gospel of John; Crouch, Death and Closure in Biblical Narrative. Ashlock is indebted to Torgovnick (particularly her first set of terms) in his study of the endings of Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers; Ashlock, “As the Lord Commands.” In New Testament studies, Troftgruben modifies elements of Torgonvick’s model for studying the ending of the book of Acts; Troftgruben, A Conclusion Unhindered.

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apart from the literature itself by which to make these judgments. Even so, Torgovnick’s work offers a helpful set of tools for understanding and making sense of endings in literature beyond just the novel.

2.3.  Narrative Theory As this brief survey indicates, it is difficult to abstract a discussion of endings from more fundamental literary and philosophical matters. How does an ending relate to the other component parts of a piece of literature? What constitutes an appropriate ending? How do conceptions of ending relate to our understanding of human existence? Aristotle is one of the first known theorists to write about narrative composition and the importance of endings. In his oft-quoted dictum, he states, “A whole is that which has a beginning, a middle, and an end.” 23 This may seem self-evident, but the insight is helpful in that it conceives of the ending in terms of its relation to the other major building blocks of narrative. Aristotle continues: “A beginning is that which does not itself follow anything by causal necessity, but after which something naturally is or comes to be. An ending, on the contrary, is that which itself naturally follows some other thing, either by necessity, or as a rule, but has nothing following it. . . . A well constructed plot, therefore, must neither begin nor end at haphazard, but conform to these principles.” 24 As such, any proper discussion regarding the theory of endings must take place in the context of a discussion regarding the theory of narrative more generally. The remainder of this chapter will engage in this wider discussion of narrative theory and situate the notion of narrative ending within that discussion. If there is indeed a crisis in biblical studies, a way through this crisis should involve foregrounding the philosophical and theoretical assumptions that are the foundation of interpretation. Bartholomew argues persuasively that “Especially since Wellhausen, much of what drives biblical interpretation has gone underground, as it were.” 25 He identifies an urgent need “to surface the philosophical and theological presuppositions that continue to shape our scholarship, whether we are aware of them or not.” 26 In the context of biblical studies, we will be wading into largely “uncharted waters,” to use Bartholomew’s phrase. However, the aim is to present the theoretical groundwork for the notion of narrative and the notion of ending on which the subsequent study of Judges will build. Our chief guide for navigating these unfamiliar waters is the prolific philosopher Paul Ricoeur, particularly his theoretical work on narrative. 23.  Aristotle, Poetics, Cosimo Classis (New York: Cosimo, 2008), §7.2. 24.  Ibid., 7.3–7. 25. C. G. Bartholomew, “Uncharted Waters: Philosophy, Theology and the Crisis of Biblical Interpretation,” in Renewing Biblical Interpretation, ed. C. G. Bartholomew, C. Greene, and K. Möller, Scripture and Hermeneutics Series 1 (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2000), 34. 26. Ibid.

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Ricoeur’s work itself is not focused primarily on endings. His discussion of endings is situated within the context of a comprehensive understanding of narrative in general. Ricoeur’s work is a helpful guide in this conversation for several reasons. He is a giant in philosophy and wrote extensively on language and textual theory. 27 Having published a number of works on various biblical texts and on biblical hermeneutics in general, he is familiar with the terrain of biblical studies and the challenges of the guild. 28 He is clearly aware of philosophical issues involved in the interpretation of narrative texts and is conversant with more than 2,000 years of critical reflection—from Aristotle to Derrida—on narrative and its interpretation. Although he is often lumped in with the more radical postmodern philosophers (Derrida, Foucault, and others), he is a constructive thinker and avoids the more radical tendencies of postmodern philosophy. For Ricoeur, narratives matter. As Dowling notes, “In Time and Narrative, it is not only the ability of people and societies to tell stories, but the power of stories to shape people and society, that will become his [Ricoeur’s] ultimate focus.” 29 Finally, his theoretical work on narrative and endings will, as this chapter attempts to show, shed new light on the challenges of interpreting Judges. An objection commonly raised at this point is whether the use of modern literary theories is even appropriate in the field of biblical studies. Ricoeur’s work on narrative takes some of the sting out of this sort of objection. Deriving as it does from Aristotle’s notion of emplotment (muthos), Ricoeur’s theory of narrative configuration is already more conducive to the understanding of biblical narrative than, say, the modern novel because Aristotle was reflecting on ancient forms of literature. In fact, one of the problems that Ricoeur faces head on is whether Aristotle’s notion of narrative configuration applies to contemporary narratives (for example, the modern novel). In response to this challenge, Ricoeur maintains that cultures have always produced narratives that, on the level of emplotment (that is, the compositional ordering of the narrative), manifest what he calls “family 27.  E.g., P. Ricoeur, The Conflict of Interpretations: Essays in Hermeneutics, Northwestern University Studies in Phenomenology and Existential Philosophy (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1974); P. Ricoeur, Interpretation Theory: Discourse and the Surplus of Meaning (Fort Worth: Texas Christian University Press, 1976); P. Ricoeur, From Text to Action: Essays in Hermeneutics, II, trans. K. Blamey and J. B. Thompson, Northwestern University Studies in Phenomenology and Existential Philosophy (London: Athlone, 1991). 28.  E.g., P. Ricoeur, “Biblical Hermeneutics,” Semeia 4 (1975): 29–148; P. Ricoeur, “Toward a Hermeneutic of the Idea of Revelation,” Harvard Theological Review 70 (1977): 1–37; P. Ricoeur, “Logic of Jesus, the Logic of God,” Christianity and Crisis 39.20 (1979): 324–27; P. Ricoeur, “The Hermeneutics of Testimony,” AThR 61 (1979): 435–61; P. Ricoeur, “Naming God,” Union Seminary Quarterly Review 34.4 (1979): 215–27; P. Ricoeur, “The ‘Kingdom’ in the Parables,” AThR 63 (1981): 165–69; A. Lacocque and P. Ricoeur, Thinking Biblically (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998). 29.  W. C. Dowling, Ricoeur on Time and Narrative: An Introduction to Temps et récit (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2011), 37, emphasis added.

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resemblances.” 30 According to Ricoeur, even the most systematically fragmented postmodern novels may undermine a reader’s expectation by utilizing common conventions while at the same time disclosing “a more profound principle of order.” 31 Thus, Ricoeur’s theory of narrative is a search for what is most basic to all narratives and so is illuminating with regard to the nature and function of biblical narratives. Moreover, in the search to make sense of the peculiarities of biblical narrative, I will not shy from utilizing insights, albeit critically, from other areas of literary research to the extent that they aid in perceiving those “family resemblances” across various types of narratives. Finally, this chapter is not meant to present theory for the sake of theory. The aim is that insights from the narrative theory of Ricoeur (and others) will rise up to meet and illuminate the interpretation of the book of Judges. 32 The key ideas that nourish and enhance our understanding of narrative include: 1. temporality and emplotment 2. narrative as re-presentation of action 3. the importance of endings in completing a narrative as a whole 4. the threefold relationship among the prenarrative shape of action, the configuration of action into a plot, and the projection of narrative world All of these notions, among others, derived from a theoretical understanding of narrative, ought to provide clarity with regard to some of the most perplexing hermeneutical issues in the interpretation of Judges. 30. P. Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, trans. K. McLaughlin and D. Pellauer, vol. 2 (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1985), 19. 31. Ibid., 22. Ricoeur admits that a threshold of order exists beyond which a work would be excluded from the domain of art, but he maintains that the modern novel has yet to cross that threshold. Important to this discussion is Ricoeur’s dialectic between tradition and innovation. Tradition (e.g., inherited narrative paradigms) provides something like the grammar of narrative composition, but this certainly must not rule out the role of imagination and innovation in the production of new narratives. Indeed, innovation with regard to tradition is what gives each narrative its distinct flavor, its singularity. Thus, for Ricoeur, “innovation remains a form of behavior governed by rules. The labor of imagination is not born of nothing. It is bound in one way or another to the tradition’s paradigms. But the range of solutions is vast. It is deployed between the two poles of servile application and calculated deviation, passing through every degree of ‘rule-governed deformation’” (P. Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, trans. K. McLaughlin and D. Pellauer, vol. 1 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984), 69. 32. Implicit in this statement is a particular understanding of the role of theory in research. The sociologist and cultural critic Philip Rieff has written on the need for a metatheory, that is, a theory of theories; see P. Rieff, The Triumph of the Therapeutic: Uses of Faith after Freud (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 86. If I understand Rieff correctly, the use of theory in this dissertation is something along the lines of what he evokes when he says, “If a theory is superior, then facts will rise to imitate it”; P. Rieff, Fellow Teachers (New York: Dell, 1973), 5. The theory in this chapter, gleaned from many sources, should be judged on the extent to which the “facts” of Judges “rise to imitate it” (that is, confirm the theory).

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This chapter will focus on Ricoeur’s magisterial three-volume work Time and Narrative, in which he attempts to account for the temporal character of human experience and the special function of narrative to provide order, especially temporal order. Augustine and Aristotle are Ricoeur’s two main interlocutors as he enters into the mystery of time and narrative. Ricoeur observes that Augustine’s inquiry into the paradox (aporias) of time in book 11 of his Confessions seems altogether disconnected from the spiritual autobiography (Augustine’s own personal narrative) that unfolds in the first nine books of the Confessions. In other words, Augustine fails, according to Ricoeur, to draw the latent connection between the mystery of time and narration. Aristotle, on the other hand, develops his theory of plot (muthos) without specific regard for the temporal implications of his theorizing. For Ricoeur, the notion of emplotment via Aristotle has the potential to solve the mystery of time as articulated by Augustine, thus bringing these two giants in the western intellectual tradition into fruitful dialogue. 33

2.4.  Threefold Mimesis A key concept in Ricoeur’s theory of narrative is “mimesis” (or what he sometimes refers to as “mimetic activity”). Dowling notes that mimesis “is a word sometimes translated as ‘imitation,’ sometimes as ‘representation,’ but always as something having to do with that puzzling intuition that makes us want to say that art imitates life.” 34 The key notion is that art (whether visual art, literary art, and so on) is an imitation of something else. In visual art, this is fairly straightforward. Michelangelo’s David is an artistic representation (mimesis) of the biblical character David. With literature the relationship is more complex. Ricoeur follows Aristotle in the conviction that narrative is the representation or imitation not of an object (as in visual art) but of action. For Aristotle, life consists of a succession of meaningless actions and events. Stories give meaning to what would otherwise seem like random actions. To understand this point, Dowling gives the example of a person leaving the room to get a glass of water from the fridge. The action itself is meaningless until it is emplotted into a meaningful narrative. Perhaps the individual was thirsty so he went to get a drink. On the other hand, perhaps the person was in an awkward conversation and used the drink of water as a pretext to escape the situation. 35 Configuring actions into a coherent narrative, therefore, involves making sense of motivations and causes. Thus, the act of narrating is the configuring of human action into a meaningful plot. Here it is possible to distinguish between a chronicle of events and a story. 36 Plot, according to Ricoeur, is a “synthesis of the heterogeneous,” a 33.  Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, 1: 3–4. 34.  Dowling, Ricoeur on Time and Narrative, 1. 35.  Ibid., 4–5. 36.  To use E. M. Forster’s well-known example: “The king died and then the queen

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“grasping together” of incidents into a story. 37 Or to put it in other words, plot is “the intelligible whole that governs a succession of events in any story.” 38 At this point, he does not distinguish between the fundamental character of fictional narrative and that of historical narrative, except to note the referential character of each. In terms of their structural features, they are of a kind. 39 Ricoeur identifies three stages in mimetic activity, namely mimesis1, mimesis2, and mimesis3. The configuring of events into a plot (emplotment) is only one stage or dimension of the mimetic activity. Emplotment (mimesis2) serves a mediating role between mimesis1 and mimesis3. In his explanation of mimesis2, Ricoeur elucidates, among other things, the vital role of endings in narratives. 40 This second dimension of narrative’s mimetic activity in Ricoeur’s narrative theory is particularly illuminating considering some of the hermeneutical challenges related to Judges. However, it is important to understand Ricoeur’s theory of narrative as a whole: the interrelation between the configuration of narrative (mimesis2) and its prefiguration in human experience (mimesis1) and the effect of its reconfiguration on the reader (mimesis3). The organizing of events into a plot (mimesis2) is not merely to impose a narrative structure upon events but rather “to recognize in action temporal structures that call for narration.” 41 Narrative presupposes on the part of the narrator and listeners an awareness of concepts such as agent, goal, means, and circumstances. 42 Ricoeur suggests that in the realm of human activity, reality has a prenarrative quality to it. Thus, “To imitate or represent action is first to preunderstand what human acting is, in its semantic, its symbolic system, its temporality. . . . literature would be incomprehensible if it did not give a configuration to what was already a figure in human died” is a chronicle; “The king died and the queen died of grief” is a story. The latter is a story because it demonstrates causality. 37.  Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, 1:66. 38.  Idem, “Narrative Time,” in Narrative Dynamics: Essays on Time, Plot, Closure, and Frames, ed. B. Richardson, Theory and Interpretation of Narrative Series (Columbus: The Ohio State University Press, 2002), 37. 39.  Ricoeur admits that the truth claims of fictional and historical narrative are distinct. Nevertheless, historical narrative, insofar as it is narrative (as opposed to mere chronicling of episodes without reflection on causal relationship of events), shares common structural characteristics with that of fictional narrative. He deals later on in Time and Narrative with the distinctives of both historical and fictional narrative. See also P. Ricoeur, Memory, History, Forgetting, trans. K. Blamey and D. Pellauer (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004). 40.  Ricoeur lays the foundation for his threefold mimesis in volume one of Time and Narrative and works out the implication of it in the subsequent volumes. Volume two zeroes in on the configuration of fictional narrative and is basically limited to the realm of mimesis2. 41.  Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, 1:59. 42.  Ibid., 55.

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action.” 43 Action implies a “conceptual network” consisting of goals, motives, (interacting) agents and circumstances. Emplotment (mimesis2) is the rendering of this conceptual network (mimesis1) into a temporal whole. 44 Perhaps a fictitious example might help to illuminate this concept. Suppose John just landed his dream job writing scripts for a popular television program. In describing the circumstances surrounding his recent employment to a friend, he tells how he had been putting in his time at a dead-end job doing copyediting work at a local newspaper but always had aspirations to write. As a result of financial cutbacks, he found himself out of a job. While working some temporary jobs, he happened to meet a friend from college who was involved in the broadcasting industry. He arranged for John to meet the producer of a television program. This individual was looking to add a writer to their team and asked John to come in for an interview. John got along well with the producer and was offered the job. The circumstances leading up to John’s employment are seemingly random (working a dead-end job, a financial situation that left him out of a job, meeting his college friend who was in broadcasting, and so on), but at the same time John configured them in such a way as to recognize in these events a coherent narrative that culminated in his landing his dream job as a writer. The events, circumstances, and actions as such represent mimesis1,whereas John’s configuring these circumstances into a coherent narrative corresponds to mimesis2. Mimesis1, therefore, is what Ricoeur refers to as the prenarrative structure of human action that is configured and represented in mimesis2. To summarize: mimesis1 constitutes actions and circumstances that occur (whether in a fictional or in actual reality) and that have a prenarrative quality to them. Mimesis2 is the activity of organizing those events into a coherent plot. However, the full-orbed process of mimesis, according to Ricoeur, is not complete without an audience: a spectator or reader. 45 What is prefigured in human experience (mimesis1) and configured by means of the narrative text (mimesis2) becomes refigured in the act of reading (mimesis3). Narrative as discourse implies communication and thus a receiver. The reference that a narrative text communicates to its readers is a refigured world, the world opened up by the text. Thus, “the function of refiguration that belongs to the poetic work in general is part of a hermeneutics that aims . . . at making explicit the movement by which the text unfolds, as it were, a world in front of the text. . . . what is interpreted in a text is the proposing of a world that I might inhabit and into which I might project my ownmost powers.” 46 In other words, in reading a narrative such as Dickens’s Tale of Two Cities or Orwell’s 1984 or the book of Judges, readers 43.  Ibid., 64. 44.  Ibid., 57. 45.  Ibid., 46. 46.  Ibid., 81.

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imaginatively indwell for a time the world that these narratives project. The power of narrative is that these narrative worlds can reshape the reader’s­ perception of the “real world.” Much more could be said about mimesis3 but suffice it to note at this point that mimesis3 marks the intersection of the world of the text and the world of the reader. 47

2.5.  The Structure of Narrative: Emplotment The focus of the rest of this chapter is on Ricoeur’s notion of narrative as the configuration of human action into a plot (mimesis2 in the three stages of mimetic activity). This dimension of Ricoeur’s theory of narrative helps to reopen the question of the plot and structure of Judges. 48 The structural organization of the narrative of Judges, its emplotment, is an important dimension of this study and will receive due attention. No less important are the connections of Judges to the historical actions and events it represents (mimesis1), especially the world the book of Judges projects and that the reader is summoned to appropriate (mimesis3). This section, however, will examine in more detail Ricoeur’s mimesis2 because in my opinion this is the crux of the disagreements in modern Judges scholarship over the interpretation of Judges (and its ending). Ricoeur focuses on the configuration of fictional narrative (mimesis2) in detail in volume two of Time and Narrative. It becomes clear early on in the volume that endings are vital to the configuration or emplotment of narratives. Ricoeur notes, “Because the paradigms of composition in the Western tradition are at the same time paradigms of endings, we may anticipate that the eventual exhaustion of these paradigms may be seen in the difficulty of concluding a narrative.” 49 For Ricoeur, unity and complete47.  Ibid., 71. 48.  Marais maintains that the representational mode of Old Testament narrative, including Judges, is not mimesis; see J. Marais, Representation in Old Testament Narrative Texts, Biblical Interpretation Series 36 (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 61. However, he understands mimesis quite differently from how Ricoeur and other philosophers understand it. The key issue in this regard is the relationship between the text and historical reality. Marais articulates mimesis in terms of an “equivalent reproduction of reality” or a “copy” (p. 16). According to Marais, “mimesis has the connotation of being an exact replica” (p. 21). Contrasting his own view with mimesis he notes, “I view representation as not being mimetic, not being a clear window on reality, not being a copy of reality, but as a representation of a conception of reality by means of literary codes and conventions” (p. 16). It should be clear that Ricoeur would hold no such view of mimesis. For Ricoeur, mimesis is by no means a mere copy or replica of reality but a representation or reconfiguration of reality. For a very different take on the relationship between text and historical reference in Judges see K. Spronk, “History and Prophecy in the Book of Judges,” in Between Evidence and Ideology: Essays on the History of Ancient Israel Read at the Joint Meeting of the Society for Old Testament Study and the Oud Testamentisch Werkgezelschap, Lincoln, July 2009, ed. B. Becking and L. L. Grabbe (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 185–98. 49.  Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, 2:20. Ricoeur is referring to the “modern novel” (for example, stream of consciousness) which, in an effort to reflect reality better, is fragmen-

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ness are the formal features that must be preserved across the various narrative types. 50 He notes Aristotle’s notion that muthos is an imitation of a whole and completed action: “an action is whole and complete if it has a beginning, a middle, and an end; that is, if the beginning introduces the middle, if the middle with its reversals and recognition scenes leads to the end, and if the end concludes the middle. The configuration wins out over the episodic form, concordance overcomes discordance.” 51 If a narrative is the representation of action, it is always the action of a character or any number­of characters. Stories represent characters in various circumstances that impinge on them, giving rise to change. As change occurs, new dimensions of the characters and situations emerge. These call for thinking or action. All of this moves the story to its conclusion. Ricoeur goes so far as to say that “the story’s conclusion is the pole of attraction of the entire development. . . . Looking back from the conclusion to the episodes leading up to it, we have to be able to say that this ending required these sorts of events and this chain of actions. But this backward look is made possible by the teleological movement directed by our expectations when we follow the story.” 52 The concept of plot and its corollary completion is thus crucial for Ricoeur’s understanding of narrative configuration and, consequently, his understanding of the nature and function of endings. Ricoeur is careful to distinguish closure and openness and the different effects of these with regard to both mimesis2 and mimesis3. He notes that it is quite possible (and indeed may be desirable) that a narrative is closed with respect to its configuration or composition and yet open in terms of the kind of effect it has on the reader. Ricoeur writes, “it is not a paradox to say that a well-closed fiction opens an abyss in our world, that is, in our symbolic apprehension of the world.” 53 Though completion is vital for Ricoeur, he maintains that completion can be achieved by many different means and allows for a variety of forms, including surprise. The difficulty, of course, is discerning when a surprise or unexpected ending is justified and when it is poorly conceived. Ricoeur writes, “Even a disappointing tary and resists closure. Here we see the interrelation between mimesis1 and mimesis2 at work. Modern novelists fail to regard life as structured which works itself into their imitation of reality in the novel. Fiddes echoes the conviction that recently novelists have found it difficult or are even deliberately reluctant to bring closure to their narratives: Fiddes, Promised End, 1–4. Perhaps the corollary of this notion provides insight into modern biblical scholarship. Working with the assumption of a structured reality, some biblical scholars find it difficult to make sense of the anti-closure they find in biblical texts like Judges. It appears that they impose on the biblical narratives an idea of closure that is foreign to the text. When the kind of closure they expect is not present in biblical narrative, they propose theories to account for the lack of closure (for example, multiple authorship). 50.  Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, 2:20. 51. Ibid. 52.  Idem, “Narrative Time,” 40. 53. Idem, Time and Narrative, 2:20–21.

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ending may be appropriate to the structure of a work, if it is intended to leave the reader with residual expectations. It is equally difficult to say in which cases the deception is required by the very structure of the work rather than just being a ‘weak’ ending.” 54 Ricoeur articulates “the need for a careful study of the relation between the way of ending a narrative and the degree of integration as regards the more or less episodic aspect of the actions, the unity of characters, the argumentative structure, and . . . the strategy of persuasion that constitutes the rhetoric of fiction.” 55 In this regard, Ricoeur maintains that the most important structural characteristic of narrative is its organic character. By organic character, Ricoeur writes, “we are to understand the priority of the whole over its parts.” 56 Thus, we return to Aristotle’s basic building blocks of narrative, namely, the beginning, the middle, and the end. In this matrix, the ending must receive a degree of priority. The ending of a narrative, according to Bonheim, tells the reader much more concerning what the narrative is about than the beginning. 57 Edgar Allen Poe wrote, “Nothing is more clear than that every plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its dénouement before anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with the dénouement constantly in view that we can give a plot its indispensable air of consequence, or causation, by making the incidents, and especially the tone at all points, tend to the development of the intention.” 58 What René Girard says about the endings of novels could be said about all narratives: “Truth is active throughout the great novel but its primary location is in the conclusion. The conclusion is the temple of that truth. The conclusion is the site of the presence of truth, and therefore a place avoided by error. . . . In the body of the novel novelistic unity is mediated, but it becomes immediate in the conclusion.” 59 Of course some will recoil from Girard’s seemingly dogmatic commitment to truth (“what is truth after all?”), but if we wish to avoid doing violence to the text, then truth-full interpretation should be the aim of interpretation, even if we cannot attain that fully. It may help to qualify “truth” as the truth that the narrative conveys. Moreover, even the most postmodern authors who deliberately choose not to end their novels (the ending that is not an ending) are attempting to communicate the truth about reality, for example, that reality is unstructured or that meaning does not exist. In such cases, the ending is no less important, no less the narra54.  Ibid., 21. Torgovnick’s third and fourth sets of terms for understanding the ending strategies (regarding the relationship between author and reader during closure and the author’s self-awareness during closure) are an attempt to provide criteria for evaluating the effectiveness of a novel’s ending: Torgovnick, Closure, 16–19. 55.  Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, 2:21,emphasis added. 56.  Ibid., 31. 57.  Bonheim, The Narrative Modes, 118. 58.  E. A. Poe, “The Philosophy of Composition,” Graham’s Magazine 28 (1846): 163. 59. R. Girard, Deceit, Desire, and the Novel: Self and Other in Literary Structure, trans. Y. Freccero (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1965), 307–8.

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tive’s “temple of truth,” to use Girard’s language. Thus, the structure of the work (Ricoeur’s mimesis2) configures how one perceives reality (mimesis1) and summons the reader to take seriously the truth-claims that the narrative makes about reality (mimesis3), truth claims that are not fully disclosed until the ending. Already it is possible to identify ways this theory of narrative can shed light on the issue of the composition of Judges—how the “facts” of Judges rise up to meet this theory of narrative. Structurally, that is on the level of mimesis2, the book manifests evidence of emplotment. Almost all scholars agree that the book has a beginning, a middle, and an end. 60 The beginning marks out a temporal period (1:1: “After the death of Joshua”). The beginning not only introduces the middle, but the beginning identifies the cyclical paradigm (2:11–23) that will structure the middle. While it is clear that the cyclical pattern is a structural feature of the middle of Judges (3:6–16:31), the various elements of the pattern are not all present in every cycle. This peculiarity seems to be the equivalent of what Smith identifies as “retrospective patterning” in poetry. 61 She maintains that a reader’s experience of patterns is almost always dynamic and continuous. As we read, we intuitively draw inferences from the patterns that shape our expectations regarding what will follow. Readers continually reevaluate a literary work’s perceived patterns and expectations based on subtle (or not-so-subtle) changes in patterns. If this is the case, then the end is all-­ important because it is from the perspective of the ending that the structural patterning becomes most apparent. The cyclical pattern of Judges consists of the following: 1. Israel does evil in the eyes of Yahweh 2. This arouses Yahweh’s anger, prompting him to send foreign nations to oppress Israel 3. Israel cries out to Yahweh for deliverance 4. Yahweh sends a deliverer who overthrows the foreign oppressors 5. The land experiences a time of rest However, only in the Othniel cycle (3:7–11) are all of the elements of the cycle present. One can discern a rhetorical purpose behind the omission of elements in subsequent cycles. For example, in the Jephthah cycle, Yahweh says that he will not respond to Israel’s complaint (10:11–13); although Jephthah does emerge as a deliverer, he is not appointed by Yahweh to deliver (the fourth element of the cycle). This helps to make sense of Jeph­thah’s problematic behavior later in the narrative. The Samson cycle provides another good example of the rhetorical purpose behind missing aspects of the cycle. As we reach this final cycle in the book, the Israelites do not cry out for deliverance (element three in the cycle). This lack of 60. Contra Sweeney, “David Polemics in the Book of Judges,” 517–29. 61.  Smith, Poetic Closure, 13.

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expected action sheds light on their complacency. 62 As the cycle moves on, the absence or alteration of the various stages of the cycle reveal that the cycle is better understood as a downward spiral. Thus, the prenarrative experiences and actions of Israel in the judges period (mimesis1) have been deliberately ordered and framed into a literary plot (mimesis2) that highlights Israel’s increasing apostasy. However, Judges does not end at the completion of the cycles. That the cyclical pattern, with all its variations, is no longer present in the ending of Judges has caused some commentators to conclude that chs. 17–21 are secondary, composed independently of the core section of the book. Taking seriously the structural patterning, one might rather conclude that the clear break in the pattern in fact signals the end section, distinguishing chs. 17–21 as the end of the book. The ending, according to this understanding of Judges, becomes vital because, from the perspective of these chapters, one can make sense of the whole. 63 Of course, it remains to be worked out just how chs. 17–21 with their bizarre narratives, their nonlinear chronology, and the introduction of the “No king in Israel” refrain actually bring completion to the narrative of Judges. Suffice it at this point to note that a robust theory of narrative requires that one avoid quickly passing judgment on endings that at first seem unexpected, dissonant, or inappropriate.

2.6.  The Time of Narrative We recall that, for Ricoeur, narrative is the configuration of events and actions into a complete coherent plot. The temporality of narrative is clearly an important dimension of Ricoeur’s theory of narrative. It is apparent from his work that the temporal configuration of a narrative can be intricate and complex. For example, few narratives follow a strictly linear chronology. 64 The interpretation of events and actions and the subsequent configuring of these into a narrative often give rise to a temporal ordering that breaks with a straightforward linear chronology. The following focuses squarely on this important issue of the temporal dimension of narrative. That a distinction should be made between the time of the events narrated and the actual time it takes to narrate an event seems obvious (for 62.  This also illuminates the exchange between the men of Judah and Samson in Judg 15:9–13, in which the Judahites express their capitulation to the Philistine rule and criticize Samson for provoking the Philistines. 63. Indeed, some of the literary/rhetorical readings of Judges that have emerged in recent decades seem to evoke this function of the ending. See, for example, O’Connell’s retrospective reevaluation model (O’Connell, The Rhetoric of the Book of Judges), or Webb’s notion of the function of chs. 17–21 as a coda (Webb, The Book of Judges: An Integrated Reading). 64. See Ricoeur, “Narrative Time,” 35–46. In this essay, Ricoeur discusses the “illusion of sequence” (p. 35).

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example, a narrative has the potential to cover the span of months, years or decades, or more, in a mere sentence or two); however, this has not always been the case. Richardson notes that the neoclassical ideal was that the duration of a given drama approximately equalled the time represented in the drama, and this notion held sway in Europe for centuries. 65 Ricoeur’s understanding of narrative temporality distinguishes between the “time of narrating,” and the “narrated time.” 66 Narrative theorists commonly discuss these two temporal dimensions of narrative, though the terms they use to refer to them are various. 67 Richardson notes that “narrative temporality is perhaps the area in which there is still the greatest agreement among major theorists.” 68 The standard conceptual framework for understanding temporality in narrative fiction and nonfiction alike is the one developed by Genette. 69 Genette distinguishes between three dimensions within the category of narrative time, namely, order, duration, and frequency. Narrative temporality is complicated in Judges, and Genette’s work in this area will illuminate the complex issue of temporality in Judges. 2.6.1. Order Genette’s first dimension of temporal time is order and concerns “the relationship between the temporal order of the events that are being told and the pseudo-temporal order of the narrative.” 70 Genette notes that typically folktales adhere to a one-to-one correspondence between the order of events being narrated and the order of the narrative itself. In Ricoeur’s terms, the configuration that takes place on the level of mimesis2 in this case replicates the temporal sequence of the actual events that a narrative is representing (mimesis1). However, many forms of narrative do not demonstrate this kind of correspondence. A defining feature of the epic genre, 65. B. Richardson, “Introduction: Narrative Temporality,” in Narrative Dynamics: Essays on Plot, Time, Closure, and Frames, ed. B. Richardson, Theory and Interpretation of Narrative Series (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2002), 9. 66.  Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, vol. 2, 77. 67.  Rimmon-Kenan refers to story-time and text-time; S. Rimmon-Kenan, Narrative Fiction: Contemporary Poetics, New Accents (New York: Routledge, 1989), 43–46. In German, the distinction is made between Erzählte Zeit (“story time”) and Erzählzeit (“narrative time”); see G. Genette, Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1980), 33. 68. B. Richardson, “Beyond Story and Discourse: Narrative Time in Postmodern and Nonmimetic Fiction,” in Narrative Dynamics, ed. B. Richardson, Theory and Interpretation of Narrative Series (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2002), 47. 69.  Genette, Narrative Discourse. See also G. Genette, “Order, Duration, and Frequency,” in Narrative Dynamics: Essays on Time, Plot, Closure, and Frames, ed. B. Richardson, Theory and Interpretation of Narrative Series (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2002), 25– 34. Richardson challenges the adequacy of Genette’s model for late modernist and postmodern texts; however, even Richardson agrees that the model holds true for describing the great majority of narrative texts. See Richardson, “Beyond Story and Discourse,” 47. 70.  Genette, “Order, Duration, and Frequency,” 25 (emphasized by Genette).

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with its roots in the Homeric epic, is that the start of the narrative begins in medias res, that is, in the middle of the action, generally followed by an explanatory flashback. 71 Genette demonstrates that even the opening lines of Homer’s Iliad play with the order of time. 72 The epic poem begins as such: Sing, goddess, the wrath of Achilles Peleus’ son, the ruinous wrath that brought on the Achaians woes innumerable, and hurled down into Hades many strong souls of heroes, and gave their bodies to be prey to dogs and all winged fowls; and so the counsel of Zeus wrought out its accomplishment from the day when first strife parted Atreides king of men and noble Achilles. Who then among the gods set the twain at strife and variance? Even the son of Leto and of Zeus; for he in anger at the king sent sore plague upon the host, that the folk began to perish, because Atreides had done dishonour to Chryses the priest.

Genette notes that these opening lines feature five events. According to the order of their appearance in the poem, they are: A. The wrath of Achilles B. Miseries of the Greeks (which are the consequence of A) C. Quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon (the cause of A and thus its precedent) D. The plague (the cause of C and thus its precedent) E. The affront to Chryses (the cause of the plague and thus its precedent) However, if we were to order these according to a linear chronology the sequence in which they took place would be: 1. The affront to Chryses (E) 2. The plague (D) 3. Quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon (C) 4. The wrath of Achilles (A) 5. Miseries of the Greeks (B) Deviations in chronological order in narrative are by no means limited to the epic genre. They commonly appear in all kinds of fictional and nonfictional narratives. Moreover, these complex orderings have become commonplace in television and film. For example, in a television crime drama or film it is not unusual for the opening scene to be of an event from the end of the story (for example, a murder), after which the narrative unfolds the various circumstances leading up to that point. The places in a narrative where events are narrated according to some order other than linear chronology Genette calls “anachronies.” The two broad types of anachronies are prolepsis and analepsis. Genette designates 71.  Ibid., 26. 72. Idem, Narrative Discourse, 37.

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as prolepsis “any narrative maneuver that consists of narrating or evoking in advance an event that will take place later.” 73 Prolepsis can function in narrative to foreshadow or anticipate future events. The narrative of Samson affords an example of prolepsis. At the beginning of ch. 14, Samson requests that his parents get a certain Philistine woman as a wife for him (14:1–2). Samson’s parents resist on the grounds that she is not an Israelite, but Samson persists (14:3). At this point in the narrative, the narrator interjects with the statement, “But his father and mother did not know that it was from Yahweh for he was seeking an opportunity against the Philistines. At that time the Philistines were ruling over Israel” (14:4). With this statement, the narrator anticipates that Yahweh will use the circumstance of Samson’s taking a Philistine wife as an opportunity to take action against the Philistines and shares this information with the audience in advance of the actual event. Indeed, the chain of events that unfolds after the marriage of Samson and the Philistine results in Samson slaying Philistines no less than three times (14:19; 15:8 and 15:15–16) and setting fire to their grain and olive orchards (15:4–5). On a much grander scale, the announcement of the paradigmatic cycle in Judg 2:11–23 functions proleptically, indicating in advance the basic contours of the subsequent narrative cycle of the judges. Prolepses of this kind, “refer in advance to an event that will be told in full in its place.” 74 In the case of Judges, the prolepsis refers in advance to several events that the narrator tells in their place, each with their own variables but cohering to the general pattern indicated in Judg 2:11–23. Moreover, prolepsis is quite common in biblical literature outside of Judges. 75 Analepsis, on the other hand, Genette describes as “any evocation after the fact of an event that took place earlier than the point in the story where we are at any given moment.” 76 Analepsis often functions as a flashback or retrospection. Chapter five (below) will argue that attention to the temporal indicators in Judg 18:30 and 20:28 reveals that these chapters as a whole function as a significant example of analepsis in Judges. Genette discusses several different kinds of analepsis and the various functions of this literary technique. A number of examples of what Genette refers to as completing analepsis appear in Judges. According to Genette, completing analepses or “returns” are “the retrospective sections that fill in, after the event, an earlier gap in the narrative (the narrative is thus 73.  Ibid., 40. 74.  Ibid., 73. 75.  Although he does not use the language of prolepsis, the announcements of plot that Turner identifies throughout the book of Genesis can be understood as proleptic announcements; see L. A. Turner, Announcements of plot in Genesis, JSOTSup 96 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990). 76.  Genette, Narrative Discourse, 40. According to Rimmon-Kenan, “An analepsis is a narration of a story-event at a point in the text after later events have been told. The narration returns, as it were, to a past point in the story”; Rimmon-Kenan, Narrative Fiction, 46.

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organized by temporary omissions and more or less belated reparations, according to a narrative logic that is partially independent of the passing of time).” 77 Jephthah’s conflict with the Ephraimites provides an example of this kind of analepsis. In Judg 12:1–4a, the Ephraimites lodge their complaint against Jephthah for not calling them to join in the battle and threaten him. Jephthah defends his actions but garners his troops to engage in battle against the Ephraimites. Only after the rallying of Jephthah’s army and their engagement with Ephraim does the narrator indicate Jephthah’s motivation for going to battle, namely, a previous insult that the Ephraimites made about Jephthah and the Gileadites (12:4c). This bit of information revealed after the events of the battle fills in the gap created by Jephthah’s eagerness to go to battle against another Israelite tribe. 78 Genette’s discussion of temporal order in general and analepsis in particular has the potential to shed new light on old questions about the overall design of the book. The events of the end section happened early in the period of the judges. Thus, gaps in the narrative of Judges, which are not clearly apparent on a first reading, are made apparent by the analepsis at the end of the book. The events in chs. 17–21 are unknown to the reader until the end even though they took place very early in the period covered in the book. As an analepsis, drawing the reader back to an earlier time, they prompt a retrospective reevaluation of the whole period represented in the book. Moreover, the refrain prods the reader to grapple with the notion of kingship and its apparent solution to the problems of the period represented in Judges. All of this will have to be considered in much more detail in subsequent chapters, but suffice it to note here that a focus on the temporal ordering of Judges and on the significant function of analepsis is most illuminating and sheds new light on the compositional design and temporal configuration of the book. 2.6.2. Duration The other two dimensions within the category of narrative time, namely, duration and frequency, are less significant for our understanding of the narrative emplotment of Judges than Genette’s notion of temporal order. Nevertheless, duration and frequency do indeed illuminate temporal features of Judges and their poetic effect in the overall design of the book. Temporal duration in narrative texts concerns the relation between the time it takes for an event to happen in reality (the event time) and the time 77.  Genette, Narrative Discourse, 51. 78. Israel’s vow not to give their daughters in marriage to the Benjaminites is another example of analepsis. The circumstances in which the vow was made are narrated in 20:1–11, but the narrator does not share this information until much later in the narrative (21:1).

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it takes for a narrator to tell (or the reader to read about) the events (narrative time). Because reading speeds vary, it is customary to measure the duration of narrative time by means of the space (number of pages, lines, or words) reserved for certain events. By attending to the event time and the narrative time, “one can record variations in the speed of the narrative in relation to itself and measure effects of acceleration, deceleration, stasis, and ellipsis (blank spaces within the narrative while the flow of events keeps unfolding).” 79 The closest a narrative comes to a correspondence between event time and narrative time is when the narrator reports the speech of a character. In some instances, the narrative will slow down to such an extent that it is actually slower than the event time. For example, a character may encounter­ a stunning landscape and the narrator might describe the landscape in detail from the point of view of the character. What may only represent the time lapse of a moment could in this case take pages to narrate. This kind of detailed description is rare in biblical narrative. 80 On the other hand, it is quite common for narratives, including biblical narratives, to cover weeks, months, years, and decades (or more) in a mere sentence or two. For example, Judges contains many examples of summary statements in which long periods of time are described: “the land had rest 40 years” (3:11; cf. 3:30; 5:31; 8:28) or “he judged Israel 20 years” (15:20; cf. 10:2, 3; 12:9, 11, 14). The correspondence between the event time and the narrative time has the effect of either speeding up the narrative (by narrating in a short space of time events that happened over a long period of time) or slowing down the narrative (vice versa). In essence, Genette is pointing out a means of calculating the narrative tempo. Attending to the relative speed of the narrative of Judges reveals some intriguing features of the narrative. The tendency among some scholars to refer to the “major” judges and the “minor” judges concerns not the stature of the judge, the significance of his/her activity, or the length of his/her rule but the amount of space (narrative time) devoted to the judge. Moreover, among the major narrative blocks of Judges (Othniel, Ehud, Deborah/ Barak, Gideon/Abimelech, Jephthah, and Samson) the amount of narrative time reserved for each varies. The general pattern is that the author reserves more and more narrative time to the major individuals as the book progresses. 81 The most obvious exception is the account of Gideon/Abimelech­, 79.  Genette, “Order, Duration, and Frequency,” 29. 80.  For example, Alter has a detailed discussion of what he calls the “art of reticence” in the characterization of individuals in the Bible, noting that biblical narrative is able to achieve depth and complexity of character with very little description; see Alter, The Art of Biblical Narrative, 114–30. 81.  The amount of “narrative time,” measured in number of verses for each “major” judge is: Othniel, 5 verses; Ehud, 19 verses; Deborah/Barak, 24 verses (plus 31 verses for the Song of Deborah); Gideon, 95 verses; Abimelech, 57 verses; Jephthah, 60 verses; and Samson, 96 verses.

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which stands out in the book as a large narrative chunk. This exception lends support on the level of narrative temporality to the contention of some scholars that the Gideon account represents the literary centre of the book. 82 The overall effect is that as the narrative of Judges advances, the narrative tempo progressively slows down as more and more detail is provided. Considering the prologue and the final chapters, the effect of slowing down the narrative tempo is further supported. The first chapter of the book sketches the whole of Israel’s conquest of Canaan 83 in a mere 34 verses. Moreover, the proleptic account of the judges cycle boils down the contours of the whole period of the judges in a couple of dozen verses. The tempo at the beginning is very fast indeed. In chs. 17–21, however, time appears to stand still as readers “observe” the shocking events of these chapters in gruelling detail. Granted, the narrative indicates not how long these events lasted but the events (the story of Micah setting up a shrine, the migration of the Danites, the rape and murder of the Levite’s concubine and the civil war) are recounted in a grand total of 147 verses. The narrator describes the ruin of Israel in painstaking detail, and the reader experiences this horror as though in slow motion. Attention to the temporal duration or tempo of Judges and its implications illumines the configuration or emplotment of the book. Accounting for the temporal duration of Judges should, for example, draw attention to the places in Judges where the narrative slows down, (for example, the Gideon account, the Samson account, and the events of chs. 17–21) and prompt a consideration of how the peculiar tempo of Judges fits with other rhetorical features of the book. 2.6.3. Frequency Frequency is the third and final dimension Genette identifies under the category of narrative time. Frequency has to do with the occurrence of the narrated events relative to the sections in the narrative that report them. 84 The most obvious mode of narrative frequency is for a narrative to tell once what happened once. Genette terms this singulative narrative. Sometimes a narrative will narrate several times an event that only took place once; this type of narrative Genette calls repetitive narrative. The final type of narrative frequency, iterative narrative, happens when a single narrative statement covers several recurrences of the same event, or better yet, “of analogical events considered only with respect to what they have in common.” 85 For example, “Claire went to work on Monday; Claire went to 82.  For example, Gooding, “The Composition of the Book of Judges,” 78. 83. Though perhaps Judg 1 is only narrating the “mop-up campaign” after the conquest. 84.  Genette, “Order, Duration, and Frequency,” 31. 85.  Ibid., 32.

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work on Tuesday; Claire went to work on Wednesday, and so on” as a series of events could be narrated by the simple statement, “Claire went to work every day of the week.” Each of these types of narrative frequency appears in Judges and in other biblical narratives. The first type, singulative narrative, is the default type of narration in places where repetitive and iterative narratives are not at work. The technique of repetitive narrative does appear to be at work, for example, in the narration of the theft of Micah’s idol/ephod. The singular event of the theft is reported no less than five times—four times by the narrator (18:17, 18, 20, 27) and once by a character (18:24). 86 Examples of iterative narrative also feature in Judges, the most obvious being the summary in the prologue of the period of judges as a series of recurring cycles (2:11–23). Another less significant iterative narrative appears at the end of the book (21:19) which mentions the yearly feast at Shiloh at which the daughters of Shiloh would customarily come out to dance. 2.6.4.  The Fictive Experience of Time Genette’s model for understanding narrative temporality is extremely helpful for grasping the various relationships between the time of the event and the time of the narrative. Ricoeur maintains that a third level opens up as a product of considering the relationship between (1) event-time and (2) narrative-time, namely, (3) the reader’s “fictive experience of time.” 87 The first two temporal dimensions of narrative concern the world of action and experience (mimesis1) and the configuration of that experience by means of narrative (mimesis2). What Ricoeur refers to as the “fictive experience of time” relates to the refigured world that narrative projects and that readers­are called to indwell (mimesis3). For Ricoeur, attention to the temporal dimensions of a narrative (for example, order, duration, and frequency) concerns only one level of critical reading. He notes, “I must stress the difference between two levels of critical reading with respect to the same work. On the first level, our interest is concentrated on the work’s configuration. On the second level, our interest lies in the worldview and the temporal experience that this configuration projects outside itself.” 88 This second level of critical reading prompts questions such as what view of time is at work in the narrative? How does the configuration of time in the narrative refigure a reader’s conception of time and reality? The temporal boundaries of the book of Judges correspond to a moreor-less discrete period in the history of Israel, which I have been referring 86.  Some commentators hold that the narrative has been obscured at this point. The theft itself is attributed in different places to the five spies (18:17, 18), the Levite priest (18:20), and the people of Dan (18:27). Rather than resorting to emendation, I would suggest that the narrator is implicating all three parties in the theft. 87.  See ch. 4 in Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, 2:100–52. 88.  Ibid., 101–2.

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to as “the period of the judges” or the “settlement period.” As mentioned, the opening lines set the temporal context “after the death of Joshua” but then proceed to recount the events of the conquest under the leadership of Joshua. Even so, the sketch of the battles between Israel and the Canaanites is expositional material, setting the context for the book and period of the judges. The closing boundary of the period/book is not as explicitly stated as the opening boundary, but it is clear from the subsequent history and seems to be implied in Judges itself that the end of the period of the judges is marked by the rise of the monarchy. 89 History of course is never as simple as historiography would have us believe. 90 Judges projects a certain understanding of the narrative of Israel’s history and the place of Judges within that history. Judges fills a gap in Israel’s history from the time of settlement to the (anticipated) rise of monarchy. However, this is not merely a chronicle of events but a carefully crafted story that makes sense of motivations, actions, and consequences. Judges represents a configuring of temporal events so as to effect in the reader a reorientation with regard to the past, the present, and the future. How does the book of Judges shape the history of Israel from the death of Joshua to the inevitable rise of monarchy? In Judges, history appears on the surface to be cyclical. Indeed, the whole period is characterized in the book as being a series of cycles. However, there are indications that the cycle is not a vicious cycle and that it may be possible for Israel to break out of it. In the world of the book of Judges, the past is essential, so much that forgetting the past is in fact what perpetuates the cycle. Moreover, actions and events in time are shown to have implications that stretch into the future (1:26; 6:24; 10:4; 15:19; 18:12; cf. 11:39). The cyclical pattern of time casts a bleak shadow over the period of the judges. The refrain of chs. 17–21 roots the problem in a kind of anarchy, but the temporality of the refrain (“in those days”) refers, I will argue, to the whole period represented in Judges. Again, the period seems to be cast in an very poor light, but Ricoeur’s notion of the “fictive experience of time” in narrative should prompt an evaluation of how the representation of the historical past can shape new insights on the past, present and future. As such, the aim of Judges is not to portray the utter hopelessness of time lost. Rather, for the audience of Judges, the book holds out the hope of time redeemed for those who respond to the summons of the text. Whether that audience is comprised of those who have witnessed the defeat and exile of the Northern Kingdom of Israel, those who themselves have experienced the Babylonian Exile, or those who are reading Judges in the 21st 89. Cf. Frolov, Judges, who extends his commentary on Judges into 1 Sam 7. 90.  Take the transition from the Middle Ages to the Renaissance. People living in Europe in the 14th century would not have celebrated (or lamented) the end of the so-called Middle Ages, and the commencement of the Renaissance would not have been readily apparent to the people experiencing that time period. The periodization of European history is heuristic and makes sense within a particular narrative of Western civilization.

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century AD, the narrative of Judges urges a particular understanding of the past that can shape new modes of being in the present.

2.7.  Narrative Theory: Conclusion We arrive at the end of a rather complicated journey through waters that in biblical studies are largely uncharted. This chapter has navigated first of all the question of narrative ending, noting that notions of ending are intricately bound up with ideas about human experience and reality. Second, we saw that conceptions of endings ought to be framed within an understanding of narrative in general. Ricoeur’s theory of narrative helpfully conceives of narrative as the configuration of action and experience into a coherent plot (complete with an appropriate ending) that brings forth new ways of seeing the world and existing in it. Finally, this chapter examined the complex temporal dimension of narrative and how techniques of temporal ordering give rise to new ways of thinking about and perceiving the past. Again, this chapter aimed to avoid the danger of engaging in theory for theory’s sake. I have attempted to demonstrate how Ricoeur’s articulation of the function of emplotment and the configuration of time in narrative illuminates various features of the book of Judges. Some of the more controversial hermeneutical issues of the book prove to be less problematic when they are understood in the light of a robust theory of narrative. As the rest of this volume unfolds, insights from the theory of narrative and the role of endings in narrative will inform a fresh look at the book of Judges. How does the ending of Judges represent the structural completion of the configuration of Judges? How does the narrative temporality contribute to the pattern of meaning in Judges? The remaining chapters of this book focus more intensively on the book of Judges and its composition. The aim in these chapters is to identify from the book itself evidence of strategies of ending that may be at work in the book. The method of identifying these strategies builds on the theory of narrative and narrative endings in this chapter and draws insights from other literary-critical resources. Moreover, discovering these strategies will involve engaging with past and present scholarship on Judges, at times putting a name to observations that Judges scholars have already discovered or perhaps at which scholars have only hinted. At other times, this approach will shed new light on old problems.

Interlude: Strategies of Ending Introduction The following chapters involve reexamining the book of Judges—its structure, themes, composition, and so on—in light of the theory of narrative and of narrative ending of the previous chapter. At this point, I want to introduce a concept at which I hinted in the previous chapter, namely, the concept of a strategy or more accurately “strategies of ending.” My understanding of strategies of ending derives in large part from what Torgovnick calls “closural strategies” or “strategies of closure.” I prefer the term “ending” to Torgovnick’s “closure” because it clarifies (as mentioned above) that, although all narratives end, not all narrative endings bring closure (a distinction of which Torgovnick is well aware). Strategies of ending are “descriptive and analytic tools” 91 for making sense of different kinds of endings. They will, on the one hand, help one to see resemblances between different kinds of endings while, on the other hand, they aid in the understanding and analysis of particular endings. This is not to say that all authors of narratives are conscious of these strategies and deliberate about choosing one or more of them in the composition of their narratives. The identification of a strategy of ending may involve discerning something of which the author is unaware. 92 Based on the theoretical work of the previous chapter and deep reflection on and analysis of the book of Judges, it is possible to discern at least three significant strategies of ending at work in the book: (1) the strategy of completion, (2) the strategy of circularity, and (3) the strategy of entrapment. The strategies of circularity and of entrapment will receive their due consideration in separate chapters on their own (chs. three and four below). The strategy of completion is arguably more pervasive and obvious and perhaps less controversial, and for these reasons, this strategy does not warrant an in-depth consideration. However, because it is one of the discernable strategies of ending in Judges, I will briefly explain it and provide some examples of it in the following paragraphs before moving on to focus on the other two strategies.

91.  Torgovnick, Closure in the Novel, 12. 92. This need not be a controversial point. Take the notion of plot for example—a good story teller may never have studied plot or be able to name and/or explain what a plot is; however, we would expect good story tellers to structure their stories intuitively according to a plot. I would maintain a similar dynamic is at play with regard to strategies of ending.

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Strategy of Completion As noted in ch. two, one of the main patterns of closure that Torgovnick identifies is what she calls parallelism. A parallel ending explicitly deals with aspects of the narrative (characters, phrases, motifs, situations, and so on) that appear at several points in the beginning and the middle of a narrative. 93 As an example, she examines the “familial ending” of Tolstoy’s War and Peace and shows how it relates by means of parallelism to the content of the novel as a whole. According to Torgovnick, the ending provides resolution to the problems of family life raised throughout the novel. 94 I will refer to this ending strategy as “the strategy of completion,” given that this type of ending brings completion to a thread (or often multiple threads) in a narrative. The strategy of completion is probably the most common kind of narrative ending we expect when we read a novel, a short story or children’s story or when we watch a film or television series. The story teller would have to have a very good reason to depart at the end of the narrative from the themes and characters featured in the beginning and middle of their narrative. In these cases, a different strategy of ending would be in play. Part of the success of films such as Traffic (2000) and television series such as Heroes (2006–10) is their ability, by means of the ending, to weave several seemingly disconnected parallel narratives into an integrated tapestry. Only at the end of the narrative is it possible to see how the various parts of the narrative are unified. The strategy of completion draws together various threads from the beginning and middle and brings them to their completion in the ending. The book of Judges features many examples of the strategy of completion. Several instances of key words, phrases, circumstances, motifs, themes, and so on appear in the beginning of the book, develop through the middle section, and then find their completion in the end section. Some of these are more obvious than others and have received attention from scholars. The theme of leadership, for example, has been examined as a significant theme in Judges. Amit’s important work on the editing of Judges highlights leadership as one of two main editorial guidelines that organizes the composition of the book. 95 She states, “There is no doubt that the issue of leadership is a central subject, arising at the beginning of the book and accompanying the reader through its conclusion. The reader is already introduced to this issue in the opening verse.” 96 Amit demonstrates how it is possible to trace the issue of leadership in the ordering of the book: from 93.  Ibid., 13. 94.  Ibid., 61–75. 95.  Amit, The Book of Judges, 59–119. 96.  Ibid., 117.

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the lack of leadership under the elders (exposition) to the increasingly disappointing performance of the judges in their roles as leaders (cycle of the judges), to the potential, though perhaps limited, solution that monarchy might offer to the leadership problem in Israel (the end section). 97 Butler also identifies leadership, or perhaps more accurately the “crisis of leadership,” as the most obvious issue with which the book deals. 98 The opening line of the book echoes the opening line of the book of Joshua, namely, with the death of Israel’s uncontested and faithful leader. The implied question in both cases, for Butler, is: who will fill this leadership vacuum and lead Israel as they are forged into the people who are faithful and obedient to Yahweh? The two parts of the exposition 99 leave the question open ended, though the second part of the exposition (2:6–3:6) implies the limited success of Israel’s judges/deliverers. The progressive failure of the judges/deliverers is demonstrated over the course of the narratives that follow in the core section of the book (3:7–16:31) so that the reader is left wondering what might be the solution to the problems facing Israel in the period of the Judges. The end section (chs. 17–21) may seem at first glance to be a collection of miscellaneous and disconnected narratives, recounting further events of the period. The lack of judges/deliverers in the end section appears to represent a disconnect between the ending and the beginning and middle; however, the “no king in Israel” refrain (17:6; 18:1; 19:1; 21:25), which binds together the final five chapters, emphasizes how the end section is also profoundly concerned with matters of leadership. 100 Though a key theme in Judges, leadership is by no means the only theme or motif that exemplifies the strategy of completion. On the contrary, many themes, motifs and actions find their completion in the end section, some of which are related to the major theme of leadership and some of which are not. Many have traced the progressive degeneration of Israel on the pages of Judges and conclude that the downward slide reaches is nadir in chs. 17– 97.  Ibid., 117–18. 98.  Butler, Judges, lxxvii. 99. The first section of Judges is referred to by various terms, including prologue, introduction, overture (Webb, The Book of Judges: An Integrated Reading), etc. I follow Amit, who leverages Sternberg’s fine work on the topic and regards this part of the book as the “exposition”; see Amit, The Book of Judges, 121 and M. Sternberg, Expositional Modes and Temporal Ordering in Fiction (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978), respectively. Scholars have not come to a consensus on the delineations of the exposition itself and the sections within the exposition. For example, some see the narrative of Othniel (3:7–11) as part of the exposition, whereas others maintain that it is part of the cycle. 100.  The refrain and its function in the book will receive fuller treatment in ch. four below. On the theme of leadership in Judges, see also the chapter titled “Leadership in a Time of Violence: The Book of Judges,” in P. M. McDonald, God and Violence: Biblical Resources for Living in a Small World (Scottdale: Herald, 2004), 143–73. On leadership in Judges from a social-scientific perspective, see A. Malamat, “Charismatic Leadership in the Book of Judges,” in Community, Identity, and Ideology: Social Science Approaches to the Hebrew Bible, ed. C. E. Carter and C. L. Meyers (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1996), 293–310.

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21. This theme of Israel’s progressive degeneration is a major theme that is interconnected with other themes and motifs. 101 Moreover, the role of Yahweh and his word (often mediated through his messenger) becomes increasingly sparse as the narrative wears on. 102 In the end section, Yahweh is absent in the narrative of Micah and the Danites, and speaks only briefly in ch. 20. Yahweh’s role in these narratives seems very ambiguous, as opposed to his more decisive actions earlier in the book, thus brining the motif of Yahweh’s action and relations with Israel to its completion in the end. Again, the role of women provides evidence of the strategy of completion. It starts with the dignified actions of Acsah in the beginning. Subsequently, Deborah and Jael are characterized by their decisiveness in the midst of battle. From this point, the narrative treats and/or characterizes women as either victims (the daughter of Jephthah, Samson’s Timnite wife) or those who victimize others (Delilah). The role of women in Judges culminates with an idol-commissioning Yahwist (Micah’s mother), a brutalized concubine in ch. 19, and victimized women of Jabesh-Gilead and Shiloh. Schneider identifies the strategy of completion when she notes, “The story of Achsah and its surrounding texts are crucial for understanding the book of Judges. They set up many of the themes and situations that follow throughout the book and culminate in the rape of the ‫ פילגש‬and the civil war.” 103 In a related vein, Smith focuses on the theme of the family, or more precisely the failure of the family, as a theme which runs through the various sections of Judges, including the end section. 104 The strategy of completion is also at work in the depiction of Israel’s internal relations. In the introduction, Israel is seen as a cohesive unit, inquiring of Yahweh concerning their battle plans. The Gideon narrative introduces the first signs of internal conflict. 105 Gideon is able to avert potential conflict with the Ephraimites in the first instance but later in the narrative exacts his brutal revenge on the Israelite cities of Succoth and 101.  See the survey of literature in ch. one, pp. 15–50, above. 102. On the role and then disappearance of God from the Jephthah account, see M. Brown, “The Problematic Absence of Yhwh in Judges 11:29–40,” Journal of Theta Alpha Kappa 36 (2012): 19–30. 103.  Schneider, “Aschsah, the Raped Pîlegeš, and the Book of Judges,” 53. See also D. I. Block, “Unspeakable Crimes: The Abuse of Women in the Book of Judges,” The Southern Baptist Journal of Theology 2 (1998): 46–55. 104.  See M. J. Smith, “The Failure of the Family, Part 1: Jephthah,” BSac 162 (2005): 279–98; M. J. Smith, “The Failure of the Family, Part 2: Samson,” BSac 162 (2005): 424–36; cf. Oeste, who traces the theme of degenerating kinship structures. The erosion of kinship relationships, according to Oeste, is intensified until the end of the book; see G. K. Oeste, “Butchered Brothers, and Betrayed Families: Degenerating Kinship Structures in the Book of Judges,” JSOT 35 (2010): 295–316. 105.  Though H. Angel, “Positive and Negative Traits of Gideon as Reflected in His Sons Jotham and Abimelech,” Jewish Bible Quarterly 34.3 (2006): 161 identifies the start of the progression earlier when Deborah condemns those who did not heed the summons to fight against Sisera and his armies (5:15–17, 23); though in the case of Deborah the condemnation does not lead to physical harm as it does in the case of Gideon and Abimelech.

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Penuel. Abimelech slaughters his own brothers and wages war on Shechem. Whereas Gideon was able to avert military engagement with the Ephraimites, Jephthah takes up arms against them and massacres 42,000 men from the tribe of Ephraim. The Samson narrative offers a different twist in the development of internal relations. Some men of the tribe of Judah willingly offer up their own deliverer (Samson) to their enemies to keep some semblance of peace. In the end section, this motif too comes to its completion. First, the Danite army act like mercenaries as they forcibly rob the home and threaten the life of their fellow Israelite. Second, the Israelites go to war against the tribe of Benjamin and not only wipe out the army but kill women, children, and livestock as well. McDonald notes that Israel’s violence against the Canaanites “finally settles among the Israelites themselves, where no one can endure it.” 106 The making of oaths/vows is a motif in Judges and contributes to the strategy of completion. 107 Gaddala examines the following vows in Judges: Caleb’s vow ( Judg 1:13), the divine vow (2:3), Jephthah’s vow (11:30–31) and Samson’s Nazirite vow (13:2–14). To that list, we could add Gideon’s oath (8:19), the oath that the men of Judah make with Samson (15:12–13), the curse oath of Micah’s mother (17:2) 108 and the oaths that the Israelite assembly made at Mizpah forbidding marriage arrangements with the Benjaminites and promising death to anyone who did not answer the summons to the assembly (21:1–23). Thus, the motif of oath/vow making also runs through the exposition and the cycle of the Judges, finding its completion in the end section. The strategy of completion is evident in other studies as well. Nathan MacDonald has an intriguing essay on the role of food, sacrifice, killing, and sex in Judges, which traces how these topics weave through Judges and ultimately culminate in the final narratives. 109 Examining Judges as a whole through the lenses of social-scientific theories, Page considers the significance of the marking (and transgressing) of boundaries, including geographic, ethnic, sociopolitical, temporal, cosmic, religious, and bodily boundaries. 110 Page concludes, “the establishment, maintenance, negotia106.  McDonald, God and Violence, 172. 107.  On the making of vows as a motif in Judges, see Gaddala, “Analysis of Vows in the Book of Judges,” Journal of Dispensational Theology 15.46 (2011): 61–68. Robinson refers to the story of Jephthah’s vow as a “type scene,” and also identifies other instances of rash vows in Judges; see B. P. Robinson, “The Story of Jephthah and His Daughter: Then and Now,” Pontificio Instituto Biblico 85.3 (2004): 331–48. 108.  E. A. Mueller, The Micah Story: A Morality Tale in the Book of Judges, Studies in Biblical Literature 34 (New York: Peter Lang, 2001), 83: “In the Micah story, the verb (to curse, to take an oath) does not appear in a context of covenant making. Instead, in marks the verbal beginning of covenant breaking ( Judg 17:2).” 109.  See N. MacDonald, Not Bread Alone: The Uses of Food in the Old Testament (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 100–33. 110.  H. R. Page Jr., “Boundaries: A Case Study Using the Biblical Book of Judges,” Research in the Social Scientific Study of Religion 10 (1999): 37–55.

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tion, transgression, and restoration of boundaries is a subtle Leitmotiv in Judges.” 111 “Subtle Leitmotiv” is arguably an understatement; the concept of boundaries in Judges permeates all the sections of the book and therefore also contributes to the strategy of completion. Finally, some scholars have highlighted the significance in the patterns of geographical design in the book. Globe, for example, holds that all the component parts of the book fit within a ring composition. 112

Conclusion Other examples of themes and motifs that run through the major sections of Judges and culminate in the end section could no doubt be identified, but these examples should suffice to conclude that this is an ending strategy that is at work in Judges. 113 However, it is not incongruent and in fact is quite often the case in narrative endings that more than one ending strategy coalesce at the end. Judges is no different in this regard. We now turn to consider a very significant ending strategy in Judges, namely, the strategy of circularity. 111.  Ibid., 50. See the argument in D. J. Chalcraft, “Deviance and Legitimate Action,” in The Bible in Three Dimensions: Essays in Celebration of Forty Years of Biblical Studies in the University of Sheffield, ed. D. J. A. Clines, S. E. Fowl and S. E. Porter, STOTSup 87 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1990), 177–201, that the narrator in Judges uses rhetoric to legitimize the boundaries of his own social group. 112. A. Globe, “’Enemies Round About’: Disintegrative Structure in the Book of Judges,” in Mappings of the Biblical Terrain: The Bible as Text, ed. V. L. Tollers and J. Maier (Lewiesburg: Bicknell University Press, 1990), 70–79. 113.  E.g., D. M. Hudson, “Living in a Land of Epithets: Anonymity in Judges 19–21,” JSOT 62 (1994): 49–66, argues that the use of proper names and anonymity bolsters the rhetoric of progressive deterioration in Judges. Although he deals only with the judges cycle and not the beginning and end sections, Williams argues that Judges 2:6–16:31 is organized according to the ancient solar calendar; see J. G. Williams, “The Structure of Judges 2.6–16.31,” JSOT 49 (1991): 77–86.

Chapter Three

The Strategy of Circularity in Judges 17–21 3.1. Introduction Scholars, those oriented to both diachronic and synchronic analysis, have long observed clear links between the ending of Judges and its beginning. Though the observation of these links is not itself controversial, their significance remains the subject of debate. Source critics suggest that 1:1–3:6 (or chs. 1 and 2 with slight modifications) and 17:1–21:25 together make up the latest stage of the book’s compilation/redaction. 1 If these sections were indeed added to the book at the same time, one might expect connections between the beginning and the end of the book. Scholars inclined to synchronic readings of Judges observe and understand these linkages by means of approaches quite different from source and redaction criticism. This chapter aims to explore the links between the beginning of Judges (1:1–3:6) and its end (17:1–21:25) and determine if these links can be understood as part of a larger strategy of ending, namely, the strategy of circularity. This will be achieved by identifying as many of these linkages as possible. Each link will also be examined to determine as far as is possible what significant effect, if any, the link achieves. If a pattern emerges from the analyses of these linkages, it may be possible to see these various instances of circularity as part of a larger ending strategy. We will recall from ch. two that Torgovnick explains circularity as one of several patterns of ending in novels. She notes that when a novel’s ending clearly recalls the beginning by a variety of means (for example, language, situations, characters, and so on), it may be said to be controlled by “circularity.” The circular ending does not necessarily resolve the conflict but balances the “geometry” of the narrative. 2 What are the linkages between the beginning and the end sections of Judges? One of the aims of Wong’s book on the compositional strategy of Judges, as we have seen, is to identify the links between the three main sections of the book, so his work provides a helpful starting point. He identifies five connections between the prologue and what he calls the “epilogue.” 3 1.  See the survey in ch. one, pp. 12–15. 2.  Torgovnick, Closure in the Novel, 13. 3.  I will avoid the convention of referring to Judg 17–21 as the “epilogue.” An epilogue is a technical term referring to a specific type of literary ending, though it is not

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They are references to the Jebusite threat, oracular consultation, specific military action, weeping at Bethel, and arranged marriage. To these I would add at least seven more: emphasis on the leadership vacuum; dismemberment; women on donkeys; interactions between fathers, daughters, and sons in-law; interactions between father and daughter/mother and son; spy missions; and tribes returning to their inheritances. The order in which these links appear in this chapter is deliberate. I have attempted as much as possible to order the links from the most obvious and strong links at the beginning of the chapter to the less obvious and perhaps more vague links at the end. Research into the phenomenon of biblical intertextuality has aided the process of organizing these links. It seems conventional in intertextual studies to distinguish between (1) quotations, (2) allusions, and (3) echoes. 4 The three in their order also represent a hierarchy of strength and explicitness. Quotations are the most deliberate kind of intertextual link, constituting a verbatim (or near verbatim) rendering of another text. An allusion is a more periphrastic rendering of another text than a quotation, though still deliberate in its referring to the other text. Echoes, on the other hand, are perhaps the hardest to identify, and an author may or may not be conscious of the reference to another text in these cases. 5 Of course, the links between the beginning and ending of Judges are not exactly intertextual links as such. This categorization of types of intertextual links does, however, provide a helpful means of organizing the connections between the beginning and ending of Judges. 6 Before considering clear that Judges scholars use it in this way. See the discussion of epilogues in ibid., 11–12. In order not to preempt what kind of ending these chapters constitute I have been referring to them simply as the end section. Referring to Judg 1:1–3:6 as the “prologue” is less problematic in my view. Beckson and Ganz define a prologue as “An opening section of a longer work. The prologue may perform a number of functions. The prologue to Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, for example, establishes the situation in which the tales will be told and characterizes the speakers. In many plays of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, a prologue, usually in verse, states a moral point or anticipates the theme and action”; K. E. Beckson and A. F. Ganz, Literary Terms: A Dictionary, 3rd ed (New York: Noonday, 1989), 216. Thus, “prologue” is an apt handle for Judg 1:1–3:6. Amit and Klein, leveraging the work of Sternberg, prefer the term exposition (or “expositional material”); see, respectively, Amit, The Book of Judges, 121–23; Klein, The Triumph of Irony in the Book of Judges, 13; Sternberg, Expositional Modes and Temporal Ordering in Fiction. Either prologue or exposition seems a fitting description for this opening section of Judges. 4.  For example, see C. A. Beetham, Echoes of Scripture in the Letter of Paul to the Colossians, Biblical Interpretation Series 96 (Leiden: Brill, 2008); R. B. Hays, Echoes of Scripture in the Letters of Paul (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989). For research outside biblical studies, see J. Hollander, The Figure of Echo: A Mode of Allusion in Milton and After (Berkley: University of California Press, 1981). 5.  For the understanding of these terms, I am indebted to the recent work of Beetham, Echoes of Scripture in the Letter of Paul to the Colossians, 15–25. 6.  The point here is not to classify each linkage as a quotation, an allusion, or an echo but rather to present the data in an organized manner, forefronting the stronger, more obvious evidence first of all. Moreover, some of the links are more complex than this

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the first link, it may be helpful to understand the contours and content of Judg 1:1–3:6. The first verse of Judges sets the context of the book in the wake of the death of Joshua. 7 The first section of the exposition (1:1–2:5) is possibly an overview of the conquest under Joshua, 8 or else it is meant to narrate the battles that happened subsequent to the initial conquest. 9 According to the latter understanding of Judg 1, the battles reported here are a kind of mopup campaign following the initial conquest under Joshua. Whether an overview of the conquest under Joshua or a further military campaign after Joshua, this account of the various tribal battle results has three separate narratives embedded within it: (1) the capture and death of Adoni-Bezek (1:4–7), (2) the account of Caleb arranging the marriage of his daughter Acsah and Othniel (1:11–15), and (3) the mercy shown to the man from Luz by the Josephite spies (1:22–26). This first section of the exposition ends with a theophany, in which Yahweh’s messenger chastises the Israelites for breaking the covenant (2:1–5). 10 The second section of the exposition (2:6–3:6) consists of the interpretive framework for understanding (1) the original conquest under Joshua and (2) the subsequent period of the judges/settlement. Polzin offers a nuanced reading of the prologue with special attention to shifts in chronology and point of view. 11 He notes that psychological and temporal shifts in the exposition correspond to these two sections. The first section (1:1–2:5), though not strictly chronological, offers a basic sequence of the conquest, classification allows. For example, a given link may be based on a single word, object or short phrase which in itself may be rather weak evidence for identifying a link. However, coupled with the fact that the word, object, etc. appears only in the beginning and ending (and not in the core section) strengthens the argument that the link may be deliberate. 7.  Cf. Josh 1:1; 2 Sam 1:1; 2 Kgs 1:1. See p. 98 below for more on Judg 1:1. 8.  The traditional historical critical perspective is that Judg 1:1–36 an alternate account or a more accurate account of the events recounted in Joshua 14–19. T. E. Mullen, “Judges 1:1–36: The Deuteronomistic Reintroduction of the Book of Judges,” Harvard Theological Review 77.1 (1984): 33–54, regards it as a summary not a corrective of the Joshua account. 9. For example, see Boling, who maintains that what this section narrates “is intended as neither a rival account of the conquest period nor as a corrective to the normative statement. Rather it is a review of the performance of the generation that outlived Joshua”; R. G. Boling, Judges, Anchor Bible 6A (Garden City: Doubleday, 1975), 66. Cf. K. L. Younger Jr., “Judges 1 in Its Near Eastern Literary Conquest,” in Faith, Tradition, History: Essays on Old Testament Historiography in Its Near Eastern Context, ed. A. R. Millard, J. K. Hoffmeier and A. D. Baker (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1994), 227; Butler, Judges, 33. 10.  Scholars do not agree where the break between the first and second parts of the introduction of Judg (1:1–3:6) belongs. Some think 2:1–5 belong with the first part of the introduction, but others are convinced these verses start a new section dealing with religious overview. I do not think there is a great deal at stake. See the extended discussion in Butler, Judges, 10–12. 11.  Polzin, Moses and the Deuteronomist, 146–56. Cf. Klein, The Triumph of Irony in the Book of Judges, 11–14.

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highlighting the increasing failure of the tribes to conquer the inhabitants of the land. Moreover, this section is told from a psychological perspective external to that of the characters. It is as though the narrator is simply reporting what any observer of the conquest would have seen had he or she been there. The narrator does not foray into the inner thoughts and motivations of the individuals of the story or offer any overt evaluation of the events told. On the other hand, according to Polzin, the psychological perspective of 2:6–3:6 shifts: “It begins by continuing the external point of view of the preceding section, but we soon realize that the narrator has now become an omniscient panchronic observer who is permitted to penetrate the consciousness of all his characters, God included.” 12 Polzin points out that the remark about Joshua dismissing Israelites to go to their inheritances harkens back to Josh 24:28 and initiates a panoramic overview not only of Judg 1 (that is, the various battles under Joshua) but of the events which make up the book/period of Judges. 13 Thus, while the temporal sequencing in Judg 1:1–2:5 is linear, that of 2:6–3:6 is cyclical. For Polzin, the note in Judg 2:23 about Yahweh not driving out all the nations under Joshua roots the problems that emerge during the period of the judges, that is, the Israelites intermarrying with the pagan nations and serving their gods (3:6), in the period of the conquest. Thus, in good literary fashion, Judg 1:1–3:6 provides the necessary expositional material for understanding the rest of the book. 14

3.2.  Israel Asks God Who Should Lead in War, and Judah Is Chosen (1:1–2 and 20:18–28) The most obvious connection between the beginning and end of Judges is the pan-Israel wars that frame the book as a whole. In the exposition, the assembly of Israel asks Yahweh who should lead in the attack against the Canaanites (1:1). In the end section, the assembly of Israel (minus Benjamin) asks Yahweh who should lead in the attack against the tribe of Benjamin (20:18, 23, and 28). The methods of request that the Israelites employ, the questions they pose, and the answers they receive are in both cases identical. In this case of circularity, the differences, as well as the similarities, are significant. In the case of the pan-Israel war in the exposition, some knowledge of Israel’s story and Yahweh’s promise of the land, although not specified, is implied. Israel gathers together to ask Yahweh who should go up first, and Yahweh elects the tribe of Judah, with the promise of success: “I have given the land into his hand” (1:2). As promised, the Judahites gain one victory after another as they confront the Canaanites in battle. 12.  Polzin, Moses and the Deuteronomist, 150. 13.  Ibid., 151. 14. Cf. Klein, The Triumph of Irony in the Book of Judges, 13. For Klein, this expositional material foreshadows the main narrative by introducing both motifs and paradigms, and these find a pessimistic “resolution” in the final chapters of the book.

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In the case of the end section, Israel is on the verge of civil war. One of the tribes, Benjamin, is facing the real possibility of extermination. When the 11 tribes inquire this time, Yahweh again elects Judah, but this time he gives no indication as to the battle’s outcome. Indeed, only after two staggering defeats does Yahweh promise success: “Go up, for tomorrow I will give him into your hand” (20:28). Klein notes that the inclusion of the promise in the third instance makes the omission in the previous two responses conspicuous. 15 She also suggests that the variation in tense from the episode in 1:2 (“I have given”) to the episode in 20:28 (“I will give”) bears significance: Formerly, he had given the land into the hand of Judah even before the battle; here, though Israel is assured of power over Benjamin, the sons of Israel must fight before they will get what they wish. Significantly, how the Israelites exercise their power over Benjamin is left open. Yahweh does not promise to eradicate the tribe of Benjamin—only to give it into Israel’s power. 16

How to evaluate the war against Benjamin is complicated, particularly because the narrator does not provide any overt comments. For example, some regard the calling of the assembly, the mutual agreement to hold Gibeah accountable for the crime, and the subsequent decision to wage war against the tribe of Benjamin when they refuse to give up the perpetrators as legitimate steps in enacting justice. A notable proponent of this view is Amit. She maintains that the tribes are functioning in unity for the sake of justice and good. 17 This leads her, as we have seen, to perceive chs. 19–21 as working at cross-purposes with chs. 17–18, and the refrain of the end section. In other words, chs. 17–18 clearly exemplify the moral and religious degradation of Israel, which only monarchy can remedy. However, in chs. 19–21, according to this view, the tribes are not acting according to what is right in their own eyes but are functioning cohesively and for justice, even without a king. Amit, therefore, concludes that chs. 19–21 are not integral to the book but appended at a later date as a polemic against Saul (represented by Benjamin) and for David (represented by Judah). This is one possible way of making sense of the narratives in chs. 19–21. However, this sort of evaluation of these final chapters of Judges appears to rest on at least two questionable premises: these narratives (1) cast Judah in a positive light and (2) affirm the war against Benjamin and everything that leads up to and proceeds from it. This view does not adequately account for the overwhelming (and repeated) defeat which follows God’s selection of Judah to lead in battle against Benjamin. Israel’s defeat could be explained in at least four possible ways. First, though God elected Judah to 15.  Klein, The Triumph of Irony in the Book of Judges, 183. 16. Ibid. 17. See Amit, The Book of Judges, 348.

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lead in battle God was impotent to give success to the Israelite side. This option is unlikely as God is portrayed throughout Judges as being powerful to intervene in history, even against the worst odds. Moreover, the fact that he ensures victory after the third inquiry suggests that he deliberately staved off victory for one reason or another until the third battle. Second, perhaps something in the way that the battles were carried out caused God to prevent the Israelites from prevailing over Benjamin. So for example, even though God elects Judah to lead the battle, the narrative repeatedly states that it was the whole of Israel that went out to battle. 18 This is an important detail that is often overlooked by commentators, but it is also tendentious as an explanation for the defeat because it does not account for why the third time was a success even though Judah again does not apparently take the lead. Furthermore, if the narrator is trying to make the point that the defeat was a consequence of the violation of God’s command for Judah to go first, one might expect a similar evaluation of the election and campaign of Judah in the exposition. Even though the people of Judah are divinely appointed to lead in battle in 1:2, they urge the Simeonites to join them in their campaign. This link between the episodes at the beginning and end may be significant, and yet commentators typically evaluate Judah positively based on its election and relatively successful military campaign in the exposition. On the other hand, if chs. 19– 21 are pro-Judah propaganda, then the inclusion of this episode would be counterproductive because Judah is divinely elected to lead in a battle that results in sound defeat. 19 Third, Israel’s method of inquiry changes after each defeat. Because they approached Yahweh in the proper way only in the third instance, Yahweh assures them of success and then grants them the victory. As the anxiety of the Israelites deepens because of their repeated defeats, they intensify their entreaty to Yahweh. Block catalogs a number of subtle differences in Israel’s third approach to Yahweh, including all the people being present instead of only a portion, the people engaging in weeping and fasting, their offering specific sacrifices, and so on. 20 Perhaps the intensity of their entreaty or some element of change in their approach the third time persuaded Yahweh to grant them the victory. Fourth, perhaps the divinely appointed defeat of Israel in the first two instances and the final victory represents God’s chastisement of all of his people for their apostasy and moral degradation. Thus, Webb notes, “in 18.  Ibid., 356. Amit makes this observation though she is reluctant to see this as a violation of Yahweh’s command. 19.  Thus, ibid., 357, relegates it as “late and tendentious,” included only artificially to connect these chapters to the beginning of the book, but ultimately creating tension with the overall plot. 20. For the full list, see Block, Judges, Ruth, 560. See also Webb, The Book of Judges, 485–86.

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this episode in which Israelites wage holy war on Israelites, Yahweh takes his place at the head of the assembly and distributes victory and defeat in such a way that the punishment of Benjamin by the other tribes is made the occasion for the whole of Israel to be chastised by Yahweh.” 21 This view, it seems, coheres better with the overall thrust of the book, but it implies that all of the tribes, and not just Benjamin, are culpable and deserving of divine chastisement. This returns us to the question whether or not the Israelite council was justified in their action against the tribe of Benjamin and whether or not their action represents justice. An episode at the end of the book of Joshua seems to undermine the argument that the action taken against Benjamin is evidence of Israel’s concern for justice. Joshua 22:10–34 describes a situation in which the Israelites level a complaint against the tribes to the east of the Jordan (namely, Reuben, Gad, and the half-tribe of Manasseh). The concern was that the altar that the eastern tribes had built was intended as an alternative place to offer­sacrifices distinct from the tabernacle. The disciplinary action that the Israelites as a whole take against the eastern tribes is instructive, shedding light on the same action that the Israelites take against Benjamin at the end of the Judges. The Israelites first of all conferred regarding the action of the eastern tribes, with the result that the “whole assembly of the children of Israel” gathered to make war against the eastern tribes ( Josh 22:12). The assembly sent a party of elders from each tribe along with a priest to confront the eastern tribes with their accusation. 22 When the party of tribal elders and the priest voiced the charge against the eastern tribes and instructed them to desist, the eastern tribes explained their intention and maintained their innocence in the matter. The party of delegates was satisfied with the explanation 23 and returned to report back to the assembly of Israel. The assembly was also content with the outcome, and as a result they (1) “bless God” and (2) “spoke no more” of warfare against the eastern tribes. Many points of similarity exist between this episode in Joshua and the events leading up to the Israelite campaign against Benjamin in Judg 20. The key difference is that the council in Judg 20 determines from the beginning to exact revenge on the men of Gibeah. They neglect to send a delegation to Gibeah to make the formal accusation, thus preventing Gibeah from making a defense. The war against Benjamin may have a semblance of justice but a closer examination exposes it as more of a witch hunt than a commitment to justice. Those who argue that Israel is acting cohesively and for justice overlook the latent irony in these episodes. Indeed, they are acting cohesively, but to what end: the eradication of one of the tribes in what looks more like 21.  Ibid., 194. 22.  Incidentally, the priest is Phinehas the son of Eleazar (presumably the same priest mentioned in Judg 20:28). 23.  The explanation “was good in their eyes” as well as in the “eyes of the people of Israel” (22:30, 33).

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bloodthirsty revenge rather than justice. Furthermore, the council’s idea of compassion for Benjamin amounts to an unprecedented ban being put on an Israelite town ( Jabesh-Gilead) and the subsequent kidnapping and forced marriage of six hundred innocent Israelite virgins! 24 Amit is justified to question the relationship between the refrain (“There was no king in Israel”) and the fact that Israel does seem to be acting as a cohesive nation. However, that cohesiveness did not bring about peace and justice but rather more bloodshed and tragedy. Thus, it is ironic that though they do seem to be acting like a nation, the result is anarchy. In summary, Judges opens with a scene in which the pan-Israelite assembly gathers to ask Yahweh who should lead in the imminent military conquest. The book also closes with a pan-Israelite assembly asking Yahweh who should go up first in a military campaign. In each case, the tribe of Judah is divinely appointed to lead. The key difference is that in the first instance the Israelites are rightly embarking on a conquest against the Canaanites, but in the second they are determined to wipe out one of their own tribes. The action against Benjamin may resemble justice, but a closer examination suggests that the tribes are fueled by a sense of revenge for the outrage at Gibeah and not justice. Thus, the connection between 1:2ff. and 20:18, 20, 23 evokes a sense of circularity. However, the circularity in this first instance highlights just how far the Israelites had degenerated from the beginning of the book to its end. 25

3.3.  Tribes Return to Their Inheritance (2:6 and 21:24) In a helpful brief survey of endings of biblical books and psalms, Gottlieb notes the importance of the desire to “return” (to a previous time, place or state) in biblical literature. He identifies 10 biblical books ( Judg 21:23; Hos 14:8; Amos 9:14; Mic 7:19; Zeph 3:20; Mal 3:24; Job 42:10; Ruth 4:15; Lam 5:21; Eccl 12:7) and three individual psalms (Ps 14:7; 53:7; 80:20) in which the language/motif “return” (‫ )ׁשוב‬appears at the ending. 26 The motif of return, according to Gottlieb, is significant in literature in general because it often harkens back to the beginning and contributes to a sense of closure or completeness. This motif is particularly important in biblical literature in which the theme restoration is prominent. Gottlieb holds out Ruth as an exemplar of the return theme. The returning-home theme dominates the beginning of Ruth, where ‫ ׁשוב‬appears 10 times. The word ‫ ׁשוב‬appears again at the end (4:15) in the context of 24.  The irony runs far deeper, as all of this is the result of the testimony of one man (the Levite) who himself mistreated his secondary wife. 25.  See J. S. Kaminsky, “Reflections on Associative Word Links in Judges,” who writes, “It seems quite possible that the use of similar wording in Judges 1 and 20.18 is not to indicate that Judah is praised or given preeminence in both texts, but rather to show how far even the great tribe of Judah had fallen by the end of Judges, where Judah takes a leading role in the chaotic and morally dubious events narrated in Judges 19–21.” 26.  Gottlieb, “Sof Davar,” 218–19.

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phonetically similar Hebrew words (‫נפׁש‬, “life”; ‫ׂשיבה‬, “old age”; and ‫ׁשבע‬, “seven”). Thus, “the words ‫ משיב נפש‬and the phonetic variations thereon restate this opening theme and achieve a harmony between beginning and end.” 27 Gottlieb does not comment on Judges specifically, but it would have been interesting had he compared the use of ‫ ׁשוב‬at the end of Judges and its contribution to a sense of closure or completion. 28 In fact, the phrase in 21:24 recalls almost verbatim the phrase in 2:6: and the children of Israel went each to its inheritance to take possession of the land. ‫וילכו בני־יׂשראל איׁש לנחלתו לרׁשת את־הארץ‬ and the children of Israel went from there at that time, each to its tribe and clan, and went out from there to his inheritance. ‫ויתהלכו מׁשם בני־יׂשראל בעת ההיא איׁש לׁשבטו ולמׁשפחתו ויצאו מׁשם איׁש לנחלתו‬

This creates a sense of circularity, but the sense of circularity does not evoke the same kind of completeness and restoration that the ending of Ruth does. Of course, a circular ending is never a simple return “to the way things were” but involves some kind of movement or progression. In Ruth, the bitterness of the deaths of Naomi’s husband and sons is not reversed with the restoration of her loved ones to her (cf. the ending of Job). Rather, she finds completeness and fulfilment first of all in Ruth (4:15: “a daughterin-law who loves you, who is more to you than seven sons”) and especially in her grandson (4:17: “Naomi has a son”). The return of the Israelites to their homes at the end of Judges is not merely a return to the status quo. The events immediately preceding the note in 21:24 indicate that the thinned tribe of Benjamin would be returning to a devastated land to rebuild and eke out an existence after a close brush with extinction. The other tribes would also be returning to lands which they would coinhabit with Canaanites and also no doubt reflecting on the atrocities they had perpetrated on one of their own tribes. Here, the circularity clearly does not bring a sense of closure and completeness.

3.4.  Israel “Weeping” (2:4 and 21:2) The episode at Bochim in the exposition (2:1–5) and the incident at Bethel in the end section (20:23–28) provide yet another example of circularity. 29 Judges 2:1–5 records the account of the angel of Yahweh con27.  Ibid., 220. 28.  Raskas hints at a connection in her study on the connection between the end of Judges and Ruth; see J. Raskas, “The Book of Ruth: A Contrast to the End of the Book of Judges,” Jewish Biblical Quarterly 43.4 (2015): 228, 231 n. 4. 29. In fact, Bochim and Bethel might be the same geographical place. See Boling, Judges, 62; Amit, The Book of Judges, 354; Webb, The Book of Judges, 105. See a helpful discussion of the history of the interpretation of Bochim/Bethel in Frolov, Judges, 66–77.

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fronting the Israelites with the consequences of their unfaithfulness. In response, (1) “the people lifted up their voices and wept” (‫ויׂשאו העם את־‬ ‫ )קולם ויבכו‬and (2) sacrificed to Yahweh. Similarly, at the end of the book when the Israelites realize that Benjamin is facing the real possibility of extinction, the people once again “raised their voices and wept” (‫ויׂשאו קולם‬ ‫ ;ויבכו‬21:2) and made sacrifices (21:4). The idiom “to lift up one’s voice and weep” (‫ קול ובכה‬. . . ‫ )נׂשא‬is not uncommon in the Old Testament, but in Judges it only appears in these two places. 30 Moreover, the fact that both uses appear in conjunction with sacrifice calls for comparison. What purpose could this sort of association serve? Of course, this depends on how one evaluates the campaign against Benjamin, but if, as argued above, the narrator cast the civil war in a negative light, then the association between weeping in the exposition and end section is another example of irony. Wong traces the weeping in both instances to the oracular inquiries in 1:1 and 20:18 respectively. In the first case, the Israelites’ question (“Who shall go up?”) and their actions are appropriate based on God’s promise to give them the land. However, their lack of success prompted the divine rebuke and their subsequent weeping. In the second case, the Israelites’ question to Yahweh and their action against one of their own kin are inappropriate. Moreover, as opposed to the exposition where they were unsuccessful in carrying out a divine mandate, in the end section the Israelites are quite nearly successful in carrying out their own vengeful mandate. In the second instance of weeping, Israel’s success in carrying out their revenge (nearly eradicating Benjamin) causes their weeping. In other words, the weeping in the exposition represents a righteous sorrow in the light of Israel’s failure to carry out the divine will, whereas the weeping in the end section demonstrates Israel’s realization that they have (almost) been successful in carrying out their own will. Lest one think that their weeping indicates Israel’s ownership of and repentance for their folly, the falsely naive question (21:3) that accompanies Israel’s weeping is telling. They ask “Why, Yahweh, God of Israel, has this happened in Israel, that today one tribe is missing from Israel?” They ask this question as though the cause of the situation was anything but their own bloodthirsty vendetta. This is all the more incredible when one recalls that at Bethel weeping (20:23) and then weeping, fasting, and sacrifice (20:26) also follow the devastating defeats that the Israelites suffered at the hands of Benjamin. The narrative portrays Israel as a spoiled child that not only cries when it does not get what it wants (when Israel is defeated by Benjamin: 20:23, 26) but that cries also when it gets what it wants (when Israel defeats Benjamin: 21:2)! What is the function, then, of the circularity with regard to Israel’s weeping? Wong articulates well the irony that emerges in comparing the connection between 2:4 and 21:2: “the events described in the exposition and 30.  Wong, Compositional Strategy of the Book of Judges, 40.

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in the latter half of the epilogue are practically two sides of the same coin. While one records Israel’s failure to do what was right, the other records Israel’s success in doing what was wrong, and both resulted in a diminishing of national fortune that justifiably deserves to be loudly wept over and mourned.” 31 Israel’s action of weeping in the book of Judges occurs only at the beginning and ending of the book, indicating circularity. A comparison of the circumstances surrounding these occurrences of weeping appears to be further evidence of the author/editor’s aim to show the moral decline of Israel from the beginning of the book to its end.

3.5.  Israel’s Application of ‫( חרם‬1:17 and 21:11) and Their “Striking” Towns and Cities “with the Edge of the Sword” (‫ ;ויכום לפי־חרב‬1:8, 25 and 20:37, 48) Wong identifies how two technical terms for closely related military action feature in the exposition and end section. 32 The terms ‫“( חרם‬to ban/ devote/exterminate”) and ‫ לפי־חרב‬. . . ‫“( הכה‬to strike . . . with the edge of the sword”) are not uncommon in the Old Testament, but in Judges they appear only in the exposition and end section. 33 Often ‫חרם‬, when used in the context of military action, refers to the irreversible giving over of a thing (often a non-Yahwist foreign city) to God by means of its absolute destruction. 34 This is the case in Judg 1:17 which recounts the appropriate application of ‫ חרם‬against the Canaanite city of Zephath. However, when the Israelites apply ‫ חרם‬a second time at the end of Judges (21:11), the circumstances are quite different indeed. In 21:11, the council of tribes determines to utterly destroy an Israelite town. The decision is a ploy to circumvent the council’s earlier determination to eradicate completely the tribe of Benjamin. By destroying the inhabitants of Jabesh-Gilead, who were not present when the rest of the Israelites rashly vowed not to provide wives for the Benjaminites (21:1), and sparing only their virgin daughters, the Israelite council hoped to insure the survival of the tribe of Benjamin. A number of characteristics make the application of ‫ חרם‬in 21:11 unique. 35 First, this is only one of three instances in the Old Testament where children are explicitly identified for destruction. 36 Second, although there are conditions under which Israelites could be on the receiving end of ‫חרם‬ (in the case of idolatry or unlawful appropriation of consecrated objects) 31.  Ibid., 41. 32.  Wong, Compositional Strategy of the Book of Judges, 35–40. 33.  This is peculiar given the amount of military action in the central section of the book. See ibid., 35. 34.  The legitimacy and justification for this action appears in Deut 20:16–18. Notable examples include Josh 6:21 and 1 Sam 15:3. 35.  Wong, Compositional Strategy of the Book of Judges, 26–37. 36. Num 31:15–18; Deut 2:34. See C. Pressler, Joshua, Judges, and Ruth, Westminster Bible Companion (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2002), 256; Butler, Judges, 459.

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those conditions are clearly not met in 21:11. Finally, according to Wong, 21:11 is the only place in the Old Testament where ‫ חרם‬is explicitly directed against Israelites. 37 Though perhaps the letter of the law regarding ‫ חרם‬may have been followed in the destruction of Jabesh-Gilead, most commentators agree that the Israelites had twisted the law in a most troubling and absurd manner. 38 Wong notes that ‫ חרם‬and the phrase ‫ לפי־חרב‬. . . ‫ הכה‬are practically synonymous when used in the Old Testament. 39 Thus, that the exposition depicts Israelites “striking with the sword” foreign adversaries in Jerusalem (1:8) and Luz (1:25) during the time of the conquest of Canaan comes as no surprise. Israel’s implementation of the same military action against Israelite cities (Gibeah in 20:37 and all the rest of the towns of Benjamin in 20:48) is not only surprising but also questionable. Again, outside the book of Judges ‫ לפי־חרב‬. . . ‫ הכה‬applied to fellow Israelites appears in only two places and in both the perpetrators, and not the victims, are clearly cast in a negative light. 40 Incidentally, the phrase ‫ לפי־חרב‬. . . ‫ הכה‬appears one other time in the end section. In 19:27, the Danites strike the city of Laish with the edge of the sword. The account of the Danite migration north also lacks overt evaluation on the part of the narrator. However, the evidence taken altogether implies a negative assessment of the migration. Throughout ch. 18, the narrator depicts the Danites as brusque, manipulative, and cruel. This contrasts starkly with the people of Laish, who are repeatedly characterized as being at peace, unsuspecting, secure, self-sufficient, and prosperous (18:7, 9, 10, 27, 28). 41 Furthermore, the remote location of Laish suggests that they would have posed no threat to the political, economic, or military stability or to the spiritual purity of Israel that might justify their annihilation at the hands of the Danites. Finally, the exposition indicates 37.  Wong, Compositional Strategy of the Book of Judges, 37. 38. E.g., Butler, Judges, 459; Webb, The Book of Judges, 195; Block, Judges, Ruth, 575. 39.  Wong, Compositional Strategy of the Book of Judges, 37. Of the phrase ‫ לפי־‬. . . ‫הכה‬ ‫חרב‬, he notes, “In seventeen of its twenty-six occurrences in Hebrew Scripture, the phrase is used in the context of Israel’s war against the nations. Of these, the phrase is used interchangeably with or in close proximity to ‫ חרם‬thirteen times. In the remaining nine occurrences where the phrase is not specifically used in the context of war with the nations, most of them nonetheless hint at actions associated with ‫( ”חרם‬see footnotes for references). 40. Ibid., 38. In 1 Sam 22:19, Saul put the town of Nob to the edge of the sword because it was the city of origin of Ehimelech, who had aided David, God’s anointed. Incidentally, the narrative explicitly mentions the destruction of children and infants. In 2 Sam 15:14, Jerusalem is under threat of the edge of the sword as the usurper Absalom illegitimately attempts to take the crown from David and eradicate any opposition from David’s supporters. 41. Some of the language is ambiguous. Butler is correct, in my opinion, that the characterization of Laish serves to condemn the actions of the Danites. See the discussion in Butler, Judges, 394.

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that the reason the Danites were looking for a place to settle was that they were unsuccessful in securing their tribal allotment: “The Amorites pressed the children of Dan into the hill country for they did not allow them to descend into the valley” (1:34; cf. Josh 19:47). Israel’s application of ‫ חרם‬and ‫ לפי־חרב‬. . . ‫ הכה‬appears only in the exposition and the end section, which indicates an obvious case of circularity. The comparison of this specific military action at the beginning of Judges and at the end coheres with what appears to be an emerging pattern. Action appropriately applied at the beginning of the book is grossly misapplied, whether against their own cities (Gibeah, Jabesh-Gilead, and the other remaining towns of Benjamin) or foreign cities (Laish), at the end. This contributes to the increasing sense of Israel’s deterioration, especially when compared to the legitimate use of the same military action in the exposition.

3.6.  Spies and Their Missions (1:22–26 and 18:2–31) The two references to spies and their activity are another example of circularity in Judges. Judges 18 portrays the northward migration of the Danites, their conquest of Laish, and the establishment of a shrine. In the campaign against Laish, the Danites commission and send out a unit of spies. On their way, these spies encounter Micah’s illegitimate shrine and his Levite priest. They ask the priest to inquire of God if their journey will be successful, and the response is that they are to go in peace because their “way is before Yahweh” (18:5–6). There is good reason to question the legitimacy of this blessing; after all, the source is a self-serving Levite ministering at an illegitimate shrine. 42 In any case, the spies carry out their mission and bring back their report. The Danites successfully conquer Laish, though on the way they steal Micah’s image(s) and ephod and convince the Levite to accompany them on their migration north. The end of ch. 18 reports that the Danites struck Laish “with the edge of the sword” and burned it, after which they rebuilt the city, renamed it Dan, and set up a shrine with Micah’s image. Judges 1:22–26 briefly recounts another spy mission, though this time the “house of Joseph” commissioned the assignment. The significance of the connection between these two spy stories is not entirely clear, but a few points of comparison/contrast are worth noting. First, although the narrator does not explicitly criticize either spy/conquest account, indications from each suggest that the portrayal is negative. 43 Second, in both 42.  Polzin, Moses and the Deuteronomist, 198, notes that the preposition ‫( נכח‬ranging from “opposite” to “in front of”) is ambiguous and could mean that the mission of the Danites is either agreeable or disagreeable to God. In other words, the Levite, an “archopportunist,” chose his words carefully, tickling the ears of the Danites without being decisive either way. 43.  The issue with regard to Judg 1:22–26 is that God’s people are engaged in covenant making with a Canaanite contrary to divine will (see Judg 2:2). Cf. Boling, Judges, 65; Block, Judges, Ruth, 102–4; Butler, Judges, 27.

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cases the respective city is “struck with the edge of the sword” (1:25; 18:27). Whereas the Josephite soldiers spare a man and his family when perhaps they should have destroyed all the inhabitants of the city, the Danites spare not a soul when arguably they should have left Laish in peace. Third, each account ends with the building and founding of a new city (1:26; 18:28–29). 44 Fourth, the narratives attach longevity to these events: Luz kept its name “until this day” (1:26) and Jonathan and his sons minister at the shrine that the Danites established “until the day of the captivity of the land” (18:20). Fifth, both Bethel and Dan become associated in subsequent history with the blending of Yahwistic and pagan worship (1 Kgs 12:29; 2 Kgs 10:29). It may be possible to understand the episode in Judg 1:22–26 as a positive portrayal of the Israelites. 45 If so, this instance of circularity would once again show Israel (the Josephites) behaving positively with regard to their spy mission and the subsequent battle, whereas the corresponding incident of the same kind of action at the end shows the Israelites (the Danites) behaving badly. Otherwise, this instance of circularity in Judges does not obviously fit in the pattern of the previous examples of circularity. However, Bauer’s study of the spy story in Judg 18 may be relevant this regard. Although he does not compare the spy stories in Judg 18 and 1:22–26, he concludes on the basis of comparisons with other biblical instances of the spy story genre that Judg 18 is a parody of genre, what he refers to as an anti-spy story. The creative use of this literary genre serves to criticize the actions and situation of the story. 46

3.7.  Reference to Jebus, That Is, Jerusalem (1:21 and 19:10–13) In the exposition material in Judg 1:1–2:5, the narrator indicates that Benjamin failed to subdue the people living in Jerusalem: “And the children of Benjamin did not dispossess the Jebusites living in Jerusalem, and the Jebusites dwell with the children of Benjamin in Jerusalem to this day” (1:21). The fact that Benjamin failed to drive out the Jebusites and as a result the Jebusites and Benjaminites cohabitated in Jerusalem provides curious background to an incident at the end of the book. In 19:10–13, the narrator indicates that the Levite of the story set off toward Jebus as it was getting dark. His servant suggests that they spend the night in Jebus though the Levite insists they continue on to Gibeah. The Levite explicitly states his reason for pressing on beyond Jebus (19:12): “We will not turn aside 44.  In both accounts, cities are renamed. 45.  Kim holds that Israel’s initiation of a ‫חסד‬-relationship with the man from Luz is akin to the privileged relationship that Rahab enjoyed for collaborating with the Israelites. However, Kim also argues that the Israelites wrongly discarded the man from Luz when he was no longer useful to them; see U. Y. Kim, “Where Is the Home of the Man of Luz?” Interpretation 65 (2011): 255–58. 46.  U. F. W. Bauer, “Judges 18 as an Anti-Spy Story in the Context of an Anti-Conquest Story: The Creative Usage of Literary Genres,” JSOT 88 (2000): 37–47.

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into a city of foreigners, who do not belong to the children of Israel. We will go on to Gibeah.” The parenthetical remark in 19:10 that Jebus is also known as Jerusalem would have indicated to later readers who knew the city by its subsequent name that Jebus and the Jerusalem they knew were the same place. However, this is a new piece of information not mentioned in the exposition and may appear here deliberately to associate this episode in the end section with the mention of Jerusalem in the exposition. 47 Reading the episode in Judg 19 in light of the reference made to Jerusalem in 1:21 reveals an ironic twist to the story. It suggests that in hindsight the city of “foreigners,” which is this only because of Benjamin’s failure to drive out the Jebusites, would have been a better lodging place than the Israelite (in fact Benjaminite) city of Gibeah. 48 As Wong puts it, “The Levite’s attempt to bypass the potential danger of the Jebusites only led him and his company into a far more lethal danger, one that is all the more unexpected because it came from his fellow countrymen.” 49 Thus, the irony of the situation in Judg 19 only fully emerges in recognizing the circular relationship between the reference to Jebus/Jerusalem in the exposition (1:21) and in the end section (19:10–13).

3.8.  Death of Joshua and “No King in Israel” (1:1; 2:8, 21 and 17:6; 18:1; 19:1; 21:25) Perhaps the most unassuming but potentially significant link between the beginning of the book and the end section is that between the phrases that open and close the book. 50 In the exposition, the death of Joshua is referred to three times (1:1; 2:8, 21). Although Joshua’s death is not officially announced until 2:8, the opening lines of the book serve to set the context of the book “after the death of Joshua” (‫)ויהי אחרי מות יהוׁשע‬. This is not merely a temporal marker to serve the historian’s purposes but is a sort of key to understanding the book of Judges, the significance of which perhaps is not fully revealed until 2:6–10. The leadership vacuum that emerged after the death of Joshua eventually led to Israel’s apostasy and rebellion: after the death of Joshua and the whole generation after him, “another generation arose after them which did not know Yahweh or the deeds he had done for Israel. And the children of Israel did evil in the 47.  Wong, Compositional Strategy of the Book of Judges, 31. Wong also points out that almost the exact wording in 1:21 appears in Josh 15:63, except that in the Joshua reference it was Judah who failed to drive the Jebusites out of Jerusalem and not Benjamin. Wong suggests that the reference in Judges is a revision of the one in Joshua in order to link rhetorically the reference in Judg 1:21 to the episode in Judg 19. 48. Cf. Butler, Judges, 422; Wong, Compositional Strategy of the Book of Judges, 30; K. L. Younger, Judges and Ruth, New International Version Application Commentary (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2002), 354. 49.  Wong, Compositional Strategy of the Book of Judges, 30. 50. Cf. Butler, Judges, lvii, who notes, “My view of the shape of Judges begins with taking seriously its opening and closing verses.”

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eyes of Yahweh” (2:10, 11). Yahweh graciously sent leaders who would provide temporary respite, but when the judges/deliverers died, the Israelites returned to ways even more corrupt than their ancestors (2:19). Chapters 17–21 pick up this correlation between lack of leadership and rebellion and apostasy. The sentence that closes the book is, “There was no king in Israel and everyone did what was right in his/her own eyes” (21:25). This exact phrase appears at the beginning of ch. 17 (17:6) and in a truncated form at the beginning of chs. 18 (18:1) and 19 (19:1). Although the language is different, the refrain of chs. 17–21 picks up on a theme that first appears at the beginning of the book and that dominates the core of the book, namely, the role that leadership plays in Israel’s propensity toward idolatry, lawlessness, and self-destruction. The next chapter will explore in more detail how the refrain fits within rhetorical purposes of the book and its end. Suffice it to say at this point that the “no king in Israel” refrain seems to circle back deliberately to the opening line of the book, but from the perspective of all that has unfolded in the narrative of Judges. The opening and closing lines of the book, therefore, represent an example of circularity.

3.9.  Women on Donkeys (1:14 and 19:28) At both the beginning and end of Judges, the narrator relates stories involving a woman on a donkey (‫)חמור‬. In the context of Judg 1:11–16, following her marriage to Othniel, Acsah approaches her father Caleb to request springs of water in addition to the lands he had given Othniel and Acsah. The narrator notes that “She descended from upon the donkey” (‫)ותצנח מעל החמור‬. In the context of Judg 19, the Levite discovers his concubine at the door of the house, after having sacrificed her to save himself and then abandoning her to be ravaged all night by the men of Gibeah. When he gets no response to his command for her to get up, “he took/put her upon the donkey” (‫)ויקחה על־החמור‬. This easily overlooked example of circularity also conforms to the pattern whereby the event in the end section proves to be a troubling parody of the corresponding event in the exposition. In the first case, a woman of status who is assured of a bright future dismounts a donkey to respectfully but boldly request a blessing. In the latter case, a woman without status and without a future is roughly hoisted onto a donkey and her slain body becomes exploited for further bloodshed. As Schneider notes, “a careful reading of [Achsah’s] story in relation to what precedes and follows it, as well as in light of the final four chapters of the book, establishes Achsah’s situation as a prototype to which the later story must be compared. These two stories begin and end the book in order to show how far off course Israel strayed during the ‘narrative’ time period of Judges.” 51 51.  Schneider, “Achsah, the Raped Pîlegeš, and the Book of Judges,” 43.

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3.10.  Human Mutilation (1:6 and 19:29) Judges 19:29 is the climax in a string of horrifying and inexplicable events which themselves lead to further tragedy. After cruelly delivering his concubine to the men of Gibeah and then finding her the next day lying on the threshold, the Levite put her unresponsive body on a donkey and brought her to his home. Behind closed doors, the Levite “seized the knife, grabbed hold of his concubine and divided her, limb by limb, into twelve pieces, and sent her throughout all the territory of Israel” (19:29). Apparently, the intended effect of the dismemberment was to induce the Israelite tribes into action, and it had the desired effect. Evidently, this event is connected to the similar event in 1  Sam 11. 52 Prompted by the potential of Jabesh-Gilead’s own mutilation at the hands of Nahash the Ammonite, Saul dismembered a yoke of oxen and sent the pieces throughout all the land of Israel with the message that this would happen to anyone who would not follow him in defense of Jabesh-­ Gilead. 53 MacDonald thinks that the interconnection between Judg 19:29 and 1 Sam 11:7 highlights a theme that appears throughout the book of Judges, namely, the social dissolution of Israel during the time of the judges as evidenced in the collapse of natural and social boundaries (specifically, the natural boundaries between animal and human, and the social boundaries between food, sacrifice, killing, and sex). 54 The similarity of the two episodes suggests that in the case of the dissection of the Levite’s concubine in Judges, humans and animals are not properly distinguished. 55 MacDonald also detects a link between the dismembering in 19:29 and the amputation of Adoni-Bezek’s thumbs and big toes in 1:6: “The account of the dissection suggest a number of important links that help characterize the event. The first is to the opening story in Judges where Adoni-bezeq mutilates his conquered foes. The book opens and closes with human mutilation.” 56 Mutilation such as this was not unprecedented in the ancient world and would serve to humiliate and incapacitate one’s enemies, even though Adoni-Bezek interprets it as divine retribution because “seventy kings with their thumbs and big toes cut off used to used to pick 52.  H. W. Hertzberg, I and II Samuel: A Commentary, OTL (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1964), 93; R. P. Gordon, I and II Samuel: A Commentary, Library of Biblical Interpretation (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1988), 124; D. T. Tsumura, The First Book of Samuel, NICOT (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007), 308; D. G. Firth, 1 and 2 Samuel, Apollos Old Testament Commentary 8 (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2009), 138. 53.  Indeed, it may have been because of Jabesh-Gilead’s unwillingness to fight in the campaign against Benjamin at the end of Judges that the Israelites now fail to come to their rescue. See Klein, The Triumph of Irony in the Book of Judges, 106. 54.  MacDonald, Not Bread Alone, 131. Cf. the treatment of the relationship between the natural and human realms in S. Scham, “Days of the Judges: When Men and Women Were Animals and Trees Were Kings,” JSOT 26 (2002): 37–64. 55.  Ibid. This assumes that either the episode in 1 Samuel is prior to the Judges episode or that the dismembering of an animal was a recognizable symbol. 56. Ibid.

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up scraps under my table. As I have done, so God has repaid me.” 57 MacDonald suggests that reducing five digits to four would have effectively transformed the kings to the status of animals. 58 The fact that in such a state the 70 kings had to scrounge under the table for scraps seems to confirm their symbolic transformation. Thus, reading 1:4–7 alongside 19:22–30 bears the following points of comparison. First, each incident obscures the line between human and beast. Whereas at the end of the book, the body of the Levite’s concubine is carved up like meat (cf. Saul’s yoke of oxen), 59 at the beginning, AdoniBezek, like his enemies before him, is reduced to the status of a beast. Second, scholars have noted that both the death of Adoni-Bezek 60 and the death of the concubine 61 are ambiguous. The report of Adoni-Bezek’s death appears in 1:7, but the cause of his death is unclear. He may have died of natural causes or as a result of his wounds, or he may have been executed. Block argues that according to Deut 7:1–2; 20:16–17, the Judahites transgressed the divine mandate to leave no survivors. Instead, the mutilation and humiliation of their enemy suggests that already at the beginning the Israelites have adopted a Canaanite ethic, the first step in their Cannanization. 62 In the case of the concubine, to suggest that she may have still been alive after the horrifying night at the mercy of the men of Gibeah is almost unthinkable, but that the text does not report her death leaves the question open. Did she indeed die during the night or at the hands of the Levite? The Levite’s own testimony in 20:5–6 seems to vindicate him from wrongdoing, but by this point in the narrative he is hardly a credible witness of his own actions. 63 Either way, whereas Adoni-Bezek should not have remained as a prisoner of war, the death of the Levite’s concubine was a tragedy that could and should have been prevented. In both cases, the mutilation was unnecessary. Third, the mutilation of the Levite’s concubine and the foreign king is another example of the movement of intensification and degradation that seems to govern the book. On the one hand, Adoni-Bezek merely loses four digits, whereas the concubine’s whole body is dissected. On the other hand, 57.  Block, Judges, Ruth, 90. 58.  MacDonald, Not Bread Alone, 131. 59. Cf. Block, Judges, Ruth, 541: “he desacralizes her body, treating her as if it were an animal carcass.” 60.  E.g., ibid., 91. 61. E.g., Butler, Judges, 28, 409. Butler notes that the Septuagint specifies that she was indeed dead, though this is not necessarily the better reading (p. 409). See also Hock-Soon Ng, “Revisiting Judges 19: A Gothic Perspective,” JSOT 32 (2007): 212; Sternberg, Poetics, 238–39. 62.  Block, Judges, Ruth, 91. 63.  Ibid., 554. Cf. F. M. Yamada, Configurations of Rape in the Hebrew Bible: A Literary Analysis of Three Rape Narratives, Studies in Biblical Literature 109 (New York: Peter Lang, 2008), 90–94. Yamada notes, “within his accounting of what happened, there are significant points of departure between his telling of the events and the narrated details of Judg 19” (p. 94).

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this is another case where the Israelites use tactics at the beginning of the book against foreign enemies that they use against each other at the end. The narrator’s recounting of an instance of human mutilation in the exposition and then returning in the end section to relate another count of human mutilation is another example of circularity. Like the comparison of the two pan-Israelite battles in the exposition and end section, the example of the two instances of human mutilation reveals a troubling movement involving actions against foreign enemies in the beginning of the book (the battle against the Canaanites and the disfigurement of the Canaanite king Adoni-Bezek) being wrongly perpetrated against Israelites at the end (Benjamin and the Levites concubine). Thus, this example provides further evidence of an apparent strategy of circularity that emphasizes the degeneration of Israel from the beginning to the end.

3.11.  Arranged Marriages (1:11–15 and 21:1–23) The recounting of instances of arranged marriages provides further evidence of the strategy of circularity. Wong holds that references to the giving of daughters in marriage in the book of Judges, like the application of specific military action in the previous example, are limited to the exposition and the end section. 64 The exposition depicts the arranged marriage of Acsah to Othniel (1:11–15; 3:6). The end section also presents twisted examples of arranged marriages, namely, the marriages of the virgins of Jabesh-Gilead and Shiloh to the remnant of Benjamin (21:1–23). Wong identifies at least four points of comparison. First, each account of arranged marriage contains the key words ‫נתן‬, ‫בת‬, and ‫ אׁשה‬in close proximity (1:12, 13 and 21:1, 7, 18, 22). Second, each is the result of a pre-battle oath. Caleb promises to give his daughter to anyone who is able to take Kiriath Sepher at the beginning of the book. At the end of the book, the Israelites vow not to give their daughters in marriage to the Benjaminites, leading to the forced marriage of the virgins of Jabesh-Gilead and Shiloh. Third, each instance of arranged marriage concludes with the post-battle follow-up regarding the vows. In the case of Acsah and Othniel, the vow is kept and the two are married. In the case of the Benjaminites, the Israelites assemble to find a loophole that would circumvent their rash vow. Finally, whereas the original intention and the final result of Caleb’s vow is one of blessing, 65 the intent and result of the vow in ch. 21 is one of curse. 66 Furthermore, the same word used to describe the Benjaminites seizing women from Shiloh appears in the curses of the covenant in Deut 28:29, 31 67 in 64.  Wong does not account for the arranged marriage of Samson to the Timnite and the fact that later the Timnite’s father gives her to another man (14:1–15:2). 65.  See 1:15, where Acsah asks for and receives a blessing (‫ )ברכה‬from her father. 66.  See 21:18: “Cursed (‫ )ארור‬is the one who gives a wife to Benjamin.” 67.  Wong, Compositional Strategy of the Book of Judges, 44. Furthermore, the three key words (‫נתן‬, ‫בת‬, and ‫ )אׁשה‬appear in Deut 28:29–32. Admittedly, the word for the taking of the wife in Deut 21:30 is not ‫גזל‬.

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the context of a man’s pledged wife being stripped from him and ravaged by another man. If the absurdity of the so-called marriages in ch. 21 is not apparent from the fact that, as Ackerman puts it, “a story that begins by condemning Benjamin’s assault of an Ephraimite’s woman concludes by condoning the Benjaminites’ ravaging of the Ephraimites’ women,” 68 the story of the marriage of Acsah and Othniel holds out a standard of marriage and blessing against which the story of ch. 21 clashes. The circularity of these arranged marriages, therefore, highlights this clash. Moreover, the comparison between arranged marriage in the exposition and in the end section provides more evidence of the discernible pattern that I have noted earlier. Episodes at the end of the book call to mind episodes from the beginning, but the comparison exposes how far Israel had deteriorated from the beginning of the book to the end.

3.12.  Fathers, Daughters and Sons-in-Law (1:11–15 and 19:1–10) The account of Acsah and Othniel provides further evidence of circularity. Although not completely unrelated to the literary context in which it appears (the story does recount how Kiriath Sepher was taken), the story does stand out among the battle accounts. According to the story, Caleb promises his daughter in marriage (including a dowry in the form of land) to whoever captures the city of Kiriath Sepher. 69 The warrior Othniel rises to the challenge, defeats the city, marries Acsah, and settles in the land he receives from Caleb. Unfortunately, the arid nature of the land that Othniel and Acsah receive makes it difficult to sustain life. Acsah asks her father for springs, and Caleb grants them. For Hamlin, Judg 1:11–15 is a narrative about harmony—between brothers, between father and daughter, between wife and husband—which ends in the blessing of the land. 70 According to Block, “This is an episode in which everyone (fathers and daughters, husbands and sons-in-law) functions with boldness and creativity but always respectful of the dignity and role of the other person in that socioeconomic environment.” 71 Acsah, for example, is the first female whom 68. S. Ackerman, Warrior, Dancer, Seductress, Queen: Women in Judges and Biblical Israel, Anchor Bible Reference Library (New York: Doubleday, 1998), 254–55 (cited in Butler, Judges, 467). Schley holds that the virgins of Shiloh were non-Israelites but that the editor of Judges casts them as Israel for rhetorical purposes; see D. G. Schley, Shiloh: A Biblical City in Tradition and History, JSOTSup 63 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1989), 136. 69.  It appears that this episode reduces Acsah to a war trophy; however, Block rejects such readings as imposing modern cultural standards on the ancient world. He suggests that Caleb’s scheme would insure that his daughter would get a courageous and honorable husband. Block, Judges, Ruth, 94; cf. E. J. Hamlin, At Risk in the Promised Land: A Commentary on the Book of Judges, International Theological Commentary (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1990), 31. 70.  Hamlin, At Risk in the Promised Land, 31–33. 71.  Block, Judges, Ruth, 96.

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readers encounter­in a book with an unusual array of significant women characters. Klein thinks that Acsah “serves as a role model of propriety for later portrayals of women.” 72 Schneider regards her as the starting point and standard for which subsequent women in Judges are treated. 73 The harmony portrayed in the interrelationships between father, daughter­and son-in-law/husband clashes with the dissonant relationships in Judg 19:1–10. 74 The story starts with a Levite who had taken a concubine. For one reason or another, his concubine left him and returned to her father. 75 Thus, the story is set within the context of a rift between a man and his wife/concubine. After four months, the Levite determines to repair the relationship with is concubine: “He went after her to speak to her heart, to cause her to return” (19:3). If the Levite was successful is not clear, but the unnamed woman does bring the Levite into the house, and the father is apparently pleased by the encounter. The father’s joy is unexpected and difficult to make sense of, though the solidarity that the father seems to have with the Levite serves to push the concubine to the margins of this part of the narrative. The father proceeds to impose his hospitality on the Levite in a comic series of non-starters on the part of the Levite. No fewer than three times, the father prevents the Levite from leaving and presses him to stay and eat, so that the three-day stay stretches to five days. This method of stalling heightens the sense of suspense; crucial to the story is the detail that the Levite and his party do not set out until the evening, contributing to the crisis of where they would lodge that night. However, the father’s repeated injunctions and the Levite’s prolonged silence suggest that the father’s tactic was a source of annoyance to the Levite. This is confirmed when the Levite “was not willing to stay the night, and he rose 72.  L. R. Klein, “A Spectrum of Female Characters in the Book of Judges,” in A Feminist Companion to Judges, ed. A. Brenner, The Feminist Companion to the Bible 4 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993), 25. 73.  Schneider, Judges, 12. 74.  The use of terminology to refer to the characters in 19:1–10 is potentially significant. The woman is referred to as the Levite’s concubine three times (19:1, 2, 9). However, she is also referred to as ‫ הנערה‬in vv. 4, 5, 6, 8 and 9 in association with her father. The Hebrew word ‫ נערה‬has the sense of a girl or young woman, especially as marriageable or betrothed (BDB 655; see Gen 24:14; Deut 22:15, 25; Judg 21:12; Esth 2:2, 3, etc. Butler, Judges, 405, renders it “bride.”). The “Levite” is only referred to as such in the opening verse of the chapter. In v. 3, he is referred to as ‫אישׁה‬, which almost certainly should be rendered as “her husband” in this instance. Again in v. 9, he is referred to as ‫אישׁה‬, which could be rendered either “husband” or “man.” In one case (19:5), he is referred to as the father’s “son-in-law” (‫)חתנו‬. The father of the concubine is called “her father” (‫אביה‬, 19:2, 3) and especially “the girl’s father” (‫אבי הנערה‬, 19:3, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9). Additionally, he is referred to as the Levite’s “father-in-law” (‫ )חתן‬four times (19:4, 6, 7, 9). Thus, this use of terminology seems intentionally to emphasize the identities of these individuals in relation to each other. 75. What ‫ ותזנה‬means is a matter of debate. The debate boils down to whether the Hebrew means “commit fornication” or “become a harlot” or “be angry” or “hate.” For a thorough discussion, see ibid., 417–20.

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up and departed” (19:10) in spite of the father’s warning not to leave in the evening (19:9). A circular relationship exists between the two events surrounding a woman, her husband, and her father at the beginning of Judges and at the end. The end section portrays the interactions between a man, his “wife” and her father. The relationship between these unnamed individuals is fraught with tension and consequences are catastrophic. This is all the more emphatic when compared to the harmony that characterizes the relationship between Acsah, her husband Othniel and her father Caleb. Once again, this example of circularity contributes to what seems to be a deliberate strategy of circularity that highlights the movement from harmony, order and blessing at the beginning of the book to disharmony, disorder, and cursedness, in this case social, at the end of the book. 76

3.13.  Father/Daughter and Mother/Son (1:11–15 and 17:1–5) The congruous relationship and interaction between Acsah (daughter) and Caleb (father) bears comparison with those of a mother and her son in Judg 17:1–5, providing another possible instance of circularity. The first episode of the end section concerns a certain Ephraimite named Micayhu­. 77 The narrative opens with the statement “And there was a man in the hill country of Ephraim and his name was Micayhu.” If the fact that this individual is from Ephraim causes alarm, 78 perhaps his pious-sounding name, “Who-Is-Like-Yahweh,” alleviates this alarm. 79 However, the reader soon realizes that Micayhu is undoubtedly a misnomer. As the story unfolds, Micayhu turns out to be a thief, an idolater, and a cunning opportunist who is willing to exploit the name of Yahweh by whatever means for his own benefit. Micayhu’s first action is a jumbled confession to his mother about a sum of money he had apparently stolen from her. His confession goes something like this: “The 1,100 units of silver that were taken from you, and about which you swore an oath—and also you said in my hearing—look, the silver is with me, I took it.” At least three features of this confession 76.  Cf. D. A. Dorsey, The Literary Structure of the Old Testament: A Commentary on Genesis–Malachi (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 1999), 119, who notes that in both the prologue and end section “there is [sic] the interwoven themes of parents, children, and idolatry.” However, because he limits his consideration to the connection between parents and children with idolatry, he fails to see the link to the Caleb/Acsah account but instead focuses on 2:10, 17, 19. 77.  The narrator uses the name Micah only starting in v. 5. 78.  Ephraim failed to drive out the Canaanites and cohabited with them in the land (1:29). They nearly start a rash civil war (8:1–3) and in fact do recklessly take up arms against Jephthah and the Gileadites and are slaughtered (12:1–6). 79. See Boling, Judges, 255, who paraphrases ‫ מיכיהו‬as Yahweh-the Incomparable.

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are worth noting. First, the Hebrew in this verse is untidy and awkward. 80 However, Boling perceives a purpose behind the awkwardness: “the narrator presents Micah on this embarrassing occasion as having difficulty forming his sentences.” 81 Second, Micayhu’s words represent a technique of “gradual exposure,” 82 whereby the revelation that he is the thief comes reluctantly at the very end of the drawn out confession: “the silver which was taken . . . it is with me . . . I took it.” Third, his words seem to betray his motivation for confessing. He is not motivated by conscience or by his desire to repent of his lawlessness; rather, his primary motivation is to avoid the curse that his mother swore concerning the money, a curse she uttered within earshot of Micayhu. 83 His mother apparently perceives Micayhu’s anxiety over the curse and immediately utters what appears to be a countercurse: “Blessed be my son by Yahweh.” In a book where an innocent young woman becomes the victim of her father’s rash oath (11:29–40) and where unthinkable atrocities take place as a result of the Israelites’ impulsive oath (21:1–25), the easy reversal of this oath against Micayhu is unexpected, perhaps even suspect. Micayhu returns the silver to his mother only when he is sufficiently assured that the curse had been annulled (17:3). Micayhu’s mother then indicates that she will dedicate the 1,100 units of silver to Yahweh so that he can make an idol (‫ )פסל‬and a molten image (‫)מסכה‬. The rest of the episode is rather confusing, with money changing hands several times, and with illegitimate objects being made and consecrated for worship. 84 The fact that the silversmith receives only 200 of the 1,100 units of silver creates a gap in the reading. 85 Either the mother held back a substantial amount of the silver that she originally dedicated to Yahweh, or Micayhu ended up profiting from the repeated exchanges. Amit notes that the “importance of such gaps lies in their very presence and exposure, because any attempt to fill them is likely to strengthen the dimension of irony and to present the heroes in a more negative light.” 86 The 80.  The manuscripts and ancient versions support the MT in spite of the awkwardness; See J. A. Soggin, Judges, A Commentary, OTL (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1981), 265; Boling, Judges, 255. 81. Ibid. 82.  Amit, The Book of Judges, 324. 83.  Faraone, Garnand and López-Ruiz compare the curse of Micah’s mother with a curse inscribed on a sheet of lead from Carthage (c. seventh or sixth century) and with other Greek and Latin curses against thieves; see C. A. Faraone, B. Garnand, and C. LópezRuiz, “Michah’s Mother ( Judg. 17:1–4) and a Curse from Carthage (Kai 89): Canaanite Precedents for Greek and Latin Curses against Theives?” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 64 (2005): 161–86. 84.  Polzin, Moses and the Deuteronomist, 197, notes that the ambiguity over what precisely was made contributes to a technique employed throughout chs. 17–18 in which name shifts take place. This technique blurs the details and contributes to the disorienting effect of these episodes. 85. See Sternberg, The Poetics of Biblical Narrative, 186–263. 86.  Amit, The Book of Judges, 325.

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idol(s) end up in the house of Micayhu along with an ephod and teraphim. Moreover, he installs one of his sons as a priest to minister at his idolatrous shrine. In the final sentence of this episode, the narrator apparently drops the pretence and from this point refers to Micayhu as Micah. 87 It is possible to see a kind of circularity in the depiction of the fatherdaughter relationship between Acsah and Caleb and the mother-son relationship between Micah and his mother. Once again, the significance derives from the contrast that the comparison yields. By stealing from his mother, Micayhu came under her curse. In order to manipulate the situation, he confesses and in return he receives a blessing from his mother. Ironically, this blessing is tantamount to a curse as it eventually leads to the fashioning of an idol and the establishment of an aberrant shrine. Acsah, on the other hand, humbly requests the blessing of her father, who graciously complies. This correspondence between a father and daughter at the beginning and a mother and son at the end is suggestive of an ironic inversion of situations, providing further evidence of a calculated strategy of circularity.

3.14.  Strategy of Circularity: Conclusion The evidence makes it difficult to deny that the author/compiler of Judges designed the ending of Judges in such a way as to deliberately recall words, phrases, concepts, and episodes from the beginning of the book. Moreover, several of the examples of circularity examined in this chapter contain words, phrases, actions, and so on that appear only in the exposition and end section and not elsewhere in the core section of the book. All of this suggests that these many and varied linkages between the beginning of Judges and its end are not random examples of circularity but likely expose a more deliberate strategy of ending, what I would call the strategy of circularity. According to this strategy of ending, the circular design contributes to a sense of reversal, degradation, and/or irony. The ending does not just recall the beginning but evokes aspects of the beginning to expose the deeply problematic behavior and situation of Israel at the end of the book. Chapter five will show how attention to narrative temporality actually bolsters this strategy of circularity. However, the next chapter explores one further strategy of ending that seem to be functioning in the closing chapters of Judges, namely, the strategy of entrapment. 87.  Micah does not include the reference to Yahweh.

Chapter Four

The Strategy of Entrapment in Judges 17–21 4.1. Introduction So far, I have identified and explained two strategies of ending that are at work in the book of Judges. The strategy of completion involves drawing characters, motifs, and themes throughout out the narrative, starting in the beginning, continuing through the middle, and culminating in the end. Chapter three examined the strategy of circularity in the book of Judges, according to which words, phrases, and actions in the end section hearken back to words, phrases, and actions in the exposition. I can discern at least one more strategy of ending at work in the book of Judges, which will be the subject of examination in this chapter. This strategy is closest to what Torgovnick terms a tangential ending, but with one or two significant differences. According to Torgovnick, a tangential ending is when a new idea or topic emerges at the end of a narrative that is unrelated to either the beginning or the middle of the narrative. The introduction of a new topic can produce a sense of confusion or openness. 1 At least two obvious subjects emerge in the end section that are not as clearly dealt with previously in the narrative of Judges, namely, kingship and cult. 2 The way in which the emergence of these two subjects contribute to the strategy of ending in Judges will receive attention in this chapter. Some clarification with regard to this third strategy of ending is necessary before we get started. First, neither of these subjects is properly tangential according to Torgovnick’s classification. They are not unrelated to the previous narrative; in fact, they are intricately, albeit subtly, connected to the central aims of the narrative. However, they do emerge in the end section in a way that may at first catch readers off guard or perhaps disorient them. This should cause readers to consider what the narrator’s late concern for kingship and cult has to do with the aims previously expressed in the book of Judges. For this reason, the strategy of ending at work here may better be understood as entrapment rather than tangential, a rhetorical strategy that O’Connell has helpfully identified and explored. 3 1.  Torgovnick, Closure in the Novel, 13–14. 2.  O’Connell, The Rhetoric of the Book of Judges, 6–7. 3.  See ibid., 6. O’Connell has examined the rhetorical strategy of entrapment in Judg 17–21, and though I disagree with O’Connell on key points, this chapter will interact with his helpful and creative work in this area.

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Second, to say that these two subjects do not appear previously in the book would not be altogether accurate. For example, both the notion of kingship and issues of cult appear at various points in the book. Nevertheless, these subjects do emerge in the end section in a concentrated way and in a way that sheds new light on them. Third, one might suppose that the concern with kingship in the end section connects to the major theme of leadership, and therefore functions according to the strategy of completions. In other words, the theme of leadership, which is evident in the exposition and in the cycle of Judges, culminates in the final chapters, intricately connecting Israel’s religious, social and moral decay with the state of kinglessness. One might, therefore, conclude that by the time we get to chs.17–21 the needed change in Israel to monarchy is obvious. However, I will argue that the “no king in Israel” refrain is not endorsing a certain kind of political leadership but is getting at something more fundamental, namely, that Israel’s problem in the Judges period is their rejection of Yahweh as king. The leadership threads are drawn together in the end section but in an unexpected way, and thus the notion of kingship in chs. 17–21 has an important function in the strategy of entrapment. The next sections will explore how both kingship and cult contribute to the third ending strategy: the strategy of entrapment.

4.2.  Cult in Judges 17–18 Issues of cult appear throughout the narratives in the end section. The central aim of the narrative of Micah and the Danites is the legitimate place and practice of the cult in Israel. Ironies abound when Micah and his mother conspire to have idolatrous objects made with funds dedicated to Yahweh (17:1–5). Then, having established a household shrine with a Levite functioning as priest there, Micah expresses his certainty that Yahweh would bless him (17:13). The narrative concludes with the note that the Danites set up the shrine (after stealing the objects and priest from Micah), that they installed Moses’ grandson Jonathan (a Levite) and his sons as priests, and that the shrine remained all the time that the house of God was at Shiloh (18:31). This is the telos of the narrative. 4 O’Connell (and others) suggests that chs. 17 and 18 are designed so that “one may infer that the issue of the idol shrine is of greatest significance to the narrator.” 5 Of secondary importance, but no less important in a consideration of the role of cultic matters in Judg 17–21, is the role of Levitical priests in this narrative. The narrator recounts the installation of a Levite as priest first in an idolatrous household shrine (17:12) and then in an idolatrous tribal shrine (18:30). 6 4.  J. S. Bray maintains Judg 17–18 are a cultic foundation story: Sacred Dan: Religious Tradition and Cultic Practice in Judges 17–18, LHBOTS 449 (New York: T&T Clark, 2006) 58. 5.  O’Connell, The Rhetoric of the Book of Judges, 235. 6.  For a detailed character analysis of the Levite in chs. 17–18, see D. Z. Moster, “The Levite of Judges 17–18,” JBL 133 (2015): 729–37.

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O’Connell argues that Deut 12, with its emphasis on the appropriate place and practice of worship, “forms a basis of the rhetorical strategy of the author of Dénouement-A [Judg 17–18].” 7 He demonstrates how Judg 17–18 blatantly undermine the key instructions of Deut 12. Whereas Deuteronomy commands that cultic sites are to be destroyed (Deut 12:2), in Judges they are constructed (17:1–5); idols are to be cut down (Deut 12:3) but instead they are manufactured (17:3–4); Deuteronomy repeatedly endorses the ideal of a central shrine (12:4–7, 11, 13–14, 17–18, 26–27), though in Judg 17–18 this notion is “repeatedly and ironically ignored” (17:2–5, 13; 18:31); doing what is right in one’s own eyes is expressly prohibited in Deut 12 (v. 8) but expressly practiced in Judg 17–18 (17:6); Deut 12 commands popular support of the Levites at the central shrine (12:12, 18, 19), whereas Judg 17–18 portrays this support at private shrines (17:7– 13; 18:19–20, 30). 8 O’Connell concludes, Each point of antithesis between Judges 17–18 and Deuteronomy 12 heightens the rhetorical point that, in doing what was right in their own eyes, the characters of this account were acting in defiance of the cultic ideals set forth in Deuteronomy 12. It is probably not just fortuitous that Judges 17–18 concludes and culminates (18:30–31) with a contrast between the Danite cult and the cult of Yahweh at Shiloh, the only cult endorsed by the narrative of chs. 17–21 (cf. 21:19). 9

The reference in the last verse of this part of the end section (18:31) is the first reference to Shiloh in the whole of the book of Judges.

4.3.  Cult in Judges 19–21 The events in Judg 17–18 are clearly about cultic places and practices in Israel. Perhaps more precisely these chapters are about deviant cultic places and practices. While the cult is not the central focus of chs. 19–21, issues of a cultic nature appear repeatedly throughout these chapters. Chapter 19 narrates the bizarre events leading up to and including the brutal rape, murder, and dismemberment of the Levite’s unnamed concubine in Gibeah. These events set in motion a chain of events that leads to Israel’s battle against the tribe of Benjamin. Matters of a cultic nature in the narrative of chs. 19–21 are concentrated in chs. 20–21, but it is worth noting that the central character in ch. 19 is from the tribe of Levi, and, according to Moster, bears typical levitical traits. 10 In chs. 20–21 the Israelites assemble together at religious sanctuaries to perform religious rites no less than five times: 7. Ibid. 8. Ibid. O’Connell identifies other connections concerning the settlement of land inheritance, Yahweh’s promise to let the people live in safety, and Yahweh’s extension of territory, each of which also condemns the actions of the Israelite characters in Judg 17–18. 9.  Ibid., 240. 10.  Moster, “The Levite of Judges 19–21,” 721–30.

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1. At Mizpah 11 to hear the Levite and decide what course of action to take, which included the decision to engage in holy war and a vow before Yahweh not to give their wives in marriage to the Benjaminites (20:1–11; 21:1, 7, 18) 2. At Bethel to inquire of “God” (‫ )אלהים‬concerning the looming battle with Benjamin (20:18) 3. At an undisclosed place to inquire (this time with weeping) of “Yahweh” whether they should go to battle against Benjamin after their initial defeat (20:23) 4. At Bethel, with weeping, fasting and ritual offerings and with a Levitical priest presiding there before the Ark of the Covenant to ask Yahweh if they should go to battle or not (20:26–28) 5. At Bethel to lament over the near extermination of the Benjaminites, to perform ritual offerings, and to decide what should be done about the remaining 600 wifeless Benjaminites (21:1–22) 12 In addition to these references to cultic places/activities in chs. 19–21, the elders in the final gathering make mention of an annual “feast of Yahweh” (‫ )חג־יהוה‬at Shiloh (21:19). Block notes that the term ‫“ חג‬is a generic term for any periodic pilgrimage festival,” and he holds that the elders are referring to one of Israel’s three annual feasts (the Feast of Passover/Unleavened Bread, the Feast of Weeks, or the Feast of Tabernacles). 13 The fact that the note in Judg 18:31 indicates that the “house of God” (‫ )בית־האלהים‬was located in Shiloh during this time period lends support to the idea that this festival is one of the yearly festivals. If this is indeed the Festival of Tabernacles or one of the other annual feasts in Israel’s holy calendar then the narrator seems to be using this opportunity subtly to criticize the Israelites. First, the three major festivals required all male Israelites to make the pilgrimage to the central worship place to celebrate the feast. Clearly, the Israelite men are not on the pilgrimage because they are in Bethel trying desperately to figure out a way to circumvent their vow. 14 11.  Block, Judges, Ruth, 551, notes that “The phrase “before the Lord” indicates this place was recognized as a sanctuary where the community could meet with their divine Lord.” Later in the story, the narrator indicates that the Israelites had sworn an oath before Yahweh there at Mizpah (21:1, 7, 18). 12.  The last congregation likely met on at least two occasions. The first time they decide to attack Jabesh-Gilead and capture their virgins as wives for the remaining Benjaminites (21:1–11). When that failed to produce enough women, they met again to determine how to acquire 200 more wives for the Benjaminites (21:13–22). 13.  For the three feasts, see Deut 16:1–17 (cf. Exod 23:14–17; 34:18–23; Lev 23:4–44; Num 28:26). Wong holds that this feast is most likely the Feast of Tabernacles, most often referred to as ‫ ;חג־יהוה‬see Wong, Compositional Strategy of the Book of Judges, 74 n. 107. Younger and Butler assert that it may be a local festival but they agree that the reference may be to the Feast of Tabernacles (Younger points to the mention of the vineyard in 21:20 as support for this possibility); see Younger, Judges and Ruth, 382; and Butler, Judges, 463. 14.  Block, assuming the reference to the feast of Yahweh is indeed one of the three annual feasts in the Israelite calendar, thinks that the fact that the elders are not able to

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Second, when the elders explain to the people about the yearly feast at Shiloh the narrator includes their rather drawn out description regarding the location of Shiloh: “which is north of Bethel, east of the road that goes up from Bethel to Shechem, and north of Lebonah” (21:19). If the house of God is indeed in Shiloh as 18:31 indicates, then one would expect that all the Israelites would know precisely where it is and how to get there. However, the elders feel the need to provide specific directions to the location of Shiloh as though they expect that their audience may not know where it is. 15 Not only are the male Israelites absent from the yearly feast at the house of God but they do not even know how to get there! Finally, chs. 19–21 mention a number of worship places. The first mention of Mizpah in Judges happens in 20:1–11, which characterizes it as a sacred location. 16 Shiloh comes up for a second time in the book of Judges in 21:19–23, again as a center of cultic activity. Readers of Judges first encountered Shiloh as the seemingly legitimate cultic counterpart to the aberrant worship center in Dan (18:31). The privileged place of Shiloh is confusing given the narrator’s note in 20:27–28 which indicates that the Ark of the Covenant was in Bethel at that time, with Aaron’s grandson Phinehas presiding over it there. This is the only mention of the Ark in the whole of the book of Judges, unless some scholars are right that “the land” (‫ )הארץ‬in 18:30 ought to be emended to “the ark” (‫)הארון‬. 17 In either case, the Ark appears only in the end section. If the house of God is at Shiloh why are the Ark and the presiding priest situated at Bethel? What does the narrator’s late interest in cultic matters mean for the interpretation of Judges? In the foundational narratives, the Ark of the Covenant represents the symbolic presence of Yahweh with his people Israel. Having forged his relationship with Israel at Sinai and provided detailed instructions for Israel to prepare for and facilitate Yahweh’s presence among them, Yahweh’s presence fills the tabernacle. The cultic rituals and levitical duties prescribed in Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers are designed to orient the thought, practice and desires of Israel toward Yahweh and his redemptive work on their behalf. These orienting rituals touched on all aspects of life, right down to the very details of their public and private life. Deuteronomy is not only concerned with the key issue of cult centralization but also touches on the matters of sacrifice, priestly/levitical roles, ritual festivals, and so on. 18 articulate which specific feast it is gives the impression that they are ignorant of which feast it was, which is further evidence of their religious neglect and degeneration; see Block, Judges, Ruth, 580. 15.  Block holds that the elders themselves are having a difficult time fixing the location of Shiloh; ibid. 16.  This is not the same Mizpah where Jephthah made his pact with the Gileadites (11:11); ibid., 551. 17.  Contra ibid., 512–13. 18.  I am aware that traditional pentateuchal criticism regards the “Priestly” material as later than Deuteronomy, which may have implications for my argument here. How-

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In Judges, these cultic matters are almost completely missing. The virtual absence of proper cultic practice throughout the book of Judges may not be conspicuous until the emergence of cultic matters in the end section. For example, the first mention of the Ark and the presiding Levitical priest in 20:27–28 functions to remind readers of the significance of the Ark and raises the question as to why the Ark (not to mention the tabernacle) is not mentioned earlier in the book. Levitical and priestly functionaries are difficult to find in Judges apart from chs. 17–21. 19 For that matter, why do we not hear more of the various sacrifices, the yearly festivals, the sabbatical year, and so on? By bringing them into special focus at the end, the narrator identifies the vital aspects of Israelite religion and society that have been missing in the previous narratives, and thereby fingering one of the key problems in the settlement period: no sooner is Israel in the land than they abandoned the instructions of Yahweh. To summarize, although cultic matters arise at points previously in the narrative of Judges, the end section contains a concentration of circumstances and events that raise the issue of the cult in an unprecedented way. Here the reader gets exposure to several cultic locations (Dan, Mizpah, Bethel, and Shiloh) and a number of cultic practices (divine inquiry, lamentation, fasting, sacrifice, religious festival, and so on). Moreover, in the end section, the narrator introduces the reader of the book of Judges to a number­of firsts with regard to the cult: the first mention of the sacred location of Shiloh, the first reference to the Ark of the Covenant, and the first time the Israelites “offered burnt offerings and peace offerings” (‫ויעלו‬ ‫עלות וׁשלמים‬: 20:26; 21:4). If we are to take seriously the literary integrity of Judges, then we also have to take seriously the narrator’s interest in highlighting cultic matters in the end section in a way that, up until this point, the reader is not accustomed. As chapter two above indicates, endings do not always bring closure and sometimes they raise questions and/ or issues that may confuse readers or catch them off guard. Arguably, the emergence of cultic issues at the end of the book of Judges functions in this way. ever, following Kaufmann’s volume The Religion of Israel: From Its Beginnings to the Babylonian Exile in 1960, a number of scholars have made the case that P predates D; see Y. Kaufmann, The Religion of Israel, trans. M. Greenberg (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1960); A. Hurvitz, A Linguistic Study of the Relationship between the Priestly Source and the Book of Ezekiel (Paris: Gabalda, 1982); M. Weinfeld, “Social and Cultic Institutions in the Priestly Source against Their Ancient Near Eastern Background,” in Proceedings of the Eighth World Congress of Jewish Studies, Panel Session: Bible Studies and Hebrew Language ( Jerusalem: World Union of Jewish Studies, 1983), 95–129; J. G. McConnville, Law and Theology in Deuteronomy JSOTSup 33 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1984); M. Haran, Temples and Priestly Service in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Clarendon, 1978); J. Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, Anchor Bible 3 (New York: Doubleday, 1991); etc. 19.  See B. H. Matthews, “Looking for Levites in the Book of Judges,” Horizons in Biblical Theology 35 (2013): 136–50.

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4.4.  Kingship in Judges 17–21 The emergence of the notion of kingship, although in line with the theme of leadership, emerges in a surprising way in the end section and, in my view, also contributes to the strategy of entrapment. The issue of kingship surfaces in the end section primarily through the “no king in Israel refrain.” The refrain that appears at the beginning of the end section (17 :6), that constitutes the final words of the book (21:25), and that appears at key moments in the narratives in between (18:1 and 19:1) concerns leadership in the period of the judges: “In those days there was no king in Israel; everyone did what was right in his eyes.” With the repeated refrain echoing in one’s ears, the reader of Judges is left with the clear sense that what is wrong with the period of the judges has something to do with Israel’s lack of a king. By virtue of its repetition and placement, the refrain is certainly crucial for a proper understanding of the end section and arguably the book as a whole. But what precisely does this refrain mean in its literary and historical setting? The first appearance of the refrain occurs in 17:6, following the narrative of Micah and his mother. The purpose of the short account is to provide the origins of the objects in Micah’s shrine (i.e., the ephod and the teraphim). As mentioned earlier, this account borders on the absurd with a son stealing from his mother, his mother uttering a curse on the unknown thief and then blessing her son when he confesses, her dedication of the money to Yahweh only to commission the fashioning of idolatrous objects, and so on. The details and dialogues in Judg 17:1–5 seem rather gratuitous in terms of the overall purpose of chs. 17–18 (to provide the background for the establishment of the shrine in Dan), but as Amit notes, “the author was interested in presenting a large amount of material that would concretize the negative character of the period. . . . The reader thus becomes convinced of the accuracy of the negative statement that in this period each man did what was right in his own eyes.” 20 Immediately after narrating the fashioning of these cultic objects and their establishment in Micah’s shrine with his son standing in as a priest, the narrator punctuates the account with the refrain. In case the audience is not clear about the perversion of Micah’s shrine, the narrator clearly associates it with the period of anarchy: “There was no king in Israel; everyone did what was right in his/her own eyes.” The next time the refrain appears (albeit in truncated form) is after the circumstances that led to Micah securing a Levite to minister at the shrine as a priest. Micah’s absolute delight in obtaining what he thinks is a bona fide priest is almost comical if it were not so tragic. He states, “Now I know that Yahweh will do good to me because I have a Levite as a priest” (17:13). 20.  Amit, The Book of Judges, 323.

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A situation in which the hope of Yahweh’s blessing is placed in a rogue and opportunistic Levite attending at an idolatrous shrine is indicative of the spiritual depravity of this period in Israel’s history, a period which the narrator again reminds the readers is one in which “There was no king in Israel” (18:1). The refrain here in 18:1 also functions to introduce the narrative of the Danites’ migration north. The Danites’ theft of Micah’s shrine and his levitical priest, their devastating assault on the peaceful unsuspecting people of Laish, their settlement in the north and ultimately their establishment of the shrine in Dan, all contribute to the composite portrait of anarchy that the narrator is designing. The refrain appears at two more strategic points in the end section, namely, in truncated form at the inner frame and in full at the outer frame of the narratives of chs. 19–21 (19:1 and 21:25). Implied in the placement of the refrain is that the story of the rape and murder of the Levite’s concubine (ch. 19), the account of the Israelite council that leads to the panIsrael war against Benjamin (ch. 20), and the council’s plan to secure wives for the decimated Benjaminite tribesmen are all particular examples of the narrator’s more general characterization of the period as one of kinglessness. Like in chs. 17–18 these narratives provide what seems like a needless amount of detail (for example, the drawn-out encounter of the Levite with his concubine’s father, the repetitive and detailed account of the battles against the Benjaminites, and so on). Apparently, according to the narrator the devil is in the details of these narratives—or at the very least one is hard pressed to find Yahweh in there! In summary, the “no king in Israel” refrain appears in full near the beginning of the end section and at the very end and appears at two places in the middle of the end section in a truncated form, thus forming a chiastic structure: 21 A In those days there was no king in Israel; everyone did what was right in his own eyes (17:6). B In those days there was no king in Israel . . . (18:1). B′ In those days there was no king in Israeln . . . (19:1). A′ In those days there was no king in Israel; everyone did what was right in his own eyes (21:25). The events recorded here in the end section cohere, therefore, by means of the refrain and exemplify in specific events the narrator’s point about the time period more generally, namely, one during which anarchy and spiritual/moral individualism prevailed. Until this point, we have observed the structural function of the refrain in the end section but just what is the narrator advocating with the use and placement of the refrain? Amit rightly notes that this statement, deprived of context, is a neutral judgment that could be taken either positively or 21.  Webb, The Book of Judges, 419.

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negatively. However, the narrator’s mode of telling the story masterfully draws readers into the narrative so that when they reach the statement “in those days there was no king,” there is only one way to interpret it: that this particular time in the history of Israel, when they lacked a king, was a time of spiritual, social, and moral disorder. 22 The crucial question, however, is, are we to understand by this refrain that the author is proposing that the political constitution of monarchy is the answer to the disorder presented in Judges? At first glance, the refrain (in the context of chs. 17–21) does indeed seem to suggest that the mayhem in Israel (everyone doing what is right in their own eyes) was a result of Israel not having a king; consequently, with a king in place Israel can expect renewal and political rest. O’Connell exemplifies the view of many scholars when he notes, “kingship is implicitly endorsed as the means of attaining the covenant ideals of land occupation, intertribal covenant loyalty, social justice and adherence to the cult.” 23 This does appear to be the most obvious interpretation of the refrain, and yet a minority of scholars have proposed that the “king” in the refrain refers not to a human king but to Yahweh’s kingship. These scholars find the typical reading of the refrain problematic and have raised questions about its validity. 24 Wong raises several objections to the notion that the refrain is promoting human kingship. His first argument is that Abimelech’s short reign as king contradicts the statement that “in those days, there was no king in Israel.” This seems a minor point, and though I agree with Wong that the temporal marker “in those days” refers to the whole period of the judges, it is also defensible to argue that it refers only to the period portrayed in the end section. Wong’s second objection regards the portrayal of Abimelech’s royal rule. The Abimelech narrative does portray the only indisputable example of Israelite kingship in Judges, and the experiment with kingship is clearly a disaster. This combined with the Jotham fable has led many to see a strong anti-monarchic bias in the Abimelech narrative, which sits uneasily with the pro-monarchic sentiment in the refrain. Certainly, Abimelech’s experiment with kingship is a factor in understanding the view of kingship in the book of Judges, but even this piece of evidence does not rule out 22.  Amit, The Book of Judges, 324. Contra Niditch, who has her own unique understanding of the refrain. She regards it not as a condemnation of the violence and religious plurality of the judges period but rather as a nostalgic reflection on a more primitive time before cultic practice had become uniform; see S. Niditch, Judges: A Commentary, OTL (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2008), 180–82. 23.  O’Connell, The Rhetoric of the Book of Judges, 10. Though see S. Talmon, King, Cult, and Calendar in Ancient Israel: Collected Studies ( Jerusalem: Magnes, 1986), 44, 47–52, who argues that ‫ מלך‬in the refrain refers to the office of judge and not king. For a helpful round up of scholarly views on the refrain, see Butler, Judges, 383–85. 24.  This is not to say that these scholars are in the minority in seeing incongruity between the pro-monarchic sentiment in the end section and the apparent negative stance on kingship elsewhere in the book.

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understanding the refrain as pro-monarchic. Wong goes to some length (quite successfully I think) to show that Abimelech’s reign is cast in the most unfavorable light—his royal tyranny moving beyond the cruel kinds of kingship evident among the Canaanite nations. However, criticizing the actions of a bad monarch does not necessarily amount to rejecting monarchy in general. Even Jotham’s parable seems to be making a statement about the wrong kind of king and not kingship in principle (the trees do not choose one of their kind but the brambles to rule over them). 25 Oeste is right, in my opinion, when he notes that “Judg 9 targets a particular kind of leadership (self-styled ‘kings’) rather than the monarchy per se.” 26 The Abimelech narrative does seem to undermine the idea that the refrain in the end section is referring to human kingship in a way that Wong does not mention. In the Abimelech account, the narrator portrays an Israelite king engaging in a civil war against his own Israelite kin. As such, Abimelech’s actions would contradict the narrator’s implied claim in the end section that a civil war like the one against Benjamin could have been averted if Israel was governed by a king. In other words, Israel had a king in Abimelech and not only did he not prevent civil war, he instigated it. In Wong’s third argument, he maintains that in Israel’s history subsequent to the judges period, “one is hard pressed to find a Sitz im Leben in which an unqualified endorsement of the institution would make sense.” 27 Indeed, the period of the monarchy by and large presents the kings of Israel and Judah leading the people into and not out of the kinds of rebellion and apostasy portrayed in Judges. Block notes that “with the benefit of hindsight the narrator knows that the monarchy in Israel was largely responsible for the apostasy that led eventually to the demise of both Northern and Southern Kingdoms in the eighth and sixth centuries respectively.” 28 The abysmal track record of the kings makes it unlikely that anyone writing during or after the time of the kings would propose kingship as the answer to the woes in the judges period. 29 25.  See D. Janzen, “Gideon’s House as the ‫אטד‬: A Proposal for Reading Jotham’s Fable,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 74 (2012): 465–75, who puts forward an intriguing argument that in Jotham’s fable the “trees” asking the “brambles” to rule over them corresponds to Israel’s request to Gideon (and his house) to rule over them. 26.  G. K. Oeste, Legitimacy, Illegitimacy, and the Right to Rule: Windows on Abimelech’s Rise and Demise in Judges 9, LHBOTS 546 (New York: T&T Clark, 2011), 232. For a recent attempt to discern opposing views of monarchy in Judges see Kahn, “Shofetim: The Book of Judges: Anarchy vs. Monarchy,” Jewish Biblical Quarterly 44 (2016): 21–28. 27.  Wong, Compositional Strategy of the Book of Judges, 211. 28.  Block, Judges, Ruth, 483. He also notes in another place, “In the mind of the author, during this period Israel did not need a king to lead them into sin; they could all do so on their own” (59; see also 483–84). 29. On the dating of Judges and its reception in the Persian and Hellenistic period in Israel’s history, see Y. Amit, “The Book of Judges: Dating and Meaning,” in Homeland and Exile: Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honour of Bustenay Oded, ed. G. Galil, M. Geller and A. Millard, VTSup 130 (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 297–322; Y. Amit, “Who Was

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Finally, Wong raises the account of Gideon’s offer of kingship as evidence against seeing the refrain of the end section as promoting human kingship. Gideon’s rejection does have a bearing on the discussion in at least two ways. 30 First, Gideon’s rejection of the offer of hereditary kingship (albeit suspicious) does seem to offer “an implicit acknowledgment of Yhwh’s rightful kingship over Israel.” 31 I would go further and propose that this is being portrayed as the expected or appropriate position on divine kingship, which apparently is confirmed by the fact that in the narrative the Israelites accept Gideon’s reason. 32 Second, the overwhelming evidence suggests that Gideon in his actions (if not in his word) is portrayed as conducting himself as a king. One of his royal activities is to centralize worship in his hometown by setting up an idolatrous shrine that becomes a snare to him and to all of Israel. This activity is eerily similar to the shrine that Micah sets up in his house. Moreover, like his son Abimelech, Gideon engages in military action against his fellow Israelites (8:4–17). Thus, at the center of the book of Judges, the narrator presents two examples of kingship at work, and in each case their negative actions are actions that reappear in the end section as exemplifying the negative results of a state of kinglessness in Israel—the setting up of an idolatrous shrine (Gideon) and engaging in battle against fellow Israelites (Gideon and Abimelech). The inconsistency is glaring, and it seems we are left to conclude that either these chapters (with the refrain) are later additions and that the editor responsible for the additions was ignorant of the conInterested­in the Book of Judges in the Persian-Hellenistic Periods?” in Deuteronomy–Kings as Emerging Authoritative Books: A Conversation, ed. D. V. Edelman, Ancient Near East Monographs 6 (Atlanta: SBL, 2014), 103–14. Butler, Judges, lxxiv, Butler identifies four pockets in Israel’s history when the unified book of Judges could conceivably have been composed. For Butler, Judges could be: (1) An exilic/postexilic document looking to a new brand of kingship in the future; (2) a book opposing the non-Israelite kingship of Manasseh; (3) a book involved in the dispute between Rehoboam and Jeroboam as the kingdom split; (4)  a book looking forward to kingship for the first time in Israel and involved in the Saul/Ishbosheth rivalry with David. Butler rules out the first option on the basis that by the Exile Israel had experienced the judgment for their continual apostasy and had overcome their propensity to paganism. He also thinks the second option is unlikely because a compositional setting in the time of Manasseh does not account for the anti-Ephraim bias in Judges. Butler regards the fourth option as a strong possibility, but in the end the theory that best makes sense to Butler is option three. Butler writes, “Thus, the working hypothesis of this commentary is that Judges represents an artful narration of the period of the Judges for an audience experiencing the opening years of the divided monarchy and having to decide which king to follow and which sanctuary to recognize as the true center of worship. The writer of Judges obviously places Judah first and condemns Bethel and Dan—and the entire northern kingdom with them—because of their idolatrous worship” (ibid., lxxiv). 30.  The first is essentially what Wong argues from the Gideon account. The second is my own addition to Wong’s argument. 31.  Wong, Compositional Strategy of the Book of Judges, 214. 32.  This is not to say that divine kingship is indeed incompatible with human kingship, as Gideon suggests.

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tradiction, or that another interpretation of the refrain exists that make sense of this inconsistency. Although the above arguments against understanding the refrain as promoting human kingship may not be altogether conclusive, they do raise some doubt about the validity of this interpretation of the refrain. Some scholars do not take seriously the claim that the refrain is referring to Yahweh’s kingship because they hold that the conception of Yahweh’s kingship emerged in Israel’s intellectual/theological history only subsequent to the rise of monarchy in Israel. 33 To settle the issue of the emergence of Yahweh’s kingship in Israel’s history—a subject which Marc Zvi Brettler considers to be “among the most overworked topics in biblical research” 34—is well beyond the scope of this volume. In actual fact, the argument for understanding the refrain as referring to Yahweh’s kingship does not depend on a pre-monarchic emergence of the notion of the kingship of Yahweh. Attributing the degeneration of Israel to their rejection of Yahweh as king may represent the perspective of an author/editor who lived after the rise of monarchy and who was trying to make sense of the judges period. An early interpretation of the judges period understands the period in just this way. In 1 Sam 8:1–9, the Israelites request a king so they can be like the other nations. When Samuel becomes upset because of their request, Yahweh indicates that their rebellious behavior from the time of their redemption from Egypt all the way through the period of the judges amounts to their rejection of Yahweh as king over them (v. 7). This interpretation of the settlement period by the author of Samuel (by the words of Yahweh himself) coheres well with understanding the refrain in the end section of Judges as a rejection of Yahweh’s kingship. Understanding the refrain as referring to Yahweh’s kingship makes much more sense in light of the overall aims and purposes of the book as a whole. The crisis in Israel “in those days” was not merely that they lacked a king but that they lacked a divine standard of morality. Micah and his mother violate no less than five of the Ten Commandments. 35 Comparing the refrain of the end section with that of the cycle is most illuminating in 33.  Amit, The Book of Judges, 97 n. 69. Amit notes that in the wake of Wellhausen the majority of critical scholars hold that the notion of the kingdom/kingship of God arose after the rise of monarchy as a criticism of the institution. Others hold that the evidence supports the emergence of the notion of Yahweh’s kingship much earlier in Israel’s history. Amit (ibid.) provides a helpful consolidation of viewpoints on this issue. In his now-classic book Kingship of God, Buber aims to reevaluate the biblical notion of divine kingship. He argues from a textual and historical perspective that the understanding of Yahweh’s kingship predates the monarchy and is evident in kingship vocabulary and phrasing in some of the earliest biblical texts; see M. Buber, Kingship of God, trans. R. Scheimann (New York: Harper & Row, 1967). Buber argues that it is entirely plausible that the desire for Yahweh’s kingship in Israel emerged early in Israel’s history. For a more recent argument along these lines, see Wong, Compositional Strategy of the Book of Judges, 212–14 34.  M. Z. Brettler, God Is King: Understanding an Israelite Metaphor, JSOTSup 76 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1989), 13. 35.  McCann, Judges, 120.

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this regard. Although the word order varies, repeatedly the narrator reports that “The children of Israel did evil in the eyes of Yahweh” (3:7, 12; 4:1; 6:1; 10:6; 13:1; several times in conjunction with the verb ‫)יסף‬. The events in the end section complete the downward spiral that began in chs. 3–16. The author seems to be making a subtle but clear point. The divine standard has been eclipsed in such a way that doing what is good in one’s own eyes (‫ )היׁשר בעיניו‬far outweighs resisting what is evil in Yahweh’s eyes (‫הרע בעיני‬ ‫)יהוה‬. As Wilson notes, the first formula “concerns moral action assessed in the eyes of Yahweh as evil,” the second formula “concerns moral action assessed in the eyes of the Israelites as right. The contrast is striking.” 36 Thus, the second part of the refrain confirms the first: Israel’s divine king was no longer setting the standard for behavior in the realm but rather each act of wrongdoing represents the treasonous action of individual usurpers. Although the emergence of the notion of Yahweh’s leadership at the end of Judges comes as something of a surprise, it does cohere in retrospect with the general thrust of the book and Israel’s experience. Leaders and leadership models emerge and recede in the long history of Israel’s story. The one thing that Israel was called not to forget is the history and nature of their relationship with Yahweh. 37 That relationship is framed at Sinai and on the plains of Moab according to the contract between a king and his redeemed subjects. No form of human government would be sufficient to solve Israel’s woes if they remain in rebellion against their rightful divine king. 38 Boling notes the “intense critical pursuit of the relationship between the treaty forms (especially those of the great Hittite kings in the Late Bronze Age) and Israel’s early narrative forms,” reveals that “the Sinai covenant (and the Shechem sequel at the conclusion of the ‘conquest’ in Josh 24) casts Yahweh in the role of Suzerain, Great King, King of Kings, so that every man confessing faith in Yahweh becomes thereby a citizen of Israel and one of Yahweh’s freed kings. In other words, Israel is the nucleus of the earthly half of the kingdom of Yahweh.” 39 The covenant provides the 36. M. K. Wilson, “‘As You Like It’: The Idolatry Of Micah and the Danites ( Judges 17–18),” Reformed Theological Review 54 (1995): 74. Cf. V. Endris, “Yahweh versus Baal: A Narrative-Critical Reading of the Gideon/Abimelech Narrative,” JSOT 33 (2008): 193–95. 37.  See the similarities here to the conclusions that Olson comes to in D. T. Olson, “Buber, Kingship, and the Book of Judges: A Study of Judges 6–9 and 17–21,” in David and Zion, ed. B. F. Batto and K. L. Roberts (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2004), 199–218. 38.  Niditch maintains that the final editor of Judges was ambivalent with regard to the kind of political government Israel should adopt. She notes, Judges “does not conclude with a simple message in favor of one or another political model, but rather in its rich presentation of tradition allows the alternatives to present themselves”; see S. Niditch, “Historiography, ‘Hazards,’ and the Study of Ancient Israel,” Interpretation 57 (2003): 148. 39.  Boling, Judges, 24. Moltz maintains that the image of God as shepherd/king that appears elsewhere in the biblical literature is what is needed in Judges, but that the dominant picture is one of God as the neglectful teacher and overlord. Thus, according to Motlz, “Perhaps, had He been husband or father and had put in place either the closeness of a marriage or the tenderness of a parent for a child, the people would not have strayed.

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framework of Israel’s existence as the earthly manifestation of the kingdom of Yahweh. The covenant stipulations are clearly not limited to the cultic realm but touched on every dimension of the lives of Yahweh’s subjects— from the social realm to agricultural practice, and everything in between. According to this understanding of reality, Yahweh’s kingship has implications for Israel’s political governance, although it seems that the actual form of political leadership is an open question. Niditch comes to the conclusion that “There is no consistent, heavy-handed polemic in Judges, proor anti-monarchic. . . . The book of Judges offers a complex and ambivalent view of kingship that acknowledges its role in Israelite polity without endorsing it or propagandizing in favor of the monarchy.” 40 A similar view appears at other places in biblical literature. For example, Israel’s request for a human king in 1 Sam 8 is not problematic by virtue of the type of leadership they desired; after all, Deuteronomy makes provision for the rise of monarchy (Deut 17:14–20). The motivation of Israel in demanding a king is what makes their request so tragic: in their desire to be “like the nations” (1 Sam 8:5; 20) Israel had “rejected” Yahweh as king over them (1 Sam 8:7). Israel was called to be a distinct people under the reign of Yahweh, and thus their request for a king like the other nations was a clear breach of the covenant and indicative of a gross misunderstanding of their calling. Is it possible to detect a similar understanding of the covenant and the consequent kingship of Yahweh in the book of Judges? Boling notes that the Sinai covenant provides the “background” to the book of Judges, 41 so that between the chronicle of the successful conquest of the land under Joshua and the portrayal of David’s reign, “we are to apprehend the judges stories as stemming from the daily reality of ancient Israel’s struggle for survival in Canaan—a struggle for survival as Yahweh’s very real historical Kingdom.” 42 By the end of the book, the reader is left with the sense, however, that they have rejected Yahweh as king. The narratives in the end section, structured by means of the “no king in Israel” refrain, make this point loud and clear, thus bringing the theme of leadership to its completion As it was, they bowed down time-and-again to sculpted things, only to descend into anarchy. Thus did the King of Kings fail as overlord” (p. 19); H. Moltz, “Story and Plot in the Book of Judges,” Interpretation 30.1 (2002): 3–19. 40. S. Niditch, “Judges, Kingship and Political Ethics: A Challenge to the Conventional Wisdom,” in Thus Says the Lord: Essays on the Former and Latter Prophets in Honor of Robert R. Wilson, ed. J. J. Ahn and S. L Cook, LHBOTS 502 (New York: T&T Clark, 2009), 70. For an examination of Judges for its political instruction, see D. J. Elazar, “The Book of Judges: The Israelite Tribal Federation and Its Discontents,” Interpretation: A Journal of Political Philosophy 23.3 (1996): 339–59. 41.  Ibid. Again, Boling notes, “There can no longer be any doubt that early Israel made a sharp and deliberate, revolutionary break with the political and religious past. “Israel” was a unique and novel religious entity, a bold political experiment, and was evaluated as such by those who compiled her history. For they evaluated the history of the covenant people in the light of the Suzerain’s lawsuit” (p. 27). 42.  Ibid., 29.

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but in a surprising way. Thus, it is the endorsement of divine kingship that emerges in the end section, contributing to the strategy of entrapment. So the solution, I would argue, presented in the end section to the woes of the period of the judges is not centralized, more stable and stronger leadership but an acknowledgement of Yahweh’s reign and praxis that coheres with Yahweh’s kingship. Leveraging the work of Mayes, 43 Gillmayr-Bucher notes, “The king is not a reliable solution per se, but if a king is able to implement the cultic and ethical requirements of the law, then a king offers a solution.” 44 The mode of leadership was not the problem to be solved by a better kind of leadership. Rather, the infidelity of the Israelites with regard to their divine king was ultimately their problem, and until that got sorted out no amount of political reform would turn the tide. The logic of the argument for Yahweh’s kingship is implicit. The end section demonstrates the completion of the spiritual, social, and moral degeneration of Israel and associates this with Israel’s failure to submit to the kingship of Yahweh via the refrain.

4.5.  Kingship of Yahweh, Cult, and the Strategy of Entrapment Is it possible to draw a connection between the belated interested in Yahweh’s kingship and the belated interest in cultic issues? Whereas the narrator’s interest in cult is deeply embedded in the narratives of chs. 17–21, his concern for Yahweh’s kingship punctuates these narratives in a way that creates a gap in the reading, which readers should struggle to reconcile. 45 The notion of Yahweh’s kingship brings completion to themes and motifs running through the narrative of Judges (albeit in a somewhat unexpected way), but the narrator could be drawing a subtle connection between the kingship of Yahweh and these matters of cult by bringing them into focus in a new way in the end section. Although my interpretation of the refrain differs from O’Connell’s understanding (that is, that it is promoting the legitimacy of human kingship and particularly Davidic kingship), his identification of the rhetorical strategy at work in the end section (what he refers to as the double dénouement) is extremely insightful. He detects some of the key ideas that emerge only in the end section and rightly asks how these ideas function within the overall aims of the book despite not appearing earlier in the book: First, how does the controlling purpose of the book . . . presented separately in Judges’ prologue and superimposed in its body, relate to the 43.  A. D. H. Mayes, “Deuteronomistic Royal Ideology in Judges 17–21,” Biblical Interpretation 9.3 (2001): 241–58. 44. S. Gillmayr-Bucher, “Memories Laid to Rest: The Book of Judges in the Persian Period,” in Deuteronomy–Kings as Emerging Authoritative Books: A Conversation, ed. D. V. Edelman, Ancient Near East Monographs 6 (Atlanta: SBL, 2014), 128. 45.  On gaps, see Sternberg, The Poetics of Biblical Narrative, 186–263.

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monarchist refrain repeated in the double dénouement (17:6; 18:1; 19:1; 21:25)? Second, why do both the stories feature a Levite and finish with reference to Shiloh (18:31; 21:12–24) in spite of the fact that neither Levites nor Shiloh have been mentioned previously in Judges? Third, why is the ark of Yhwh mentioned only in 20:27 and perhaps 18:30b despite the many “holy wars” of the book? 46

O’Connell then identifies in these anomalies a literary strategy: This “dénouement,” rather than unraveling the complications of the book’s intriguing design, only entangles the reader with the need to make a reassessment of the first impression and binds upon the reader the conviction that he or she has been subjected to a rhetorical strategy of entrapment. . . . The introduction of these complications in chs. 17–21 invites the reader to reassess Judges’ central section (3:7–16:31) to discern how it might cohere with a belated interest in both kingship and cult centre­. This rhetorical strategy, by which the compiler/redactor withheld essential information until the dénouement, seems to have been designed to entrap the reader into a premature assessment of Judges’ hero stories so as to invite a retroactive reassessment of the book’s characters (if not of the reader’s perceptions of leadership in Israel). From a rhetorical perspective, it may be the “incongruity” of Judges’ thematic concerns that offers the best clue to its overall strategy. 47

This strikes me as a creative and sophisticated understanding of the strategy of the ending of Judges, especially in light of the discussion in ch. two (above) on narrative composition and the role of endings in narrative. It is helpful because it avoids some unhelpful tendencies in Old Testament interpretation. On the one hand, it resists the tendency of attributing the apparent “problems” of chs. 17–21 to multiple authorship/editorship. 48 On the other hand, it does not flatten out the tension by explaining it away. Rather, O’Connell discerns a rhetorical strategy which emerges by means of the apparent incongruity between the ending (chs. 17–21) and the beginning (1:1–3:6) and middle (3:7–16:31). 49 O’Connell’s understanding of the emergence of kingship and cult in chs. 17–21 as a strategy of entrapment fits well with the discussion on the temporal ordering of Judges. 50 In the next chapter, I will argue that the book is designed in such a way that the events of the end of the book 46.  O’Connell, The Rhetoric of the Book of Judges, 6. 47.  Ibid., 6–7. 48.  Of course multiple sources may underlay the present book of Judges, as O’Connell willingly acknowledges. However, this approach seems to give priority to the book of Judges as a coherent discourse and proceeds to interpret it as such. 49.  This is reminiscent of Bartholomew’s approach to Ecclesiastes, which resists the tendency to flatten out the tension between the so-called carpe diem passages and the joy passages, but sees a deliberate rhetorical strategy at work, namely, contradictory juxtaposition. See Bartholomew, Reading Ecclesiastes; and Bartholomew, Ecclesiastes. 50. This feature of Judges has already been discussed in brief in ch. 2 above and is explored in detail in the next chapter.

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happened very early in the temporal period, which the book as a whole represents. This creates a sense of disorientation because the narrator has raised the expectation that as the period of the judges wore on, the Israelites slid further and further into apostasy and sin. This initial expectation is seemingly confirmed when we arrive at chs. 17–21 and encounter some of the most debased behaviour yet . . . but only seemingly confirmed. The shock comes when the narrator implies at the end of the first narrative (18:30) and then again in the second narrative (20:28) that this infidelity and debauchery took place very early—in the time period represented in the beginning of the book! This requires the same kind of reassessment that O’Connell indicates here with regard to the issues of cult and kingship. In other words, the period of judges is not one of a steady moral and spiritual decline on the part of Israel as we may have expected from the design of the book up to the end section. The end section idicates that Israel’s corruption was deeply rooted very early on in the period. This, I suggest, should prompt the question, how can this be? What could have caused the corruption demonstrated in chs. 17–21 to have taken place only two generations from Moses and Aaron? If we take seriously the book of Judges as a coherent discourse and the end section as the literary ending of the narrative of Judges, then we would be drawn to conclude that the corruption of Israel, as demonstrated in the book and particularly in the end section, has something to do with Israel’s failure to submit to Yahweh’s kingship and their failure with regard to cultic practice. The two of course are interrelated. Both the Sinai covenant and the deuteronomic covenant strongly associate the kingship of Yahweh (via the vassal treaty form) with social justice, cultic order, and so on. The Levitical priesthood and the cultic regulations spelled out in the covenant were meant to facilitate the worship and reign of Yahweh among the Israelites and, when necessary, to repair breaches in the covenant. In the end section of Judges, not only is Israel’s cultic practice perverted but Levites are propagating false worship. The ending of Judges, therefore, is a deliberate call to covenantal renewal. Block’s understanding of the theme of Judges as the Canaanization of Israel in the period of the settlement is indeed correct with one caveat: the effective Canaanization occurred the moment they rejected Yahweh as their king, a tragic event that the end section demonstrates happened very early in the period. The tragedy of Judges is that all the promises of the Abrahamic covenant are complete—Israel is a great nation, they have the relationship of blessing with Yahweh and they are now in the land ( Josh 23:14) 51—and they are poised to fulfil their calling to be that kingdom of priests and the holy nation (Exod 19:6). Rather than being holy and set apart, the Israelites desire more than anything to be like the nations that they were called to bless by being distinct from them. This is confirmed 51. See Clines, The Theme of the Pentateuch.

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when in 1 Samuel Israel asks Samuel to appoint them a king so they can be like the surrounding nations. A new leader or a new form of leadership will not be sufficient to remedy Israel’s instability, intertribal conflict, social injustice, cultic abnormality, immorality, and so on. All of these are merely symptoms of the malady of Israel’s rejection of their ultimate king, Yahweh.

4.6.  The Strategy of Entrapment: Conclusion This chapter has identified and examined a third strategy of ending in the book of Judges, namely, the strategy of entrapment. According to this strategy of ending, the narrator raises in the end section new ideas or topics or presents subjects in a new way that provokes a reevaluation of the narrative as a whole. Rhetorically, these new issues raised in the end section are of utmost significance as they are arguably the point of the whole narrative. In Judges, at least two subjects of interest emerge in the end section as either new or as presented in a concerted or fresh way. The narrator highlights cultic matters anew. Cultic places and practices permeate the end section, and a number of cultic dimensions particular to Israelite worship and practice emerge only in the end section (for example, Levitical priesthood, the Ark of the Covenant, annual feasts, and Shiloh as the center of worship). Moreover, the “no king in Israel” refrain, punctuating the narratives of the end section, roots Israel’s deviant behavior in chs. 17–21 in their rejection of Yahweh as their rightful king. The emphasis on cultic matters and Yahweh’s kingship prompts a reevaluation of the Israelites’ situation regarding their worship practice and indeed the covenantal framework in which they received instructions regarding worship. Obedience to the instructions of the covenant and submission to the divine king are precisely what is lacking throughout the whole narrative of Judges. Indeed, “We expect endings, much more than beginnings, to show what the story was about, what special effect was to be achieved.” 52 The final word in Judges is one of Israel’s rejection of Yahweh and of their departure from the terms of his covenant relationship with them. The problem of the period of the judges is not that Israel just needed political stability and a more consistent, centralized form of leadership. They already had a king, Yahweh, and until they repaired their relationship with him by means of covenant renewal and fidelity they would continue to spiral out of control. This emerges as one of the central aims of Judges if we take chs. 17–21 seriously as the literary ending of the book. 52.  Bonheim, The Narrative Modes, 118; as quoted in the introduction to this volume.

Chapter Five

Narrative Temporality and the Strategy of Ending in Judges 5.1. Introduction As we recall from the discussion of Ricoeur’s narrative theory, the temporal dimension of narrative is a complex but vital aspect of emplotment. The configuration of actions and events into a complete narrative often results in patterns of time that do not necessarily correspond to the sequential unfolding of time in reality. The careful reader of Judges will observe that the book does not follow a linear chronology. Bal notes that commentators on Judges have found the striving for chronological coherence irresistible, though she argues that it wrongly attempts to establish a coherence that is alien to the book. 1 She suggests that “the chronology of the period of the judges is not only impossible to construct, but that the very attempt to do so reveals both a desire to avoid the book’s crucial issues and a blindness to the possibility of a nonchronological form of historiography.” 2 Ricoeur’s understanding of narrative temporality in general validates Bal’s basic point with regard to Judges in particular, namely, that the nonlinear chronology of the book does not necessarily imply narrative disunity. This is not to say that chronology is unimportant in Judges. Attention to chronos reveals that the way a narrative reconfigures time is significant. We should expect no less from the book of Judges. This chapter focuses on the temporal dimension of Judges and what significance that has for understanding the composition and purpose of the book. The chapter will unfold as such: the first section will reexamine the contours of the book with special attention to temporal shifts and sequence. This reexamination will reveal that the end section presents a glaring temporal anomaly. The second section will scrutinize this anomaly to determine whether it is incidental 1. M. Bal, Death and Dissymmetry: The Politics of Coherence in the Book of Judges, Chicago Studies in the History of Judaism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988), 13. 2. Ibid., 169; cf. Butler, Judges, lxvi. I think Bal somewhat overstates the case. The attempt to construct the chronology of the period is a perfectly legitimate pursuit and in itself does not necessarily reveal an inherent desire to avoid the issues of the book. Bal is correct, however, that the attempt to seek unity on the basis of a linear chronology is doomed to fail because it will result in either rearranging the book (cf. Josephus) or excising parts of the book that do not follow a linear chronology.

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to the narrative composition of Judges or if it exposes a more profound rhetorical function. This section will provide evidence to suggest a deeper purpose at work in the temporal dimension of chs. 17–21. The third and final section of the chapter will offer some suggestions as to the rhetorical function of the temporal feature of the end section. This discussion will be enhanced by observing how nonlinearity can function in narratives in general and by considering other examples of biblical narratives that deviate from a linear presentation of chronology (especially at the end).

5.2.  Temporal Configuration in the Composition of Judges The general lack, with a few exceptions, of specific chronological markers­ in Judges has not prevented many scholars from attempting to determine the chronology of the period represented in the book. To find in the major commentaries a section dealing with the “chronological problem” associated with Judges is commonplace. 3 The note in 1 Kgs 6:1 contributes to the “problem” because it states that the period from the exodus to the building of the temple amounts to 480 years. Reconciling this number with the number of years indicated in Judges is anything but straightforward. 4 Although one gets a sense of chronological succession from one judge to the next and although the narrative indicates the length of a judge’s rule or the number of years the land had rest (3:11; 4:30; 5:31; 8:28; 10:2, 3; 12:7, 9, 11; 16:31), these temporal references are relative and are not fixed to a specific time in history. 5 Outside Judges, biblical narratives tend to fix events to specific points in history in a number of ways, whether with reference to the reign of a foreign or domestic king (Dan 7:1 and 1  Kgs 15:9–10, respectively), a significant event (1 Kgs 6:1), a particular day or 3.  See, for example, Butler, Judges, lxiv–lxvi ; J. A. Soggin, Judges, A Commentary, 6–11; Boling, Judges, 23–24; Moore, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Judges, xxxvii–xlii; Burney, Judges, l–liv. See also the solution offered in E. A. Schatz, “The Length of Rule of Joshua and the Periods of Subjugation in the Book of Judges,” Jewish Biblical Quarterly 41 (2013): 32–34. 4.  Butler, Judges, lxiv–lxv. Though some scholars have argued that it is possible to reconcile the 480 years with the textual evidence. For example, see the proposals in G. Galil, “The Chronological Framework of the Deuteronomistic History,” Biblica 85 (2004): 413– 21; D. Faiman, “Chronology in the Book of Judges,” Jewish Biblical Quarterly 21 (1993): 31–40; A. E. Steinmann, “The Mysterious Numbers of the Book of Judges,” JETS 48 (2005): 491–500; R. B. Chisholm Jr., “The Chronology of the Book of Judges: A Linguistic Clue to Solving a Pesky Problem,” JETS 52 (2009): 247–55. See also the further exchange between Steinmann and Chrisholm in a subsequent issue of JETS: A. E. Steinmann, “Literary Clues in Judges: A Response to Robert Chisholm,” JETS 48 (2005): 365–73; R. B. Chisholm Jr., “In Defense of Paneling as a Clue to the Chronology of Judges: A Critique of Andrew Steinmann’s Reply,” JETS 53 (2010): 375–82. 5.  For this reason, Washburn attempts to construct a relative chronology; see D. L. Washburn, “The Chronology of Judges: Another Look,” BSAC 147 (1990): 414–25. See also the helpful tables, including a proposal for a relative chronology, regarding the issue of chronology in Judges in Butler, Judges, 487–90.

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month (Num 1:1) or some other way. For example, in the books of Kings, a king’s reign is connected to a specific point in time (for example, “In the eighteenth year of king Jeroboam the son of Nebat, Abijam began to reign over Judah,” 1 Kgs 15:1; see also 1 Kgs 15:9, 33; 16:8, 15, 29; 22:41, 51, and so on). This makes constructing the chronology of the book relatively easy. In the book of Judges, however, this type of consistent temporal referencing is absent. This is not to say that the narrative of Judges has absolutely no concrete temporal markers. Indeed, the opening words (1:1) fix the events of the book to a particular historical context: “after the death of Joshua.” However, already in the two-part prologue (1:1–2:5; 2:6–3:6), the events do not follow chronologically: the events surrounding the various battles reported in 1:1–2:5 follow the note about Joshua’s death in 1:1, whereas 2:6 begins “after Joshua dismissed the Israelites.” 6 In terms of chronology, the second part of the prologue is significant because it references two generations. The first is the generation who served Yahweh during the lifetime of Joshua and the elders after him, namely, those who had seen Yahweh’s redemption of his people from Egypt (2:6–7). The second emerges when the first generation is gone. This second generation forsook the God of their fathers (2:10–15). The rest of this part of the prologue identifies the cyclical pattern that characterized this period in Israel’s history and that structures the core section of the book (3:7–16:31). Within the core section of the book (3:7–16:31), the best one can do is to construct when certain events took place from the scant historical details that the narratives provide. For example, the account of Othniel initiates the cycle of the judges. His involvement in the conquest as recounted in the prologue ( Judg 1:11–15) implies that he is one of the earliest judges; thus, from a chronological perspective, the choice to start the cycles with him seems fitting. 7 On the other hand, the Samson account, although appearing at the end of the judges cycles (13:1–16:31), seems also to have taken place very early in this period. We can deduce this by comparing the story of the migration of the Danites from the south to the north in chs. 17–18 with the narrative of Samson. Judges 18 recounts the migration and settlement of the Danites in the north. Taking the generational note in 18:30 seriously suggests that this took place very early in the period of the judges—only two generations from Moses. References to Timnah (14:1) and Gaza (16:1) situate the events of Samson’s life in the tribal allotment of Dan in the south, presumably before the Danite migration north. If the events of Samson took place earlier than the migration of the Danites nar6. M. J. Boda, “Judges,” in Numbers–Ruth, ed. T. Longmann III and D. E. Garland, Expositor’s Bible Commentary, rev. ed., vol. 2 (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2012), 1051. 7.  Block, Judges, Ruth, 150. That is not to say that the placement of Othniel’s account at the beginning of the judges cycle does not serve other rhetorical purposes.

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rated in Judg 18, then the events recounted in the Samson narrative were very early indeed. 8 To complicate the matter of chronology in 3:7–16:31 further, the text seems to give evidence that at least some of the judges may have been contemporaries and that the period of their deliverance may have happened simultaneously but in different geographical locations. For example, a reference in the Song of Deborah implies that Shamgar was a contemporary of Deborah (5:6). 9 Specific temporal references are also generally lacking in the end section, though the exceptions are notable. The first type is a vague use of temporal reference that appears in several places throughout chs. 17–21. The refrain in 17:6; 18:1; 19:1; 21:25 (see also 20:27 and 28) temporally frames the events of chs. 17–21 “in those days.” Of course such general references require specific temporal reference to fix “those days” to a particular point in historical time. As such, the second type of temporal reference in the end section is significant for reconstructing a chronology of the period. The reference to Moses’ grandson Jonathan in 18:30 places the events of chs. 17–18 around the time of the generation immediately subsequent to Joshua mentioned in Judg 2:10–15. The only other clear temporal reference in the end section refers to this same generation. 10 Judges 20:28 identifies Phinehas the son of Eleazar, son of Aaron, as the priest who was serving at the time of the atrocity at Gibeah and the ensuing civil war (chs. 19–21). Thus, the events in the two distinct parts of the end section (chs. 17–18 and 19–21) happened around the same time. 11 The fact that the only clear temporal indicators in the ending of the book refer to the same generation and that they refer to a point early in the period depicted in Judges has implications for understanding the composition of the book and so will receive due attention below. But first it may be helpful to sketch in a summary fashion the contours of the temporal construction of Judges. What follows is an outline of the book of Judges in order based on temporal shifts, with each shift receiving a letter designation. The purpose of this exercise is to understand better the unique way the author/editor of Judges has reconfigured time in the narrative of Judges. The first line of Judges indicates a time after the death of Joshua (1:1, which I designate A). 8.  In his “relative chronology” Butler places Samson before Ehud, Jephthah, Gideon, Abimelech and the events of chs. 17–18 and 19–21; see Butler, Judges, 490. See also Boda, “Judges,” 1051–52. 9. Ibid.,1051. 10.  Calling these “temporal references” may not be the most precise way of referring to them. They are, however, references that, among other things, fix the events in chs. 17–21 to a particular generation and thus a particular time frame. 11.  This observation has a long tradition. See G. Aranoff, “The Connection between the Idol of Micah and the Concubine at Gibeah: A Rabbinic View,” Jewish Biblical Quarterly 41 (2013), 79, who notes in regard to the rabbinic view of the two narratives (chs. 17–18 and chs. 19–21): “The Sages regarded the two episodes as being connected and in close chronological proximity to each other.”

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Second, the battle reports in 1:2–2:5 took place presumably while Joshua was still alive and before he dismissed the people to their tribal inheritances (designated as B). 12 Third, the narrator announces Joshua’s dismissal of the people and indicates that the Israelites served Yahweh faithfully until the deaths of Joshua and the elders who outlived him (2:6–7). Then the narrative reports Joshua’s death and the perishing of the generation who had seen the great work of Yahweh for his people (2:8–10a: C). Another generation emerges who were ignorant of Yahweh (2:10b: D). The next element in the sequence of the narrative is the paradigmatic summary of the cycle of the Judges (2:11–3:6: E). This summary is a prolepsis, anticipating the basic contours of the narratives in the core section of the book (3:6– 16:31). 13 The narratives in the core section in their sequence are Othniel, Ehud, Shamgar, Deborah/Barak/Jael, Gideon/Abimelech, Tola, Jair, Jephthah, Abdon, Ibzan, Elon, and Samson. Although the narrative gives a semblance of chronological sequence from one account to the next, the text rarely provides clear temporal markers, making the task of reconstructing precisely the chronology of 3:7–16:31 difficult, if not impossible. Without making any judgments regarding their sequence, I will designate the nine accounts of the judges as F1–10. The events in the two parts of the end section of Judges—the story of Micah and the Danites (chs. 17–18: G) and the story of the Levite, his concubine and the civil war (chs. 19–21: H)—took place very early in the period, that is, only two generations from Moses and Aaron (18:30 and 20:28). In summary, the overall temporal structure of the book based upon narrative sequence (that is, how they unfold in the text of Judges) would look something like this: A.  After the death of Joshua (1:1) B.  Israel’s battles against the Canaanites (1:2–2:7) C.  The death of Joshua and the generation that had witnessed Yahweh’s work (2:8–10a) D.  The generation that was ignorant of Yahweh (2:10b) E.  The proleptic summary of the judges cycle (2:11–3:6) F1–10.  The series of judges cycles and the minor judges (3:7–16:31) G.  Micah and the Danites (chs. 17–18) H.  The Levite and his concubine and the civil war (chs. 19–21) 12.  As mentioned earlier, these events may, as some scholars argue, represent Israel’s military activity after Joshua’s death (a type of mop-up campaign) subsequent to the initial conquest under the leadership of Joshua. See Butler, Judges, 12; Webb, The Book of Judges, 91. 13.  It is difficult to differentiate precisely the narrative temporality of D and E. The cycle of the judges begins with the generation that was ignorant of Yahweh and his mighty works on behalf of Israel. The basic narratives that follow must feature a subsequent number­of later generations. For simplicity’s sake, I designate the whole of the paradigmatic cycle as E, while at the same time acknowledging that (1) there is some overlap with D and (2) E will cover several generations, though the exact number may be impossible to determine.

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If we were to rearrange this list according to a chronological sequence the order would be: 1. B. Israel’s battles against the Canaanites (1:2–2:6) 2. C. The Death of Joshua and the generation that had witnessed Yahweh’s work (2:8–10a) 3. A. After the death of Joshua (1:1) D. The generation that were ignorant of Yahweh (2:10b) G. Micah and the Danites (chs. 17–21) H. The Levite and his concubine and the civil war (chs. 19–21) 4. E. The proleptic summary of the judges cycle (2:11–3:6) F1–10. The series of judges cycles and the minor judges (3:7–16:31) Observing the arrangement of the book according to temporal shifts helps us to see the extent to which the temporal ordering of Judges deviates from the chronology of the events as they took place in history. To use Ricoeur’s language, the prefigured actions and events (mimesis1) in Israel’s history are reconfigured or emplotted into a complete whole (mimesis2). This reconfiguration does not necessarily ignore the temporal development, but the ordering is by no means constrained by a linear chronology. One of the most glaring anomalies that attention to the temporal dimension of Judges reveals is that the end section re-presents events that took place very early in the period of the Judges. This feature of the book could be explained in any number of ways. It may be an unfortunate oversight on the part of a careless editor. Or perhaps the editor was aware of the temporal deviation but for the sake of preserving an account of these events the editor included these narratives in spite of the chronological inconsistency. On the other hand, the individual responsible for the “final form” of Judges may have regarded these troubling events as a fitting conclusion to the book even though they stood outside a sequential chronological schema. In this case, the events appear where they do in spite of their deviation from the temporal sequence. Another option, one rarely acknowledged and even more rarely (if ever) seriously considered, is that the author/editor of Judges deliberately chose these events and placed them at the end of the book not only because they cohere with the overall rhetorical thrust of the book but also precisely because they took place early in the period that the book of Judges represents. In other words, they appear at the end not in spite of but (in part) because of their dischronology. To substantiate this claim would require determining from the text that the time frame of the end section is not just incidental but that the author/editor was aware of the dischronology and utilized it for larger rhetorical purposes.

5.3.  Dischronology in the End Section of Judges As mentioned, the notices in 18:30 and 20:28 anchor the events in the end section to a specific period in history by means of references to a

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particular­generation. If we assume for argument’s sake that chs. 17–21 are indeed integral to the book and expose a deliberate strategy (or strategies) of ending, we would have to work out if these temporal markers are simply incidental or if they are in some way significant for the strategy of ending that the narrative discloses. At least four peculiarities suggest that the implied author was aware of the dischronology and actually intended the notes in 18:30 and 20:28 to stand out. First, the identity of the Levite comes only at the very end of the account of Micah and the Danites. Typically, the name and pedigree of characters in the OT appear in the exposition at the beginning of a narrative or when a new individual is introduced (in Judges, see 4:4–5; 4:6; 9:1; 9:26; 11:1; 13:1–25). 14 Numbers 25, like Judg 17–18, is one exception, but one that arguably proves the general rule that biblical narratives provide the names of characters at the beginning of the narrative or when they first appear in the narrative unless there is a deliberate rhetorical reason for postponing the identity of a character until later in the narrative. Numbers 25 tells the story of Israelite men engaging in sexual activity with Moabite women (likely Canaanite temple prostitutes). 15 As the Israelites are experiencing divine judgment, the narrator introduces “a man from the sons of Israel” (Num 25:6) who is reported to have brought a foreign woman into the camp and engaged in illicit sexual behavior. 16 Apart from demonstrating this individual’s blatant disregard for the covenant, why is this event so significant? The answer to this question seems to be in the identity of the couple, which the narrative does not reveal until the end of the narrative (25:14–15). The male is Zimri the son of Sallu leader of a father’s house of the Simeonites, and the female is Cozbi daughter of Zur, one of the five Midianite chieftains. The significance of the liaison between a Simeonite prince (of sorts) and a Midianite princess, according to Sicherman, is grave indeed. It represents a potential political alliance between the Simeonites (on the southern flank of the Israelite camp) and the Midianites (to the southeast of the camp), threatening both the security and unity of the Israelites. 17 Had the narrator not revealed the identity of the two individuals, the story would be a further example of the Israelite men intermix14.  On the suspension of Jonathan’s name until the end of the story Moster notes, “the Levite’s proper name is revealed only after the story comes to a close. This is highly peculiar for biblical narrative and suggests that the Levite’s proper name is not necessary for understanding the story, at least not until the very end”; Moster, “The Levite of Judges 17–18,” 731. As I argue here, I believe the proper name of the Levite and its placement at the end of the story are significant. 15.  G. J. Wenham, Numbers: An Introduction and Commentary, TOTC (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 1981), 185. 16. According to Wenham, the other acts of intercourse with the Canaanites took place outside the camp; see ibid., 187. 17. M. Sicherman, “The Political of the Zimri-Cozbi Affair,” Jewish Bible Quarterly 36 (2008): 22–23.

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ing with foreign women (as per Num 25:1–3). However, the identity of the two individuals indicates the seriousness of the act (and probably explains Phinehas’s prompt and brutal solution to their liaison). The revelation of their identity at the end heightens the sense of shock that the narrative evokes. Similarly in our Judges passage, the suspension of the Levite’s identity seems to lend weight to its revelation. What is so shocking about the identity of the Levite? That a grandson of Moses was ministering at a syncretistic shrine, the origins of which are dubious, would have been regarded as scandalous to the implied audience. The Masoretes’ attempt to protect the reputation of Moses by superscribing an additional nûn, transforming “Moses” into “Manasseh,” lends support to the fact that a descendant of Moses serving at the aberrant Danite shrine is a scandal. 18 The reader realizes the gravity of the situation before the identity of the Levite is disclosed, but the revelation that the Levite is a grandson of Moses makes the situation all the more shocking. 19 This implies a rhetorical function to the note about Moses’ grandson, but it also suggests that the author/editor was aware of the chronological anomaly it presents. Second, the fact that the distinct sections of the two-part ending of the book (chs. 17–18 and 19–21) both identify individuals from the same generation suggests that they are not incidental. If only one of the sections was set in the context of this generation twice removed from Moses and Aaron, it may have been insignificant; but that both are set in the context of this specific generation does seem to suggest something significant. Third, the references in 18:30 and 20:28 point to a particular generation and thus a particular time period. This contrasts with the core section of the book (3:7–16:31), which lacks clear temporal referencing. Unless we assume he was incompetent, the author/editor would have been aware of this inverted chronology but still chose to include these references. Fourth, the association of Jonathan with Israel’s preeminent political and moral leader (that is, Moses) and Phinehas with Israel’s preeminent cultic leader (that is, Aaron) would undoubtedly have caught the attention of the implied readers of Judges. The author/editor could simply have identified Jonathan as the son of Gershom and avoided any reference to Moses at all (which certainly would have satisfied the Masoretes), and the reference to Phinehas appears parenthetical to the narrative in which it is found. The point seems to be to draw attention subtly but deliberately to these two giants in Israel’s history and consequently to the generation 18. S. Weitzman, “Reopening the Case of the Suspiciously Suspended Nun in Judges 18:30,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 61 (1999): 448–60, attempts to ascertain the identity of this “Manasseh” superimposed on Judg 18:30. 19.  One could imagine a storyteller coming to the end of this story and saying, “do you think that was bad? You will never guess who this Levite actually was. He was Moses’s grandson!”

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twice removed from them. Block notes, for example, “Unless this genealogy is telescoped, this note suggest that the events described in this text transpired relatively early in the postconquest period, probably within a century of the death of Joshua.” 20 Boling acknowledges the possibility that the genealogy here is telescoped, though he believes that the overall evidence suggests otherwise. 21 Thus, the appearance, position and repetition of generational references, along with the association in both cases with prominent individuals all appear to expose the author/editor’s awareness of the temporal anomaly. His decision to include these notices, therefore, can be regarded as deliberate strategy designed to cause readers to take note of the generation implied in 18:30 and 20:28.

5.4.  The Rhetorical Effect of Nonlinearity in Judges That the events of chs. 17–21 are out of synch with the rest of the book has not gone unnoticed by scholars. However, the temporal anomaly has by and large generated theories regarding the prehistory of the text. 22 But if the body of the book (3:7–16:31) lacks specific temporal markers, why should one expect the ending to be governed by a linear chronology? It seems more appropriate to consider what rhetorical purpose (if any) it may have served to place these narratives, which are clearly from early in the period of the judges, at the end of the book. Few commentators have dealt sufficiently, if at all, with this issue. Butler­ at least raises the possibility that the deviation from chronology is significant. 23 Boda rightly suggests a possible link between the generation of Jona20.  Block, Judges, Ruth, 561–62. See also Butler, Judges, 447: “Here we see the lack of chronological order as the structural key to the book of Judges. Phinehas served with Joshua ( Josh 22) and thus was one of the survivors from Joshua’s generation but certainly not one who had experienced the centuries covered by the book of Judges.” 21.  Boling, Judges, 286. If the genealogy is telescoped, that would not take away from the rhetorical significance of these references. In fact, it may actually strengthen the argument that the author/editor deliberately situates these narratives in the generation twice removed from Moses and Aaron. 22.  As early as the first century AD, Josephus in his Jewish Antiquities (book 5) reorganized the book, placing chs. 17–21 in the prologue; see the discussion in D. Gera, “Unity and Chronology in the Jewish Antiquities,” in Flavius Josephus, ed. J. Pastor, P. Stern and M. Mor, Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism 146 (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 127–31. An analogy with the ending of the books of Samuel (chs. 21–24) is fitting. In Judges and 1 and 2 Samuel, the events recounted at the end do not follow chronologically. In both cases, many scholars regard the final chapters as appendixes, added late in the compositional history of the books. Moreover, in both cases, those who are persuaded by the Deuteronomistic History theory regard these chapters not only as late additions but also as breaking the narrative flow on the DH (in the case of Judges, chs. 17–21 break the flow from ch. 16 to 1 Sam 1; in the case of the books of Samuel, 2 Sam 21–24 break the flow from ch. 20 to 1 Kgs 1–2). 23. See Butler, Judges, lxvi : “Still, a thought continues to bounce through my head and demand to be put on paper. The appearance of Phinehas the priest (20:28) and of Jonathan, the immediate descendant of Moses (18:30), in the later chapters of Judges shows that chaps. 17–21, when not excised as later insertions outside the chronological

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than and Phinehas in the end section with the rebellious generation in 2:10, though he does not explore the significance of that link. 24 O’Connell observes that the events in the end section antecede chronologically the events which precede them in the book. The events of chs. 19–21, according to O’Connell, ostensibly happened not long after Joshua’s death: “portrayed as one of the earliest incidents of Judges, [the scenario of Judges 19–21] offers a paradigm of the degradation that would characterize the entire period covered by the book. It discloses a prototypical characterization of the tribes of the period, but, because this information is withheld until the end of the book of Judges, it represents a culminating point for the compiler/redactor.” 25 Block has a brief note about the effect of shock that the reference to Phinehas has: “When an individual is finally named in 20:28, it catches the reader by surprise and has a shocking rhetorical effect. Phinehas the priest is the grandson of Aaron, which means that the events transpiring in this chapter occurred within one hundred years of the death of Moses and probably within decades of Joshua’s death.” 26 Amit hints at the significance of the temporal anomaly, noting that it produces a sense of “cyclicity.” 27 Picking up on some of these hints about the rhetorical significance of the temporal anomaly at the end of judges, the following will explore the purpose of this unusual strategy of temporal ordering. To that end, we will explore the nonlinear chronology that 18:30 and 20:28 expose and how nonlinearity can be used in literature in general and in the Old Testament in particular. Given the seemingly calculated attempt to connect the ending of Judges with the third generation from Moses, I suggest that the events of the ending of Judges bring the reader back not just to a general point at the beginning of the period of the judges but to a quite-specific point in time. Judg 2:8–10 reads, And Joshua son of Nun, servant of Yahweh, died at the age of 110. And they buried him in the boundaries of his inheritance in Timnath-heres, in the hill country of Ephraim, north of the mountains of Gaash. And all that generation also were gathered to their fathers. And another generation arose after them which did not know Yahweh or the work he had done for Israel.

The references to the third generation from Moses and Aaron at the end of Judges draw a line, albeit subtly, between the generation depicted in chs. 17–21 and the generation that 2:10 characterizes as being ignorant of scheme, are far out of chronological order. . . . Judges presents a theological history with a geographical and moral framework rather than a strict chronological framework.” 24.  Boda, “Judges,” 1051. 25.  O’Connell, The Rhetoric of the Book of Judges, 260. 26.  Block, Judges, Ruth, 517. 27.  Amit, The Book of Judges, 315.

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Yahweh and his redemption and care for Israel. 28 Thus, the end brings the reader back (temporally) to the beginning. Paul Fiddes demonstrates that literature, for various reasons, sometimes manipulates time’s forward march: “Novelists in particular have experimented with other approaches to time than the strictly linear.” 29 In addition to other strategies, Fiddes highlights circularity. He writes, “There is a kind of reversal associated with circularity, as the end of the cycle returns to the beginning and events are relived.” 30 This kind of circularity with regard to time can, of course, serve a number of purposes. Fiddes acknowledges this and notes that recently the tampering with time has served the postmodern interest in deconstructing any kind of notion of cause and effect and/or meaning in history. In these cases, a nonlinear, circular approach to time projects a sense of uncertainty and an (uncomfortable) openness in a narrative. But this need not be the case. There are plenty of examples in which a writer begins and ends (that is, frames) a narrative with an event or story from a time period different from the time period of the framed narrative, whether the events in the frame precede or follow the events in the framed narrative. 31 Depending on how the technique is used, this strategy has the potential to leave the audience with a sense of openness or closure. In the case of Judges, the nonlinear, circular portrayal of time contributes to a sense of openness. Torgovnick’s analysis of the ending of the French novel L’Education sentimentale (1869) by Gustave Flaubert evocatively sheds light on the anomalous sense of time at the end of Judges. The novel is about Frédéric Moreau, a young law student in Paris, and his infatuation and pursuit of an older and married woman, Madame Arnoux. The novel ends with two “after histories,” revealing the fate of the main characters. In the second of these, Frédéric and his long-time friend Charles Deslauriers reminisce about the past. Togovnick notes, The final “incident” in the novel—the characters’ journey in memory to Nogent—intensifies the ending’s bitter irony by an unusual kind of circularity. The friends recall an abortive visit to a whorehouse that had taken place in 1837, years before the beginning of the novel. Any shift in time-scale at the end of a novel ordinarily involves a movement forward in time; Flaubert parodically inverts this traditional element by having the novel end with an “incident” that had occurred before the beginning of the novel’s action. The inversion has thematic value, for it indicates that our heroes’ journey through life is regressive rather than progressive. . . . Characters in L’Education sentimentale move about constantly, but almost all their movement is fruitless: it consumes time rather than 28.  As referenced earlier, Boda indicates a possible connection between the generation at the end of Judges and Judg 2:10; see Boda, “Judges,” 1051. 29.  Fiddes, The Promised End, 183 (emphasis his). 30. Ibid. 31.  This circular approach to time is evident in many modern films.

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covers ground . . . the ending reminds the reader that L’Education sentimentale is parodic Bildungsroman: it focuses on the life of one character, Frédéric, but denies him any moral growth or insight and subjects him to experiences from which he learns nothing. The incident recalled at the end of the novel may be said to encapsulate the novel as a whole. 32

Similarly, the narratives at the end of Judges recall events that took place at the beginning of the period of the judges (depicted in the prologue). Most synchronic readings of Judges detect an overall movement of progressive degeneration throughout the book. The impression that the core section (3:6–16:31) gives is that this degeneration corresponds to a linear chronology. In other words, the spiritual, moral, and social condition of Israel deteriorated as the period of the judges wore on. The real-time indicators in 18:30 and 20:28 jolt the reader to consider the shocking reality that the depths of Israel’s degradation did not necessarily occur at the end of a long process but that their rebellion and apostasy were systemic from the very beginning of the period. The portrayal of the protagonist of L’Education sentimentale and that of the protagonist of Judges, namely, Israel, are eerily similar. Israel’s story is regressive—the Israelites enjoy periodic victories but the overall sense is that these are fruitless. To apply Torgovick’s language about Frédéric to Judges: the book focuses on Israel but denies it any moral growth or insight and subjects it to experiences from which it learns nothing . . . the incidents recalled at the end of Judges may be said to encapsulate the book as a whole. According to Fiddes, a similar futility characterizes Beckett’s play Waiting for Godot, in which two tramps, Estragon and Vladimir, wait every night at the side of the road for Godot, an individual whose arrival is repeatedly deferred. 33 The play consists of two acts, each representing a day in the lives of the tramps. Although technically the narrative follows chronologically from one day to the next, the reader experiences no clear sense of progression. Day two is just a repeat of day one, and the narrative implies that day one is merely a repeat of the day before that and so on. For example, at the end of Act 1 a messenger shows up to tell the tramps that Godot would have to postpone his meeting until the following night. Vladimir notes that he vaguely recalls the messenger who insists he has not come before; however, the recurrence of the same event at the end of Act 2 exposes the absurd circularity of the situation. According to Fiddes, “The circularity of the structure of the play, end linking to beginning . . . creates the sense of a total lack of goal or end.” 34 A comparable futility characterizes the cycle of judges. The repeated cycle of rebellion/punishment/cry for help/rise of a deliverer/deliverance exposes the lack of progression in this period of Israel’s history. The events 32.  Torgovnick, Closure in the Novel, 115–16. 33.  Fiddes, The Promised End, 157–59. 34.  Ibid., 159.

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in Judg 3:7–16:31 lack temporal references, perhaps a deliberate attempt to convey the lack of moral movement on the part of the Israelites. Related to this cyclical sense is another intriguing similarity between Judges and Waiting for Godot, namely, the dynamic of forgetting. The characters in Beckett’s play often forget things that have happened to them only a day prior. This contributes to the sense of absurdity, but it also seems to ensure that the characters will remain locked in the never-ending cycle of deferred hope. Israel’s problem in the book of Judges is rooted in a case of collective social amnesia. The interpretive grid that the prologue provides makes clear that it was the Israelites’ propensity to forget what God had done for them (2:6–3:6) that perpetuated the cycle. At the end of the book (chs. 17–21), the circle is completed as the reader is brought back temporally to the very beginning. If the cycle of judges projects a sense of futility, then indeed the effect of the end looping back temporally to the beginning establishes the sense of a “complete lack of goal.” The 1993 film Groundhog Day provides an intriguing take on cyclical time. In this comedy, a self-absorbed weather man named Phil Connors (played by Bill Murray) finds himself trapped in a seemingly unending cycle (a time loop) in which he experiences a single day over and over again. Connors is the only character who is conscious of the temporal anomaly, so while everything remains static, any change that occurs is in relation to Connors himself. At first, he takes advantage of his consequence-free existence and indulges in hedonism. When that approach fails to satisfy, Connors drifts into despair and resorts to multiple attempts of suicide to break the cycle. Eventually, he resolves to become a better person, and he uses the anomalous cycle of time to learn to play piano, sculpt, speak French, and ultimately to find out more about the townspeople (and his romantic interest Rita) to help them. At the end of the film when the time loop is finally broken, the implied message is that the movement in Connors’s moral character is what eventually breaks the cycle. Israel as depicted in Judges, on the other hand, seems ignorant of the cycle. Their inability to remember the saving acts of Yahweh, whether his deliverance of the Israelites from Egypt (2:10–11) or his continued deliverance through the various judges (2:19), makes them destined to repeat the cycle. At the end of the book, the cycle remains unbroken and the Israelites are no better off at the end than they were at the beginning. The ending is, therefore, open, and the reader is left to assess what solution might break the awful cycle of the period of the judges. Modern narratives of the sort mentioned above often deviate from linear chronology, and the purpose of highlighting some examples is to identify what Ricoeur calls “family resemblances” among narratives. 35 These similarities across a range of narratives illuminate the rhetorical function of 35.  Detective fiction is a genre that often represents time in nonlinear ways. See Amit, Reading Biblical Narratives, 110.

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the nonlinear chronology in Judges. However, even in the Old Testament, divergences from chronological sequence (as we encounter in Judges) are not unprecedented. Amit notes, “The biblical story, which claims to be a historical narrative, is naturally bound to the chronological sequence, yet nevertheless, it contains some deviations from it, and they are always significant and functional.” 36 Chapter two in this volume hinted at some examples of this kind of functional deviation in chronology. The temporal ordering of the events in Judg 17–21 is an example of analepsis. Other examples appear in the Old Testament. 37 The first is a detail revealed late in the Joseph narrative (Gen 42:21) indicating that Joseph had pleaded with his brothers when they sold him into slavery. However, the actual narrative of that event does not mention that Joseph had done so (ch. 37). According to Amit, the revelation at this particular point in the narrative functions to intensify the psychological state of the brothers and reveal the weight of their guilt even after such a lapse of time. Another example of analepsis comes from the narrative of Abraham, Sarah and Abimelech. In Gen 20, Abraham and Sarah move into the Negev and, for a second time in Genesis, agree that they will pose as brother and sister rather than husband and wife, so as to insure the safety of Abraham. Abimelech, the king of Gerar, takes Sarah into his harem and incurs the holy anger of Yahweh. He avows his innocence and returns Sarah to Abraham along with restitution. The final statement in the story (20:17–18) says that Abraham prayed for Abimelech, “for Yahweh had completely closed every womb in Abimelech’s household because of Sarah, Abraham’s wife.” The curse on Abimelech’s household commenced when he took Sarah, an event narrated early in the narrative (20:2). The placement of this note at the end gives it greater significance. The curse would have prevented any member of Abimelech’s harem, including Sarah, from conceiving and thus alleviated any doubt about the eventual purity of Abraham’s promised descendant (whose birth is narrated immediately following this story) and consequently the whole Israelite nation. The ending sheds light on the narrator’s concern to emphasize that Abimelech “did not touch” Sarah (20:4, 6). As Sternberg puts it, “The chronological deformation has produced and sustained an interpretive deformation, finally set right with a vengeance.” 38 One final example of analepsis is significant given its similarities with the ending of Judges. After narrating what on the surface appears to be the successful reign of Solomon (1 Kgs 3–10), the Solomon account comes to an end in ch. 11 with (1) a note about Solomon’s idolatry under the influence of his countless wives (11:1–13), (2) the adversaries, foreign and domestic, that Yahweh raised up to punish Solomon (11:14–40), and 36. Ibid. 37.  Amit highlights the first and the third of these examples (Gen 42:21 and 1  Kgs 11): ibid., 111. 38.  Sternberg, The Poetics of Biblical Narrative, 316.

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(3) Solomon’s death notice (11:41–43). The impression one gets from the narrative sequencing is that Solomon had a prosperous reign (chs. 3–10) but deviated from serving Yahweh by multiplying wives, including foreign wives (cf. Deut 17:17), and engaging in the worship of foreign gods. However, as Amit notes, a careful reading of these verses indicates that what is depicted in ch. 11 took place long before Solomon was old (e.g., 11:25 states that Rezon was Israel’s adversary “all the days of Solomon”). 39 According to Walsh, the narrative of Solomon undergoes an essential change in ch. 11. Whereas the narrative until this point projects an overtly positive characterization of Solomon with covertly negative details, in ch. 11 “both the narrator and Yahweh categorize Solomon as disobedient to the divine commands, and the narrator describes in detail the apostasy that constituted that disobedience.” 40 According to Amit, “This is clearly a theological sequence rather than a realistic or mimetic depiction of events.” 41 The deviation from chronology in this case, like in the case of Judges, requires a retrospective reassessment of what precedes. Those covertly negative elements that Walsh mentions become more obvious in light of the depiction of Solomon in ch. 11 so that, for example, Solomon’s splendor and riches recounted in detail just before ch. 11 (10:14–29) are not presented as evidence of Solomon’s achievement but are clearly an indictment as Deut 16:14–20 specifically warns against a king who determines to accumulate riches (Deut 16:17b; cf. 1 Kgs 10:25–29), horses (Deut 16:16; cf. 1 Kgs 10:14–25) and wives (Deut 16:17a; cf. 1 Kgs 11:1–8). The negative evaluation at the end of the Solomon narrative, constituted on the basis of events that took place long before the end of Solomon’s reign, color the character of Solomon and cause a reevaluation of the whole of his story. Similarly, the narratives in the end section of Judges that depict events contemporaneous with the beginning of the book, prompt a reevaluation of the pattern of progressive deterioration that the narratives leading up to the end section portray. The dischronology of the end section indicates the shocking reality that Israel’s religious, moral, and social corruption occurred early in the period of the judges and not over the course of a gradual process of decline. In summary, these three examples of analepsis indicate that deviations from chronology of the sort found in Judges do occasionally appear in Old 39.  Cf. J. T. Walsh, 1 Kings, Berit Olam (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1996), 152: “The most apparent organizational principle of the Solomon story is chronology. The story begins with Solomon’s accession to the throne, then describes his consolidation of power, the glory of his completed court, and his infidelity in his old age. It ends with his death. Yet there are surprisingly few precise temporal indicators, and much of the material could be set at any time during his reign. In a few places, moreover, the account is clearly not in chronological order . . . these irregularities indicate that some factor other than chronology is also at work.” 40.  Ibid., 137. 41.  Amit, Reading Biblical Narratives, 111.

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Testament narratives, and that they expose a deliberate rhetorical function. This suggests that the deviation from chronology at the ending of Judges may also have a particular rhetorical purpose. I propose that the references to the generation twice removed from Moses and Aaron at the end of Judges serve at least three purposes: (1) they contribute to the framing function of 1:1–3:6 and 17:1–21:25; (2) they elicit a sense of shock that prompts a retrospective reevaluation of the reader’s understanding of the book and the period of the judges; and (3) they contribute to the strategy of circularity. First, the temporal references in 18:30 and 20:28 contribute to the structural frame that consists of 1:1–3:6 and 17:1–21:25. 42 Stated simply a frame narrative is a narrative that contains another narrative embedded within it. According to O’Dowd, frame-narratives are significant “for their ability to direct the reader towards certain modes of interpretation and [they] effect intellectual, ethical, and spiritual transformation.” 43 Frames are not uncommon in Old Testament texts. They function in Deuteronomy, Job, Proverbs and Ecclesiastes, to name a few. 44 There are other reasons to suppose that Judg 1:1–3:6 and 17:1–21:25 function as a frame, but the fact that chs. 17–21 bring the reader back temporally to the beginning of the book is significant. This suggests that the frame narratives of the book function together as a hermeneutical grid for understanding the book of Judges and the period that it portrays. Second, the information in Judg 18:30 and 20:28 effects a sense of surprise or shock. The scandalous events depicted in chs. 17–21 are astonishing enough, but the realization, twice confirmed, that these events took place early is astounding. Again, the shock is particularly acute given the degenerative trajectory of the book as a whole. The surprise is not that the events at the end are so horrifying—in fact the structural and thematic pattern set in the core section of the book prepares the reader for the end of the book, marking the moral and spiritual nadir of the period of the judges. What is so shocking is that this ultimate low point is not the end of a gradual decline but occurred in the temporal context that starts off the book of Judges. Previous literary approaches have rightly highlighted the general sense of progressive degeneration/canaanization of Israel over the course of the book; however, attention to the temporality of the narrative of Judges suggests that this conception of the book needs to be significantly­nuanced. The impression that the book gives is that Israel 42. Remarkably, in her article on the framework of Judges Gillmayr-Bucher fails to consider how chs. 17–21 contribute to the framework of the book; see S. Gillmayr-Bucher, “Framework and Discourse in the Book of Judges,” JBL 128 (2009): 697–702. 43. R. O’Dowd, “Frame Narrative,” in Dictionary of the Old Testament: Wisdom, Poetry and Writings, ed. T. Longman III and P. Enns (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2008), 242. 44. Ibid.

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gradually declines over the course of the judges period, but in actual fact the end section makes clear that Israel’s corruption occurred at the outset of this period in Israel’s history. The shock that the dischronology of the end section of Judges elicits contributes to the strategy of entrapment, outlined in ch. four of this volume. The notes about the particular generation in 18:30 and 20:28 and the sense of shock that they provoke cause the same kind of reassessment that the belated interest in Yahweh’s kingship and cult in chs. 17–21 causes. 45 In fact, the temporal shift and the keen interest in the kingship of Yahweh and cult issues are intricately connected. Once readers recover from the initial shock that these events are not the last in a succession of increasingly corrupt behavior on the part of Israel, the crucial question should emerge, namely, what can make sense of the fact that Israel’s deplorable behavior emerged so early in the period of the judges? Simultaneously, the end section should be prompting the question: why does the narrator disclose a belated interest in Yahweh’s kingship and cultic matters? The latter question illuminates the former. In fact, the end section is so artfully constructed that, while it is inducing the reader to ask “how could this behavior occur so early in this period?” it is simultaneously answering the question with clues in the narratives and in the refrain. Arguably, the narrative is making the case that such depravity manifested early in Israel’s settlement in Canaan only because they abandoned their true king Yahweh and did not maintain cultic practices that befitted Yahweh’s reign. In the end section, Israel displays all sorts of evidence that support the narrator’s claim at the beginning of the book: they “did not know Yahweh or the deeds that he had done for Israel” (2:10). Thus, the shock of the temporal shift in the end section contributes to the strategy of entrapment and provides a clue to the main purpose of the book. Third, the temporal shift in the end section to a time frame depicted in the exposition gives a more profound dimension to the strategy of circularity (outlined in ch. three of this volume). Although she does not elaborate on it, Amit detects this circular function of the temporal shift: At the end of the book the editor preferred to bring a chapter from the beginning of the period, in order to emphasize the atmosphere of cyclicity and roundness that characterizes the entire book. There is thus created a circular framework including a number of cycles or small rounds. The closing of the large circle has the rhetorical effect of a conclusion: the reader is convinced that all the acts of deliverance of the judges had extremely limited value, and that in the final analysis the end of the period is no different from its beginning. 46 45.  This is the same kind of strategy that is at work in the last chapter of the Solomon narrative (ch. 11). 46.  Amit, The Book of Judges, 336 (emphasis added). It is important to note that Amit is here referring only to chs. 17–18, which she regards as the proper ending of the book. She

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Amit’s perceptive insight into the function of this temporal feature of the end section confirms some of the observations earlier in this chapter. For example, the time loop projects a sense of the complete lack of goal, a sense that the Israelites have repeated experiences from which they learn nothing, and a sense of Israel’s lack of spiritual or moral growth from beginning to end.

5.5.  Narrative Temporality in Judges: Conclusion Ricoeur’s notion of emplotment suggests that narratives configure seemingly disparate actions and events into a meaningful whole that has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Taking that notion seriously and considering the temporal configuration of the book of Judges, one must conclude that a sequential or linear chronology is not the principle that guides the overall ordering of the book. The end section is conspicuous as it narrates events that took place at the beginning of the book. By all appearances, this temporal feature of the ending is not incidental but is by design. Attention to the temporality of the end section disclosed an intriguing and unexpected insight: the chronological deviation in the end section seems to function hand-in-glove with the strategies of ending that received attention in earlier chapters. The time shift in chs. 17–21 contributes quite clearly to the strategy of circularity and the strategy of entrapment. How this feature relates to the strategy of completion is perhaps not as apparent, but I suspect it does. If we take the theme of leadership, we noted that in the end section human leadership was generally lacking. The narrative’s nuanced solution to the problems presented in chs. 17–21 was submission to the reign of Yahweh. Temporally, this leadership vacuum narrated in the end section actually transports us back to the exposition, that is, after the death of Joshua. This is intriguing, as it seems to suggest that the leadership vacuum created by Joshua’s death and the leadership vacuum portrayed in the end section are one and the same. A further implication is that the apparent solution, namely, Yahweh’s renewed kingship, is required almost immediately after Joshua’s death. A significant insight that this chapter has uncovered is that the utter moral, spiritual, and social breakdown that the end section displays is not meant to be understood as the result of a steady decline on the part of Israel over the course of the judges period. Rather, the temporal references subtly but unmistakably indicate that the breakdown existed early in the period. If this is true, the now common reading of Judges as the progressive deterioration/canaanization of Israel over the course of the judges period requires reevaluation. goes on to argue that the correspondence between chs. 17–18 and chs. 19–21, including the temporal setting, is tenuous and artificial (see Amit, The Book of Judges, 352).

Conclusion This study has approached the final chapters of Judges (chs. 17–21) with the questions: to what extent do these chapters represent the ending of the narrative of Judges, and what strategies of ending are at work in the book? The first chapter examined the general contours of the history of the interpretation of Judges, focusing especially on recent synchronic literary readings of Judges and how these readings made sense of Judg 17–21. The chapter revealed that scholars have proposed many different interpretations of Judges in general (and chs. 17–21 specifically) and that how to arbitrate between the various interpretations is not always straightforward. Even among literary readings of Judges there is diversity, though a general consensus seems to have emerged that Judges displays the progressive moral, spiritual and social deterioration of Israel. Chapter two opened by proposing that scholars have implicit understandings about what a narrative is and how it should work but that scholars rarely (if ever) foreground these assumptions about the nature of narratives. Moreover, until scholars declare their working assumptions regarding the nature and function of narratives and narrative endings and make them available for critical scrutiny, it will be difficult to move beyond the impasse over the interpretation of the book of Judges (and its ending). This led to a foray into narrative theory and theories of ending in chapter two, the aim of which was to present a viable theory of narrative that could account for the hermeneutical challenges of the book of Judges. Some of the key works on ending in the past century indicate that the notion of ending is complex, touching not only on formal and thematic structures (Smith and Torgovnick) but also on the crucial role of endings in narrative and how they relate to some of the basic human ideas about death, history, and the structure of reality (Kermode). For example, Kermode’s conviction that all narratives are an attempt to make sense of human existence in the shadow of death is based on a particular view of the world and humanity’s place in it. Kermode seems to assume that death is the ultimate end of human existence. Therefore, to accept his view that narratives are an attempt to overcome their fear of death and make sense of the tenuousness of human existence, one would have to accept his basic assumption that death is the end and that basic to human existence is the struggle to overcome the fear of death. In the background of Kermode’s view of the world and human existence stands a whole philosophical tradition, including, for example, Heidegger who held that human existence

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amounts to what he calls “being-toward-death.” 1 What difference does it make to our theories of ending if we hold that human existence is meaningful in a way that transcends the end of human life, that death is not the end, that history does have meaning and a goal, and so on? On this point, Ricoeur holds that the tradition of Augustine, Pascal and Kierkegaard provides a surer footing (contra Heidegger) in terms of their conceptions of human existence in the world. 2 Suffice it to say here that one’s view of the world and humanity’s place in the world does affect how one understands narrative and narrative endings, a reality of which Ricoeur is keenly aware. Riceour’s notion of narrative as mimesis provided a helpful framework for understanding the inner workings of narratives. His reflection on the role of endings emerges in his exposition of mimesis2, that is, the configuration or emplotment of human events and actions into a coherent whole. He maintains that the role of endings is not necessarily to bring closure or balance but to bring completion to the narrative. Moreover, he explains how important temporality is in the composition of narratives, as disparate events are drawn together and reconfigured into a plot. The process inevitably results in portrayals of time in narrative that do not necessarily follow a linear chronology. On the basis of this discussion, it became possible to discern from a close analysis of the text of Judges a number of strategies of endings at work in the end section of Judges (chs. 17–21). The strategy of completion was briefly identified and explained. Leadership among many other themes and motifs provided evidence of this strategy of ending in Judges. According to the strategy of circularity, vocabulary, phrases, situations, and events in the end section echo back to similar aspects at the beginning of the book. An analysis of these instances of circularity revealed a deliberate pattern at work. Comparing similar phrases, situations, and so on in the exposition and the end section often demonstrated a sense of irony or parody in the end section. The aim, therefore, in recalling in the end section things from the beginning of the book is to highlight the dire situation of Israel portrayed at the end of the book. Yahweh’s kingship and cultic matters emerge in the end section in new ways, indicating a strategy of entrapment. According to this strategy, these new elements give rise to a reevaluation of how they might cohere with the general pattern of the book. This chapter concluded by suggesting that the end section of Judges surfaces issues that are on the whole beneath the surface but that are central to the purpose of the book. The main problem in Israel during the time of the judges is Israel’s rejection of Yahweh’s kingship, which is manifested in all sorts of ways, not least in cultic deviations. 1.  See M. Heidegger, Being and Time: A Translation of Sein und Zeit, trans. J. Stambaugh, SUNY Series in Contemporary Continental Philosophy (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1996), 219–46. 2. P. Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, 67.

146

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That the issues of cult and Yahweh’s kingship emerge at the end imply a summons to covenant fidelity. The final chapter of this volume focused on the temporal configuration of Judges. The book clearly was not composed according to a linear chronology but was designed in such a way that the temporality of the events and actions it portrays are reconfigured to suit the rhetorical purpose of the author/editor. An intriguing insight that attention to the temporality of Judges revealed was that the temporal ordering of Judges lends support to the strategies of ending at work in the book. That the events of the end section are contemporaneous with events portrayed at the beginning of the book of Judges provides a more profound dimension to the strategies of circularity and entrapment and also has implications for the strategy of completion. Reconsidering the ending of Judges according to these implicit rhetorical strategies helped to shed light on some of the anomalies of Judges that have challenged interpreters of the book (for example, the chronological problem, the perception of different views of kingship in the book, the apparent disunity of the book in general, and so on). Moreover, this fresh look at the temporal deviation at the end of the book deconstructs the one conclusion on which almost all synchronic approaches agree, namely, that Judges tells the story of the progressive degeneration of Israel over the course of the judges period. That indeed is the initial impression one gets when reading the book, but attention to the temporal references reveals that the corruption can be discerned already in the second generation after­Joshua. This revelation prompts a reevaluation of the reader’s working assumption regarding the progressive degeneration of Israel and causes readers to search for clues to why Israel’s corruption emerged so early in the period. The most obvious clues the end section supplies are Israel’s rejection of Yahweh’s kingship and their abandonment of cultic practices and structures that would remind them of their identity in relationship to Yahweh. This study may give rise to new research on other dissonant endings in the Old Testament. Moreover, more work remains to be done with regard to other strategies of endings in Old Testament literature. This need not be limited to narrative but could branch out into studies in other discourse types in the Old Testament. I hope that this book will contribute to the small but growing conversation regarding the poetics of ending for Old Testament literature.

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Index of Authors Ackerman, J. S.  103 Agawu, V. K.  53 Alter, R.  2, 24, 44 Amit, Y.  1, 4, 6, 29, 30, 31, 32, 34, 35, 39, 40, 51, , 79, 80, 85, 88, 89, 91, 92, 106, 114, 115, 116, 117, 119, 135, 138, 139, 140, 142, 143 Anderson, A. A.  2 Andersson, G.  15, 48, 49, 50 Angel, H.  81 Anson-Cartwright, M.  53 Aranoff, G.  3, 129 Aristotle  58, 59, 61, 65, 66 Arnoff, G.  3 Ashlock, R. O.  5, 6, 57

Butler, T. C.  14, 15, 45, 46, 47, 48, 80, 86, 94, 95, 96, 98, 101, 103, 104, 111, 116, 118, 126, 127, 129, 130, 134

Bal, M.  126 Bar-Efrat, S.  2, 44 Bartelmus, R.  13 Bartholomew, C. G.  7, 11, 58, 123 Bauer, U. F. W.  97 Beckerman, B.  53 Becker, U.  13, 15 Beckson, K. E.  85 Beetham, C. A.  85 Berlin, A.  2, 44 Beuken, W. A. M.  3 Block, D. I.  15, 33, 34, 35, 36, 42, 81, 89, 95, 96, 101, 103, 111, 112, 117, 124, 128, 134, 135 Boda, M. J.  128, 129, 134, 135, 136 Boling, R. G.  86, 92, 96, 105, 106, 120, 121, 127, 134 Bonheim, H.  1, 66, 125 Bray, J. S.  109 Brekelmans, C.  3 Brettler, M. Z.  7, 15, 34, 119 Broida, M.  4 Brown, M.  81 Buber, M.  119 Budde, K.  11 Burney, C. F.  11, 127 Bush, F. W.  2

Dawes, S. B.  6 DeMaris, R. E.  44 Dorsey, D. A.  105 Douglas, M.  3 Dowling, W. C.  59, 61 Dragga, S.  34 Dunn, F. M.  53

Ceresko, A. R.  6 Chalcraft, D. J.  83 Chan, M. J.  3 Chisholm, R. B., Jr.  47, 127 Chrisholm, R. B.  127 Clements, R. E.  3 Clines, D. J. A.  26, 124 Coggins, R. J.  13 Craig, K. M., Jr.  10 Cross, F. M.  13, 14 Crouch, W. B.  3, 5, 6, 57

Edwards, G.  53 Elazar, D. J.  121 Endris, V.  120 Faiman, D.  127 Faraone, C. A.  106 Fewell, D. N.  24 Fiddes, P. S.  53, 54, 65, 136, 137 Firth, D. G.  3, 100 Forster, E. M.  61 Fox, M. V.  11 Fretheim, T. E.  46 Frolov, S.  21, 26, 40, 50, 76, 92 Gaddala, J.  82 Galil, G.  127 Ganz, A. F.  85 Garnand, B.  106 Genette, G.  69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75

161

162

Index of Authors

Gera, D.  134 Gillmayr-Bucher, S.  122, 141 Girard, R.  66, 67 Globe, A.  83 Gooding, D. W.  22, 23, 24, 25, 40, 41, 42, 50, 74 Gordon, R. P.  100 Gottlieb, I. B.  5, 7, 91, 92 Granowski, J. J.  3 Gros Louis, K. R. R.  17, 25 Gross, W.  14, 41, 42, 51 Guest, P. D.  14 Guillaume, P.  10 Gunn, D. M.  10, 24, 25 Halpern, B.  13 Hamlin, E. J.  103 Haran, M.  113 Hays, R. B.  85 Heidegger, M.  144, 145 Hertzberg, H. W.  100 Hock-Soon Ng, A.  101 Hodgdon, B.  53 Hoffmann, H. D.  13 Hollander, J.  85 House, P. R.  6 Hudson, D. M.  83 Hult, D.  53 Hurvitz, A.  113 Irwin, B. P.  34 Janzen, D.  117 Jensen, E. J.  53 Jonker, L. C.  7 Joo, S.  3 Jost, R.  50 Kahn, P.  117 Kaminsky, J. S.  48, 91 Kaufmann, Y.  113 Kermode, F.  1, 24, 53, 54, 55, 144 Kim, U. Y.  97 Klein, L. R.  15, 28, 29, 39, 40, 85, 86, 87, 88, 100, 104 Klement, H. H.  3, 6 Knoppers, G. N.  14 Kuenen, A.  11 Lacocque, A.  59 Lapsley, J.  3

Leeb, C. S.  44 Lilley, J. P. U.  14, 15, 16, 22, 25 Logan, A.  44 Lohfink, N.  13 López-Ruiz, C.  106 MacDonald, N.  82, 100, 101 Magness, J. L.  6 Malamat, A.  80 Marais, J.  64 Markl, D.  3 Martin, L. R.  12, 14, 20, 47 Matthews, V. H.  113 Mayes, A. D. H.  13, 122 McCann, J. C.  46, 119 McConnville, J. G.  113 McDonald, P. M.  80, 82 McGerr, R. P.  53 McKenzie, S. L.  13 Milgrom, J.  113 Miller, P. D.  3 Moltz, H.  120, 121 Moore, G. F.  11, 12, 127 Moster, D. Z.  109, 110, 132 Motlz, H.  120 Mueller, E. A.  82 Mullen, T. E.  86 Nelson, R. D.  13, 14 Neupert, R. J.  53 Ngwa, K. N.  2, 3, 4, 6 Niditch, S.  116, 120, 121 Noth, M.  12, 13, 14, 35, 39 O’Brien, M. A.  12, 13 O’Connell, R. H.  10, 12, 15, 33, 34, 39, 40, 50, 68, 108, 109, 110, 116, 122, 123, 124, 135 O’Dowd, R.  141 Oeste, G. K.  81, 117 Olson, D. T.  3, 120 Origen 10 Page, H. R., Jr.  82 Park, S.  34 Poe, E. A.  66 Polzin, R.  14, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 25, 40, 86, 87, 96, 106 Powers, C. T.  52 Pressler, C.  94 Prideaux, A. R.  3

Index of Authors Provan, I. W.  13 Pury, A. de  12 Raskas, J.  92 Reis, P. T.  44 Richardson, B.  52, 53, 62, 69 Richter, W.  13, 14 Ricoeur, P.  8, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 75, 76, 77, 126, 131, 138, 143, 145 Rieff, P.  60 Rimmon-Kenan, S.  69, 71 Roberts, D. H.  53 Robinson, B. P.  82 Römer, T. C.  12, 13, 14 Russell, C.  53 Ryan, R. J.  42, 43, 44, 45, 51, Schaefer, K. R.  3 Scham, S.  100 Schatz, E. A.  127 Schearing, L. S.  13 Schley, D. G.  103 Schlueter, J.  53 Schmidt, H. J.  53 Schneider, T.  15, 36, 37, 38, 81, 99, 104 Sicherman, M.  132 Smend, R.  13 Smith, B. H.  1, 7, 53, 54, 55, 56, 67 Smith, M. J.  81 Smith, R. L.  2 Soggin, J. A.  106, 127 Spronk, K.  10, 40, 64 Steinmann, A. E.  127 Sternberg, M.  2, 44, 80, 85, 101, 106, 122, 139 Sweeney, M. A.  34, 67

163

Talmon, S.  29, 116 Tigay, J. H.  3 Tollington, J. E.  34 Torgovnick, M.  1, 5, 54, 56, 57, 58, 66, 78, 79, 84, 108, 136, 137, 144 Trible, P.  50 Troftgruben, T. M.  52, 57 Tsumura, D. T.  100 Turner, L. A.  71 Van Seters, J.  13 Veijola, T.  13 Vogt, P. T.  14 Walsh, J. T.  140 Washburn, D. L.  127 Webb, B. G.  14, 15, 25, 26, 27, 28, 39, 40, 41, 68, 80, 89, 92, 95, 115 Weinfeld, M.  113 Weitzman, S.  133 Wellhausen, J.  11, 38, 42, 58, 119 Wenham, G. J.  132 Williams, J. G.  83 Wilson, I. D.  3 Wilson, M. K.  120 Wong, G. T. K.  10, 14, 34, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 49, 50, 84, 93, 94, 95, 98, 102, 111, 116, 117, 118, 119 Wyckoff, C.  6 Yamada, F. M.  101 Younger, K. L.  98, 111 Younger, K. L. jr.  86 Zeelander, S. B.  4

Index of Scripture Genesis 20 139 24:14 104 38 4 42:21 139 Exodus 19:6  36, 124 23:14–17 111 34:18–23 111 40 5 Leviticus 23:4–44 111 27 5 Numbers 1:1 128 25 132 25:1–3 133 25:6 132 28:26 111 31:15–18 94 36 6 Deuteronomy 2:34 94 7:1–2 101 12 110 12:2 110 12:3 110 16:1–17 111 16:14–20 140 16:16 140 16:17 140 17:14–20 121 17:17 140 20:16–18 94 21:30 102 22:15 104 28:29 102 28:29–32 102 29–30 3 33:5 36

Joshua 1 19 1:1 86 6:21 94 14–19 86 15:63 98 19:47 96 22 134 22:10–34 90 22:12 90 23:14 124 24 120 24:28 87 Judges 1  74, 86, 87, 91 1:1  67, 87, 93, 98, 86, 128, 129, 130 1:1–2 87 1:1–2:5  11, 12, 13, 22, 33, 39, 86, 97, 128 1:1–3:6  16, 26, 35, 84, 85, 86, 87, 123, 141 1:1–3:11 28 1:1–36  19, 86 1:2  87, 88, 89, 91 1:2–2:5 130 1:2–2:6 131 1:2–2:7 130 1:4–7  86, 101 1:6 100 1:7 101 1:8  94, 95 1:11–15  86, 102, 103, 105, 103 1:11–16 99 1:12 102 1:13  102, 82 1:14 99 1:15 102 1:17 94 1:21  97, 98 1:22–26  86, 96, 97 1:25  94, 95, 97 1:26  76, 97

164

Judges (cont.) 1:29 105 1:34 96 2:1–5  86, 92 2:2 96 2:3 82 2:4  92, 93 2:6  91, 92, 128 2:6–3:6  11, 12, 26, 33, 39, 80, 86, 87, 128, 138 2:6–7  128, 130 2:6–10  98, 30 2:6–16:31  12, 39, 83 2:8 98 2:8–10  130, 131, 135 2:10  99, 105, 130, 131, 135, 136, 142 2:10–11 138 2:10–15  128, 129 2:11 99 2:11–3:6  130, 131 2:11–23  67, 71, 75 2:17 105 2:19  99, 105, 138 2:21 98 2:23 87 3:6  24, 87, 102 3:6–16:31  40, 67, 130, 137 3:7  36, 21 3:7–11  12, 67, 80 3:7–16:31  16, 25, 26, 27, 33, 36, 80, 123, 128, 129, 130, 131, 133, 134, 138 3:11  73, 127 3:12  36, 120 3:12–16:31 28 3:15 27 3:19 27 3:26 27 3:30 73 4:1  36, 120 4:4–5 132

Index of Scripture Judges (cont.) 4:6 132 4:30 127 5:6 129 5:15–17 81 5:23 81 5:31  73, 127 6:1  36, 120 6:24 76 8:1–3 105 8:4–17 118 8:19 82 8:27 27 8:28  73, 127 9 117 9:1 132 9:1–57 12 9:26 132 10:1–5 12 10:2  73, 127 10:3  73, 127 10:4 76 10:6  36, 120 10:10 20 10:11–13 67 10:11–14 20 10:14–29 140 11 140 11:1 132 11:1–13 139 11:11 112 11:14–40 139 11:25 140 11:29–40 106 11:30–31 82 11:31 27 11:39 76 11:41–43 140 12:1–4 72 12:1–6 105 12:4 72 12:4–7 110 12:7 127 12:8–15 12 12:9  73, 127 12:11  73, 110, 127 12:12 110 12:13–14 110 12:14 73 12:17–18 110 12:18 110

Judges (cont.) 12:19 110 12:26–27 110 13–16 5 13:1  36, 120 13:1–16:31 128 13:1–25 132 13:2–14 82 13:25 27 14:1 128 14:1–2 71 14:1–15:2 102 14:3  27, 36, 71 14:4 71 14:7  27, 36 14:19 71 15:1 27 15:4–5 71 15:8 71 15:9–13 68 15:12–13 82 15:15–16 71 15:17 24 15:19 76 15:20  12, 73 16:1 128 16:5 27 16:16 24 16:20 27 16:23–24 24 16:31  27, 127 17–18  11, 109, 110, 110 17–21  7, 8, 135, 123, 125, 144, 8, 84, 7, 8, 9, 51, 108, 84, 109, 114 17:1–5  105, 109, 114, 105 17:1–12:25 12 17:1–18:31 28 17:1–21:25  7, 16, 20, 26, 39, 84, 141 17:2 82 17:2–5 110 17:3  27, 106 17:3–4 110 17:5 27 17:6  27, 33, 80, 98, 99, 110, 114, 115, 123, 129

165 Judges (cont.) 17:7–13 110 17:12 109 17:13  109, 114, 115 18  , 129, 96, 97, 97 18:1  27, 33, 80, 98, 99, 114, 115, 123, 129 18:2 27 18:2–31 96 18:5–6 96 18:7 95 18:9 95 18:10 95 18:12 76 18:17 75 18:18 75 18:19–20 110 18:20  75, 97 18:24 75 18:27  75, 95, 97 18:28 95 18:28–29 97 18:30  33, 109, 110, 112, 123, 124, 128, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 135, 137, 141, 71 18:30–31 110 18:31  109, 110, 111, 112, 123 19  50, 98, 99 19–21  11, 15, 110, 91 19:1  27, 33, 80, 98, 99, 104, 114, 115, 123, 129 19:1–10  103, 104 19:1–30 28 19:2 104 19:3  27, 104 19:4 104 19:5 104 19:6 104 19:7 104 19:8 104 19:9  104, 105 19:10  98, 105 19:10–13  97, 98 19:12 97 19:22–30 101 19:27 95

166 Judges (cont.) 19:28 99 19:29 100 20 90 20:1–11  72, 111, 112 20:1–21:25 28 20:2 139 20:4 139 20:5–6 101 20:16 27 20:16–17 101 20:17–18 139 20:18  87, 91, 93, 111 20:18–25 27 20:18–28 87 20:20 91 20:23  87, 91, 93, 111 20:23–28 92 20:26  93, 113 20:26–28 111 20:27  33, 123, 129 20:27–28  112, 113 20:28  71, 87, 88, 124, 129, 130, 131, 90, 132, 133, 134, 135, 137, 141 20:31–34 27 20:37  94, 95 20:48  94, 95 21  102, 103 21:1  72, 94, 102, 111 21:1–11 111 21:1–22 111 21:1–23  82, 102 21:1–25 106 21:2  92, 93 21:3 93 21:4  93, 113 21:7  102, 111 21:11  94, 95 21:12  27, 104 21:12–24 123 21:13–22 111 21:18  102, 111 21:19  75, 110, 111, 112 21:19–23 112 21:20 111 21:22 102 21:23 91 21:24  91, 92

Index of Scripture Judges (cont.) 21:25  27, 33, 80, 98, 99, 114, 115, 123, 129 22:30 90 22:33 90 25:14–15 132 Ruth 4:15  91, 92 4:17 92 4:18 2 1 Kings 16:8 128 16:15 128 16:29 128 22:41 128 22:51 128 1 Samuel 1 134 7  21, 76 8 121 8:1–9 119 8:5 121 8:7 121 11 100 11:7 100 15:3 94 22:19 95 2 Samuel 1–4 34 1:1 86 15:14 95 21–24 134 24:1–25 2 Ruth 4:15 91 1 Kings 1–2 134 3–10 139 6:1 127 10:14–25 140 10:25–29 140 11 139 11:1–8 140 12:29 97

1 Kings (cont.) 15:1 128 15:9 128 15:9–10 127 2 Kings 1:1 86 10:29 97 25 3 Esther 2:2 104 Job 32:7–17 3 42:7–17 2 42:10 91 Psalms 14:7 91 104 4 106 6 Ecclesiastes 12:7 91 Psalms 53:7 91 80:20 91 Lamentations 5:21 91 Daniel 7:1 127 Hosea 14:8 91 Amos 9:11–15 3 9:14 91 Micah 7:19 91 Zephaniah 3:20 91 Malachi 3:24 91